After The Bell Rings

Olivia’s POV They say your first year of college shapes you. If that’s true, I must be shaped by silence, caffeine, and the art of disappearing into crowds. The lecture hall is half full when I walk in. Mid-year schedules have a strange kind of energy—everyone looks slightly off balance, like they weren’t expecting to be here, like this wasn’t part of the plan. To be fair, it wasn’t. Our English professor quit three days ago. No warning. Just a bland email from the department chair that read, “Due to unforeseen circumstances, Professor Monroe will no longer be continuing this term. Working to find a replacement.” Unforeseen circumstances. What a romantic way to say he bailed. I take my usual seat in the second-to-last row, far enough from the front to avoid attention, close enough to see the board if I care to. I doubt I will today. This was supposed to be a throwaway class—easy grades, predictable assignments. Something I could sleepwalk through while focusing on courses that actually matter. Like stats. Or econ. Things that have weight, rules, logic. Now, campus is buzzing. Not about the sudden resignation, but about the man stepping into his place. “There’s no way he’s actually a professor,” someone whispers behind me. “My roommate saw him walk through the admin wing. She said he looks like a Calvin Klein ad.” “No, I heard he’s twenty-four. Top of his class, published twice. And hot. Like, unfairly hot.” “I swear, if this man ends up being average looking, I’m dropping this class.” People like him are dangerous—not because they break rules. But because they understand them. All I know is: he’s temporary. The email made that clear. “Professor Nick Reed will be taking over English 102 until a permanent hire is made.” That’s code for: Don’t get used to him. Perfect. I hadn’t planned to. The door opens mid-thought, mid-conversation, mid-breath—and silence falls like a switch was flipped. He doesn’t enter. He arrives. Nick Reed doesn’t look like he’s here to teach a college class. He looks like someone who should be walking off a yacht or stepping into a black car with tinted windows. He’s tall—of course he is—with broad shoulders and a kind of elegant sharpness that doesn’t try too hard. Navy shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Hair slightly tousled, in that deliberate, I-woke-up-like-this way that reeks of practiced nonchalance. And he knows it. You can tell by the way he walks. Confident. Unhurried. Like the room’s already reacting to him, and he’s just letting it happen. He places a folder on the desk like it’s an afterthought. Glances up. Surveys the room slowly, deliberately, as if taking mental notes he won’t forget. When he speaks, his voice is deep and smooth—measured but not rehearsed. “I’m Nick Reed,” he says. “I’ll be your professor for the rest of the term. Don’t look so nervous—I’m only temporary.” A few girls laugh a little too quickly. A guy in the front row stiffens, clearly unimpressed. “I know this wasn’t planned,” he says, voice steady. “But we’re not going to treat this class like a placeholder. Literature doesn’t wait for stability.” Someone in the front row snorts. He ignores it. “I’ll post the revised syllabus tonight. If you have questions, ask. If you’re behind, catch up. And if you’re here for an easy pass…” He smiles, just slightly. “Consider dropping.” A few students shift in their seats. I stay perfectly still. Then his gaze sweeps across the room again—and lands on me. I meet his eyes without flinching. There’s no reason to feel anything. But I do. Not attraction. Not yet. Just awareness. A sharp, silent current that crackles between us. He doesn’t look away. Not immediately. Not like he should. Nick Reed. He’s everything the rumors said he was—and worse. Because he knows exactly what he looks like.And he knows exactly what it does to a room. This was supposed to be another forgettable semester. Another class I could coast through. But now? Now it feels like the semester is watching me back. And I can’t explain why that excites me.