Hartwell Hall - Princeton University lecture room
Earlier that day, at eleven thirty, the midday sun filtered through the tall windows of Hartwell Hall, bathing the now-empty Creative Writing classroom in an energetic light. Professor Noah White shoved his notes into his beat-up leather messenger bag, each movement precise and economical.
At thirty, he still got carded at bars from time to time, which was embarrassing when he was trying to look like a serious professor. Also not helpful was the fact that he possessed the kind of dark, handsome features that made even seasoned faculty do double-takes. At six-foot-two with a lean, muscular frame that spoke of military discipline, he was the kind of guy who looked like he should be modeling sweaters in a catalog rather than grading student essays. But this was a complication he'd learned to navigate with calculated charm.
The truth was, Noah's imposing physical presence wasn't just good genetics; it was what remained after two years in the Army Rangers followed by another three with the CIA. Those years had taught him more than just how to stay in shape; they'd trained him in the subtle art of reading people, of finding pressure points in conversations the way a massage therapist finds knots in muscles.
He'd learned to identify what people needed to hear, what made them trust, what made them vulnerable. The Agency had called it "rapport building" and "asset development," but Noah knew what it really was: manipulation refined to a science. He'd left that world behind four years ago, officially to pursue his writing career full-time, but the skills remained, lying dormant beneath his daily life like muscle memory waiting to be triggered.
He gathered his notes from the mahogany lectern that had seen decades of passionate literary discussions. This was Noah's first semester at Princeton. Four years building a literary career; novels, movie rights, awards, the kind of credentials that opened doors. His friendship with the former department head had opened this one.
The transition from celebrated novelist to professor hadn't been seamless. But he now moved through the halls of Princeton with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to adapting to new environments. Noah's personal wealth meant the steady paycheck was less important than finding something, anything, to break through the extreme creative block that had plagued him for the past year. It demanded new stimuli.
He was zipping his messenger bag closed, already mentally reviewing his afternoon schedule, when footsteps sounded from behind him.
"Professor White?" A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
Noah looked up from his desk. His student, Mai Pham, approached with tentative steps, her mixed Caucasian and Vietnamese features delicate in the natural light. At nineteen, she carried herself with the timid posture of someone still growing into her own beauty. She had long brown hair, which she tucked behind her ears whenever she got nervous, which was pretty much all the time. And an oversized sweater that swallowed her petite frame.
Over the past weeks, he'd noticed not just her passion for writing but how her eyes lit up whenever he discussed craft or technique. And unlike most freshmen who viewed his class as merely fulfilling a general education requirement, Mai seemed to hang on every word, as if she were absorbing lessons from a literary hero rather than just another professor. He'd subconsciously determined that she was particularly susceptible to guidance from authority figures. A trait he'd begun to explore as a casual curiosity.
Which was why, when she came to him for guidance, he had decided to give her a 'special lesson plan', to test her.
"Miss Pham, was that you I saw nodding off in the front row?" Noah said, leaning against the desk. His voice carried the perfect blend of concern and authority. "Is everything alright?"
Mai's face went bright red. "Oh God, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to. I swear. It's not because of your lecture or anything. I was just up super late studying." She tugged at her oversized sweater. "Please don't think I'm a slacker. I swear it won't happen again."
"Hey, it's ok. Breathe." He held up a hand. "I'm not going to fail you for being tired." His tone was reassuring. "So, you stayed up studying? Did you review the additional reading materials I gave you?"
Her blush deepened, and Noah felt the familiar satisfaction of a strategy unfolding correctly. "Well, yes. I did try to go through everything you gave me. I tried, I really did. But some of it felt kind of... I don't know. Weird? Like, you want me to write about intimate stuff, but you're my professor, so... And I wasn't sure if I was supposed to actually follow all of those… writing exercises that you mentioned."
Settling back against his desk, Noah maintained a calm demeanor that masked the slight amusement he felt at her earnest embarrassment. "I can understand your hesitation. I know what I mentioned crosses a lot of lines. But you came to me asking about real techniques that you can use to improve your writing. And despite how weird it might sound, I told you the truth. To write passion convincingly, you need to understand it authentically. You need to understand what it feels like."
Part of him recognized the manipulation for what it was. That part hated himself for playing with a young girl's emotions so casually. But that authentic voice had grown quieter in recent months. Replaced with a restless energy that he hadn't been able to suppress.
