Second day of college.
Same hallway. Same backpack. But this time, my pulse picked up as I walked toward Room 206.
It wasn't nerves.
It was her.
I'd barely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept hearing her voice. That calm, teasing tone. "Relax. I'm qualified." Like she didn't need to prove anything—but somehow still did.
I got to the room early, again. Same seat. Window. Second row from the back.
A few students trickled in, chatting about her. "Can you believe she's twenty-four?" "She's kinda cool though." "I wish all teachers were like her."
Yeah. Me too.
I tried to focus on my notebook, but nothing came. No sketches, no words. Just this hum under my skin, like I was waiting for something I couldn't name.
And then the door opened.
She walked in like she wasn't even trying—and still made everyone look.
Today she wore a fitted black turtleneck tucked into loose tan slacks. Classy. Clean. Hair down.
Wait—hair down.
Her half-wolf cut framed her face perfectly, soft and wild around the edges, cascading over her shoulders like she'd just stepped off a magazine page. No messy bun today. And for some reason, that change made my stomach tighten.
She greeted the class with that same soft confidence. No rush. No need to raise her voice.
"Good morning," she said, setting down her bag. "I see some of you are awake. That's a start."
The class laughed.
I didn't. I was too busy staring.
She made a few announcements. Something about lab groups, a syllabus that still hadn't been uploaded, and how she'd allow food in class as long as it wasn't "noisy, smelly, or explosive."
I smiled at that.
And for a moment—just a moment—her eyes flicked to mine.
I didn't look away.
Neither did she.
Not right away.
Then she blinked, looked down at her tablet, and cleared her throat. "Right. Let's start with something easy."
The next forty minutes blurred. Equations. Diagrams. Her voice guiding us through it all. I was taking notes, but I couldn't stop noticing the way she moved—precise, deliberate. Like she belonged in every room she entered.
And every time she turned toward the board, her hair shifted slightly, catching the light. It was stupid. Ridiculous. But it made me want to reach out and—
No.
Don't go there.
She was my professor.
Still, as the class ended and students began packing up, I stayed seated, moving a little slower than usual.
Just in case she said something.
Just in case she looked again.
And when I stood, slipping my bag over one shoulder, she glanced up from her desk.
Our eyes met.
She gave me the tiniest smile—just a flicker.
And I swear it stayed with me the rest of the day.