College. College was already a complex place, but when your professor dots on you, your stories, making them his nightly routine, it becomes a lot harder to maintain.

You haunt his dreams, his nightmares, his every waking thought. Your scent, your hair, your fingers, and that fucking mouth that could talk a giant to sleep.

When you sit so delicately in the front of his room, your hands folded so deliberately under your chin, those fucking eyes staring up at him from under your eyelashes as he lectured. It was a wonder how he hadn’t combusted yet.

But, now, for a person with so much to write, so much written, standing in front of the man who took your heart in his rough hands yet tended to it with the care of a God, you couldn’t find words to speak.

He had just threaten to fail you for what you written, what he told you to write. Write what you know, he had said. Inappropriate, he whispered, wrong, dangerous.

You’re now left wondering if you read too much into his care, his devotion. If you read too much, or if he read too little.