Not the professor's "Baby"

THIS IS CRAZY

I hadn’t slept properly. My brain kept replaying his voice, the way his hand had traced lazy circles on my hip, and the feel of his lips brushing the back of my neck.

By morning, I still hadn’t decided if I’d text him. What would I even say?

Hey, remember me? The girl you took home from the club and had s*x with twice?

Smooth, Michelle. Real smooth.

Zina walked beside me, clutching her iced coffee like it was a holy relic. “You look dead,” she said, half-amused.

“I feel dead,” I muttered.

“Late night thinking about random older man?” she teased, giving me a sidelong glance.

“Shut up,” I grumbled, but a smile tugged at my lips anyway.

She laughed, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Girl, it’s fine. You’re allowed to like someone.”

“I don’t even know him,” I protested, ignoring the way my heart skipped at the thought of him.

“And yet here we are,” she sing-songed, pushing open the door to South California University’s English department building.

I clutched my notebook to my chest, scanning the hallway for my new class: Modern British Literature.

Zina peeled off to her Communication & Media lecture, leaving me alone with my racing heart.

The classroom was on the second floor, sunlight pouring in through tall windows. Students were already trickling in, some chatting, some scrolling through their phones.

I slipped into a seat near the middle. Close enough to look attentive, far enough to zone out if the lecture was boring.

A girl with tight curls sat beside me, offering a small smile. “Hey, I’m Amira,” she whispered.

“Michelle,” I whispered back, grateful for the distraction.

Before I could say anything else, the door clicked open.

He walked in.

Grey eyes, messy hair pushed back, a navy dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, veins visible along his forearms.

For a split second, I thought my heart had actually stopped beating.

No. No way. This isn’t real.

He set a leather folder on the podium, glanced up… and his gaze landed on me.

Shock flickered across his face, gone so fast I almost doubted I saw it. But then his jaw tightened, and he cleared his throat.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said, voice smooth and maddeningly familiar. “I’m Dr Daniel Grent. I’ll be your lecturer for Modern British Literature this semester.”

My stomach dropped.

Dr Grent. Professor. English department. Oh my God.

He was talking, introducing the syllabus, but the words blurred. All I could think about was last night. His mouth on mine. His hands gripping my hips. The raw, stupid, reckless s*x we’d had.

And he was standing there, perfectly composed, voice calm, like nothing had happened.

My cheeks burned so hot it felt like my skin might catch fire.

About twenty minutes in, his eyes flickered toward me again. For a heartbeat, his gaze softened, as if silently saying I see you.

Then it was gone, replaced by the professional mask he wore so well.

When class ended, the room buzzed with the scrape of chairs and chatter. I stayed seated, hands trembling slightly.

Amira waved goodbye, oblivious.

I should’ve just left. But instead, I stood and walked up to him, legs shaking.

“Daniel,” I whispered, voice catching.

He blinked, then dropped his gaze to the desk, his voice low. “Michelle… you shouldn’t call me that. Not here.”

The words stung, like a slap.

“I didn’t know,” I blurted, panic bubbling in my chest. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

“I know,” he said, softer now. His grey eyes finally met mine, guilt and something else regret? Longing? swimming there.

“You didn’t either, did you?” I whispered.

He shook his head, lips pressed tight. “No. I didn’t.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The world felt painfully loud around us.

“I thought…” I began, voice cracking. “I thought maybe… I don’t know. That we’d see each other again.”

“I wanted to,” he admitted, words raw. “But this… this changes everything.”

“Does it?” I whispered, fighting the sting behind my eyes.

He looked away, his jaw tense. “Michelle, I could lose my job.”

“And what about me?” I shot back, voice trembling. “You think this is easy for me?”

Silence stretched. His fingers drummed once on the desk, then stopped.

“I can’t,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “We can’t.”

I swallowed, throat tight, chest aching.

“Fine,” I whispered. “Then we won’t.”

I turned to leave, my legs numb.

“Michelle—”

I paused at the door, not daring to look back. “What?”

His voice broke slightly. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” I said, and walked out before my heart