"I get that, but..." Mai shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, and Noah noted that her desire for his approval warred with her natural inhibitions.
"But I thought maybe there could be other ways to learn about those feelings without having to actually do..." She gestured vaguely, "Stuff like that… It's just weird. You know?" She looked down as if she were saying something wrong, "And isn't writing supposed to be about imagination?"
A casual smile crossed Noah's face as he nodded. "Sure, imagination helps. And it's fine for most things. But readers can tell when you're faking it, especially with intimate emotions. That's why, in my own writing, my imagination must be grounded in emotional truth. I need to access those feelings to write them realistically."
Mai bit her lip, internal conflict evident on her face. The earnest desire to improve warred with her natural shyness and caution.
"I suppose you're right. It's just difficult when my professor is asking me to explore something so intimate. But if it will help me grow as a writer…" Her need for his approval made her voice smaller. "Maybe we could start by reading some of those passages together? Just so I can understand the technique better?"
Noah nodded. "Of course. That's fine. Pick something that speaks to you and tell me what you think."
She pulled a worn paperback from her backpack and flipped through it. "Don't judge," she said quickly. "This one's about a couple who are... You know, together. The woman is really into it." She cleared her throat and read quietly: "'Her body trembled beneath his touch, every nerve ending alight with pleasure...'"
"No judgment here. So, what do you think about that?" he asked.
"It's intense," she admitted, squirming a little. "I can kind of picture it, the feelings and everything. It also makes me squirm a little. But it feels wrong to read and talk about this stuff. Like, it's so... direct. Is that normal?"
"That awkwardness you're feeling. That squirming feeling. That's actually not a bad thing. Good writing should make you feel something. And there's always tension when attraction is involved. But don't worry about it too much, we're talking about literature here."
"Okay…" Mai took a breath, her trust in his guidance evident despite her nervousness. "Alright, but what about this one?" She flipped to another page. "This is more emotional: 'She looked at him with complete adoration, wondering how she'd ever lived without knowing real love.'" She paused. "That feels different. It's beautiful, right? It's got this ache to it. Do people actually feel that way?"
For a moment, his carefully constructed facade wavered. "Absolutely. That kind of longing has made people do incredible things, both good and bad. It's one of the most powerful emotions, and as a writer, you need to understand it."
The way he said it made Mai look at him more closely. "Have you ever felt like that?" she asked, then immediately looked embarrassed by her own boldness. The question had slipped out before she could stop herself. That kind of honest curiosity could get her into trouble. "Sorry," she said quickly. "That's totally inappropriate. I shouldn't have… "
Noah's expression shifted. His eyes went distant, jaw tightening. His usual calm demeanor gave way to something darker, more serious. The mature professor's facade cracked just enough to reveal the damaged man beneath. "It's fine. Yeah, I have. It's part of what made me a halfway decent writer, but it's also the source of a lot of pain." And unfinished business, he didn't add.
Without thinking, Mai reached out and touched his arm. "I'm sorry. That must have been really hard."
"Thanks, I appreciate that." For a second, neither of them moved. Then Noah straightened up, sliding back into teacher mode. "But right now, I need you to go home and actually do those writing exercises. All of them. I know it's kind of weird, but if you can't explore intimacy when you're alone, you'll never be able to write it for thousands of readers. I know it's uncomfortable, but the thing about comfort zones is that they are where creativity goes to die."
"I understand, Professor White. I'll really try this time. It's just going to take me a while to get used to it." She started packing up her books. "And you can call me Mai, if you want… "
"Sure, Mai. Now get going - I'm sure you've got friends waiting or a boyfriend to see."
"No boyfriend," she said quickly, her cheeks pink again. "I've never… I mean, I'm not dating anyone right now." She slung her backpack over her shoulder. "Thanks for being patient with me, Professor. "I'll really try this time. It's just going to take me a while to wrap my head around it."
"Well, don't work too hard," he said casually. "And, Mai, the assignment I gave you, actually try it this time… All of it. Take your time. And hey, you can call me Noah when it's just us, okay?
She paused at the door and smiled shyly. "Okay then… See you tomorrow, Noah."
He watched her leave, standing motionless a beat longer than necessary before shaking his head and packing up his belongings. The old practices were returning more easily than he'd expected. He had lied and manipulated an innocent girl, and he'd barely broken a sweat.