Sophie’s POV
I slide into my usual third-row seat in the lecture hall, and immediately my chest tightens with unwelcome familiarity.
This room holds too many memories—Adrian's commanding presence at the front, the way his voice could make Victorian literature sound like foreplay, the electric tension that crackled between us during every single lecture.
But now the podium stands empty, waiting for someone new to fill the void Adrian left behind.
Don't think about him, I warn myself, gripping the edge of my desk. You're doing so well. Five days without completely falling apart. Don't ruin it now.
"God, this feels weird," Cleo says as she settles into the seat beside me, her bag hitting the floor with its usual dramatic thud. "Like sitting in a haunted house or something."
"Thanks for that comforting imagery," I mutter, gripping the edge of my desk harder than necessary.
"Sorry, but you have to admit it's strange. Five months of wondering what happened to Professor Brooding McSexy, and now we get to meet his replacement." She pulls out her notebook and pen with theatrical flourish. "I wonder what the new guy will be like."
"Hopefully nothing like the old guy," I say quietly.
"Oh, come on. You have to be at least a little curious." Cleo's eyes sparkle with mischief. "What if he's even hotter? What if he's younger? What if he's one of those professors who assigns wine tastings as homework and calls it 'experiential learning'?"
"What if he's a seventy-year-old man who smells like mothballs and assigns thirty-page papers on the symbolism of commas in Dickens?"
"Ew." Cleo wrinkles her nose. "Okay, but statistically speaking, what are the odds? This is a prestigious literature program. They're probably going to bring in someone impressive. Someone who knows how to fill a room with intellectual charisma."
"Someone who can make Victorian novels sound sexy without making students question their life choices?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
"Exactly! See, you're getting it." Cleo nudges my shoulder with hers. "After everything you've been through, even a boring old academic might be a refreshing change of pace."
The casual mention of 'everything I've been through' makes my stomach clench. I've been trying so hard not to think about Adrian, about that note, about how completely I'd fallen apart just from seeing those panties again.
"Cleo," I start, then stop, unsure how to voice what I'm feeling.
"What's wrong?" Her teasing tone immediately shifts to concern. "You've got that look again."
"What look?"
“Like you're missing dick. Did the vibrator not help yesterday?"
Heat floods my cheeks so fast I probably look like I'm having an allergic reaction. "Cleo, Jesus…"
She leans closer, lowering her voice, suddenly so serious. "Soph, talk to me. What's going on?"
I stare down at my hands, trying to find words for the chaos in my head.
"I just... I keep wondering if I'm ever going to be able to sit in a classroom again without thinking about what happened. If I'll ever be able to look at a professor as just a professor, instead of someone who might..." I trail off.
"Sophie, listen to me. What Adrian did to you, the way he made you feel like you needed his approval to exist, like your worth was tied up in how well you could please him, that wasn't love. That was someone taking advantage."
"But I liked it," I whisper, shame burning in my chest. "I liked the way he made me feel."
"Of course you did. That's what made it so insidious." Cleo's hand finds mine, squeezing gently. "But liking the feeling doesn't mean it was good for you. And it doesn't mean you're broken or damaged or that you'll never find something better."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because I know you. The real you, not the version of yourself you became when you were trying to be what he wanted."
Cleo's voice grows stronger, more confident. "You're smart, funny, kind, stubborn as hell when it matters, and you deserve someone who sees all of that. Someone who wants to build you up instead of breaking you down."
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. "What if I don't know how to want that? What if I'm too fucked up to recognize healthy anymore?"
"Then you'll learn. And I'll help you."
Cleo's grip on my hand tightens. "Sophie, whoever you end up with, whether it's some gorgeous new professor, or a sweet guy from your study group, or someone you meet at a coffee shop, the only thing that matters is that they treat you right."
"You really think I can have that? Something normal and healthy?"
"I think you can have anything you want, as long as you don't settle for less than you deserve."
Cleo grins, and there's something fierce and protective in her expression.
"And if anyone tries to treat you like anything other than the amazing woman you are, they'll have to go through me first."
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, surprising us both. "You're like five-foot-four."
"I'm scrappy. And I have pointy elbows."
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For... all of this. For being patient with me while I figure my shit out."
"That's what best friends are for. Well, that and providing running commentary on hot professors." Cleo wiggles her eyebrows. "Speaking of which, I still maintain that a little academic eye candy might be exactly what you need..."
"As long as he's not seventy and obsessed with comma symbolism."
"That's the spirit! Aim high, but not unrealistically high.”
Before I can respond, the door at the front of the lecture hall opens. Conversations around the room die down as footsteps echo across the linoleum, and everyone turns to see who our new professor will be.
I look up casually, expecting to see some generic academic type with elbow patches and a slight stoop from years of hunching over manuscripts.
Instead, standing in the doorway in a fresh dress shirt and perfectly fitted slacks, is the man I'd drenched in coffee three hours ago.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It's him. The gorgeous stranger with the bright brown eyes and dimpled smile. The one who'd helped me pick up my scattered books instead of getting angry about his ruined shirt.
The one who'd made jokes and flirted and looked at me like I was something delightful instead of disastrous.
He walks to the podium with easy confidence, setting down his materials and scanning the room with those same warm eyes that had made my stomach flutter in the hallway.
And when his gaze finds mine, that familiar dimpled smile spreads across his face.
"Good morning, everyone," he says, his voice carrying easily through the suddenly silent room. "I'm Professor Cassian Harrison, and I'll be taking over this course."
Oh God. Oh. My. God.
My coffee victim, the man I'd sworn at and abandoned in my panic to get to class, is my new literature professor. And the feeling of déjà vu twists in my lower stomach in such a tight knot that makes me wanna throw up.