3

“Let’s examine the following story,” Professor Hilversum announced, clicking his laser pointer and directing the beam toward the wall, circling the names Romeo and Juliet.

I stifled a groan, barely managing to keep it quiet. Seriously? Of all the stories in the world, this was what we were starting with? My pencil spun lazily beneath my hand, rolling back and forth on the desk with just enough pressure to keep it from falling.

I risked a quick glance at the clock. Ten minutes to go. Just ten more minutes, and I’d be heading to my next class with Professor Cole Timothy. Even just the thought of his name sent an involuntary shiver through me, my body reacting as if on command.

Around me, the classroom was alive with the frantic rustle of note-taking. Pens scratched paper, and fingers tapped urgently on keyboards. The steady rhythm of it all created a sort of white noise—one that oddly reminded me of the sounds I played at night to help me fall asleep.

I stifled a yawn.

“Is there a problem?” Professor Hilversum’s voice cracked through the room like a whip.

The sudden hush made my head snap up, and I met his icy gaze with what I hoped passed for indifference. He was halfway up the steps now, standing just a few rows below me.

I adjusted my posture, uncrossing my aching legs, though the butterflies in my stomach made it hard to ignore his presence. “No problem,” I said evenly.

“Are you sure?” His tone was sharp, challenging. “You seem disinterested in today’s lesson.”

There it was again—that edge in his voice that poked at my defenses, making my mouth move before I could think better of it.

“Because it’s not a lesson I need to learn,” I said, leaning back in my seat. There were definitely lessons I’d be eager to learn—like how he managed to keep his hair looking so effortlessly styled, or how to write a romance novel that had readers swooning over the characters. And, admittedly, I’d love to know what it felt like to earn his respect instead of his disdain.

But none of that mattered in the face of the irritation flaring in his expression. His nostrils flared slightly, and for a split second, his pupils seemed to widen. Wait—wasn’t that a sign of attraction? No. Stop. I shoved the thought into the deepest, darkest corner of my mind.

The room was so quiet that the few murmurs of shocked laughter quickly died down. Professor Hilversum hadn’t moved or spoken for a few seconds too long, and the weight of his silence made my pulse race.

“Explain,” he demanded, his voice curt and commanding.

The bluntness of his order jolted me. I sat up straighter, lacing my fingers together on the desk. “Romeo and Juliet is a classic,” I began, keeping my voice steady. “But what is there to learn from it? Juliet was a fourteen-year-old girl who killed herself over a boy she barely knew. For all we know, Romeo could have been rebounding.”

The silence that followed was deafening, and the pounding of my heartbeat filled the void. I could feel every single pair of eyes on me, and my cheeks burned. What had happened to the quiet, cautious version of me that preferred to stay invisible? But I’d started this, and there was no turning back now.

Some things were worth standing up for, and pretending Romeo and Juliet was the pinnacle of romance wasn’t one of them. Sure, I’d loved it once—but I’d grown up. Now, I saw it for what it was: a tragedy, not a love story.

“See me after class,” Professor Hilversum said at last, turning sharply and heading back down the steps.

I let out a shaky breath, wiping a hand across my forehead. Whispers floated around the room, students no doubt speculating about my apparent lapse in judgment. Challenging a professor on day one? In front of everyone? Brilliant move, Becca .

As class ended, the sound of laptops closing and bags zipping filled the room. I lingered, waiting for the rows to clear. My stomach churned at the thought of missing my next class, but there was no avoiding this now. I straightened my shoulders and inhaled deeply, focusing on keeping my composure.

Professor Hilversum was perched on the corner of his desk, arms crossed, feet firmly planted on the floor. The pose was intimidating, though my eyes couldn’t help but drift to the breadth of his shoulders.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

“Becca ,” I replied, gripping the strap of my bag tightly to keep my hands from fidgeting.

“Becca ,” he repeated, dragging out the syllables as though savoring them. The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine.

He shifted his stance slightly, and I could have sworn he adjusted his pants. “So, you find Romeo and Juliet irritating?”

“I find it misleading,” I said, my voice gaining confidence. “It’s constantly hailed as the ultimate romance, but it’s not. It’s a tragedy in disguise.”

His lips curled into a faint smirk. “You don’t think dying for love is a noble cause?”

I pointed a finger at him without thinking, stopping just shy of his arm. “No, I don’t. If it were me, I’d have found a way to live—and to be happy, at least for a little while. No fleeting romance is worth that level of melodrama.”

“Interesting perspective,” he said, his smirk deepening. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and I froze, realizing how much I’d just revealed—not just my opinion, but more about myself than I intended.

Heat rushed to my face. “Don’t you have another class?” I blurted, desperate to steer the conversation away from the tension crackling in the air.

“Not for a while,” he replied, leaning back slightly. His gaze was steady, unnervingly intense. “This discussion, however, feels far more important.”

The way he straightened, his full height towering over me, sent a jolt through me. The charged energy between us was impossible to ignore, raising the tiny hairs on my arms.