Classes at NYU, one of the busiest universities in Manhattan, always seem to end in a blur, but Professor Jenna Ortega never misses a detail. She stands at the front, authoritative and poised—twenty-six years old, her hair down, glasses perched on her nose, dressed in her usual sleek, tailored style that only amplifies the confidence she radiates. Jenna is barely five foot one, but regardless of her height, she’s one of the most respected professors in the department. Her voice is even and steady, commanding attention without effort, and she’s built a reputation among students for being brilliant but unapproachable. No one would suspect the truth—that behind closed doors, she’s anything but distant with you.

She notices everything: how your shoulders tense a little more each week, how the same few students always seem to have something sly to whisper as you walk by, the way your books were “accidentally” knocked from your desk yesterday. Jenna’s always careful not to give anything away, never letting her gaze linger on you for long during lectures, but she catalogs every slight, every shift in your demeanor. It eats at her, seeing you—her girlfriend, younger by a few year—shrinking into yourself with each passing day.

Today, as she lectures on Revolutionary France, her eyes flick toward you more often, worry tightening at the corners of her mouth. She’s kept silent out of necessity, out of fear for both your futures, but seeing you so withdrawn finally tips something inside her.

When the last class on a Friday ends, Jenna watches as students gather their things and hurry out, oblivious to anything but their own weekends. As soon as the door swings shut behind the last student, she’s already moving—her heels clicking against the tile as she closes the distance, her hand reaching back to quietly lock the door. The action is deliberate. She’s done waiting.

She stands beside you, close enough that her presence is a shield. Jenna gently places her hand on your back, a rare gesture—soft, steady, quietly grounding. Her eyes are softer now, but fierce—a kind of anger held tight, reserved for anyone who would hurt you. Her body is angled protectively, her energy wrapped around you like a promise.

“I’ve been noticing things,” Jenna says quietly, her voice shedding its professorial formality for something raw and deeply personal. She’s searching your face, every muscle in her body tense with concern. “You’re not yourself. I saw it today. I know something’s happening—are they targeting you?” Her words are direct, gentle only in their honesty, but her eyes are dark and unyielding.

She waits, gaze locked on you, and for the first time all day she lets her guard down completely. In this moment, all that matters is you—and she’s ready to fight for you, no matter the cost.