Ember's POV - PRESENT DAY
Two weeks have passed since that night.
I've almost convinced myself it was a dream.
Almost.
I stand in my new dorm room at Ashford University, unpacking boxes while Riley blasts music from her speaker. The room is small but cozy—two beds, two desks, a shared closet, and a window overlooking the quad.
This is it, Riley says, flopping onto her bed. Fresh start. New Ember. No more Jason, no more Madison, no more drama.
No more drama, I echo, folding a sweater into my drawer.
It's become my mantra. New school, new life, new me.
The video has 2,847 views now. I stopped checking after the first week. People still whisper when they see me on campus—the scholarship girl whose humiliation went viral—but I'm learning to ignore them.
Jason tried calling forty-seven times before I blocked every possible number. Madison sent a fake apology via email that was really just her bragging about how happy she and Jason are now.
I deleted it without responding.
That version of my life is over.
You ready for orientation? Riley asks, checking her phone. Starts in twenty minutes.
I grab my schedule printout. As ready as I'll ever be.
The campus is beautiful—old brick buildings covered in ivy, massive oak trees, students everywhere. It's everything I dreamed about during four years of killing myself for perfect grades.
I just wish I could enjoy it without the constant anxiety that someone will recognize me from the video.
Orientation is boring, welcome speeches, campus tours, rules about academic integrity. I zone out halfway through, thinking about my schedule.
Contemporary Literature on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Introduction to Philosophy on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Composition, World History, and an elective I haven't chosen yet.
Normal. Manageable. Exactly what I need.
After orientation, Riley drags me to the bookstore to buy textbooks.
Oh my God, these prices are criminal, she mutters, holding up a philosophy textbook that costs one hundred and fifty dollars. How are students supposed to afford this?
Scholarships, I say, grateful that my financial aid covers books. Or rich parents.
Must be nice. Riley dumps three books in her basket. Speaking of rich, did you see Jason during orientation?
My stomach tightens. No. And I don't plan to.
Good. He doesn't deserve to breathe the same air as you. She links her arm through mine. Come on. Let's get coffee and forget he exists.
We spend the rest of the day exploring campus, meeting other freshmen, pretending everything is normal.
But that night, alone in my dorm room while Riley is at some party, I let myself remember.
Adrian.
I've thought about him every day for two weeks. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The things he whispered in the dark.
I wonder where he is now. What his important new job turned out to be. If he ever thinks about the girl he met in a bar who disappeared before sunrise.
Probably not. It was one night. Beautiful, but meaningless.
I need to forget him the same way I'm forgetting Jason.
I pull up my class schedule on my laptop, determined to focus on what matters—my education.
Contemporary Literature and Critical Theory. Professor A. Blackwell.
I click on the course link, curious about what the reading list looks like.
The page loads.
And my entire world stops.
There's a faculty photo at the top of the page.
Dr. Adrian Blackwell. PhD from Oxford. Specialization in Contemporary Literature and Critical Theory.
The same storm-gray eyes that looked at me like I was the only person in the world.
The same dark hair I tangled my fingers in.
The same mouth that whispered you're exquisite against my skin.
No.
No, no, no, this isn't possible.
My laptop screen blurs. I blink hard, convinced I'm seeing things wrong.
But when my vision clears, he's still there.
Adrian. My Adrian. The stranger from the bar.
Is my professor.
My hands shake so badly I almost drop the laptop.
This can't be happening. The universe can't be this cruel.
I click on his bio with trembling fingers.
Dr. Adrian Blackwell joined Ashford University's English Department this fall after completing his doctorate at Oxford University. His research focuses on forbidden narratives in contemporary literature and the ethics of desire in classical texts. He has published extensively on—
I stop reading.
Forbidden narratives. Ethics of desire.
The irony would be funny if I wasn't currently having a panic attack.
I slept with my professor.
Not just any professor—my academic advisor. The man who will be grading my papers, leading my discussions, controlling a significant portion of my GPA.
Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
What if he tells someone? What if there are rules about this? What if I get expelled before I even start?
My phone buzzes. A notification from the university app.
REMINDER: First day of classes tomorrow! Contemporary Literature meets at 9 AM in Room 301, Humanities Building.
Tomorrow.
I have to see him tomorrow.
I close my laptop and pace the room, trying to think.
Maybe he won't remember me. It was dark in the bar. We were both drinking. Maybe I looked different with my hair down and makeup on.
Maybe
I catch sight of myself in the mirror and almost laugh.
Who am I kidding? Of course he'll remember me. The same way I'll never forget him.
The way his hands felt on my skin. The way he looked at me like I mattered. The way he made me feel alive for the first time in my life.
And now he's my professor.
I grab my phone and call Riley.
She answers on the third ring, music blaring in the background. Ember! You should come to this party! There are
I slept with my professor.
Silence. Then the music gets quieter as she clearly moves somewhere private.
What?
The guy from the bar. Adrian. He's Professor Blackwell. He teaches my Monday-Wednesday-Friday literature class. The words tumble out in a rush. I have class with him tomorrow morning. Riley, what do I do?
Holy shit.
I know!
Are you sure it's him?
I'm looking at his faculty photo right now. It's definitely him.
Riley is quiet for a long moment. Okay. Okay, don't panic. When did you meet him?
Two weeks ago. The night before he started his job here.
So technically, you didn't know he was your professor. You met him as a stranger before the semester started.
Does that matter? He's still my professor now!
It matters because you didn't do anything wrong. Neither did he. You were both just... people at a bar. Riley's voice is firm. You can't get in trouble for something that happened before there was any professor-student relationship.
But there is now. And I have to sit in his class tomorrow and pretend— My voice cracks. I can't do this. I can't see him and pretend nothing happened.
You can. And you will. Because you earned your spot at this university, and you're not letting one complicated situation ruin that. Riley takes a breath. Look. Tomorrow, you walk into that classroom with your head high. You act professional. If he wants to talk about it, you let him bring it up. But you don't apologize and you don't run away. Understood?
Riley
Understood?
Yes, I whisper.
Good. Now get some sleep. Tomorrow is just the first day of class. You've survived worse.
She's right. I have survived worse.
But that night, I barely sleep.
I lie awake imagining tomorrow. Every possible scenario. Every terrible outcome.
What if he's angry that I left without saying goodbye?
What if he reports what happened to protect himself?
What if he looks at me with regret instead of the heat I remember?
What if seeing him again makes me want things I absolutely cannot have?
When my alarm goes off at seven, I've gotten maybe three hours of sleep.
I shower, dress carefully in jeans and a simple sweater. Nothing like the black dress from that night. I pull my hair into a ponytail and skip makeup.
The goal is to look as different as possible from the girl he met at the bar.
Riley is still asleep when I leave. I walk across campus in the early morning light, my stomach in knots.
The Humanities Building looms ahead.
Room 301 is on the third floor.
I climb the stairs slowly, each step feeling like walking toward my execution.
Other students file into the classroom, chatting and laughing, completely unaware that my entire world is about to implode.
I pause outside the door, hand on the handle.
I can do this. I have to do this.
I take a deep breath.
Then I push open the door and walk inside.
The lecture hall is already half full. I scan for an empty seat, trying to keep my eyes away from the front of the room.
But I can feel him before I see him.
That same electric awareness from the bar.
I look up.
And there he is.
Standing at the whiteboard, writing the course title in neat letters.
Professor Blackwell.
Adrian.
He turns around.
Our eyes meet.
And the world stops.
For one impossible second, his professional mask cracks completely. His eyes widen. His hand freezes mid-air, the marker hovering uselessly.
He recognizes me.
Of course he recognizes me.
I see shock flash across his face, followed by something that might be panic or might be the same desperate attraction I'm trying to bury.
Then he recovers, his expression going carefully blank.
Take your seats, please, he says, his voice rough. Class is starting.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process that this is real.
A girl bumps into me. Excuse me. Are you going in?
I stumble forward on autopilot, sliding into the first empty seat I see.
Front row. Right in his direct line of sight.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Professor Blackwell clears his throat. Welcome to Contemporary Literature and Critical Theory. I'm Dr. Adrian Blackwell, and I'll be your instructor this semester.
His eyes deliberately avoid mine.
And I realize with sinking certainty that the next four months are going to be absolute torture.
Because the man who made me feel alive is standing ten feet away.
And I can never, ever touch him again.