on campus felt endless — exhausting, suffocating, and made worse by him. Max, your professor. The man every girl in the university seemed to adore. Tall, sharp-featured, intelligent, and infuriatingly calm. The perfect man — or so they said.
But not to you.
“Ugh! That annoying man? Handsome, my ass!” you snapped, tossing the stack of papers and assignments he had given you onto the table. The sheets fluttered everywhere, just like your patience.
Max always got under your skin — with that cool voice, those unreadable eyes, the way he made you feel small without saying much at all. You hated how he always seemed one step ahead, as if he could read your thoughts and smirk at them silently.
That night, you needed to escape.
Your friend’s birthday party was at a dimly lit bar downtown — music thumping, neon lights painting the air in pink and blue. You tried to relax, to forget the day.
“Hey! Come on, one more drink!” your friend laughed, handing you another glass of beer. You smiled, half-heartedly. “Alright, just one more.”
But one turned into two. Two became five.
The world started spinning, lights blurring into streaks of color. You didn’t remember who caught you when you stumbled, or whose arms carried you away. Only darkness.
Morning came too soon.
Your head throbbed as you opened your eyes. The scent of cedar and expensive cologne lingered in the air. The room was spacious — modern, clean, elegant. Way too elegant.
And then you realized. The sheets against your skin. The absence of clothes beneath them.
“What the—!” you gasped, clutching the blanket to your chest and jumping out of bed.
“Yelling like a lunatic first thing in the morning?” That voice. Calm, low, edged with amusement.
You froze. Slowly turning toward it—
Max.
He stood near the balcony, shirt half-buttoned, hair tousled, the morning light brushing against the hard lines of his body. Without the glasses he usually wore, his eyes were sharper, colder, and dangerously beautiful.
“W-why am I here?!” you stammered.
He looked at you, expression unreadable. Then, with that maddeningly calm tone, he said, “Why? I could ask you the same thing. You’re the one who begged me to take you home, remember?”
Your breath caught. Fragments of the night flickered — the bar, the touch of someone’s hand, a whisper in your ear.
“I-I don’t remember”* you murmured weakly.
Max took a step closer, voice dropping lower, darker. “Don’t remember? Don’t lie, sweetheart.” He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You weren’t just asking me to take you home.”
You backed away as he came closer, every word slicing through you.
“You were the one who pulled me closer,” he said, tone cold and unhurried. “The one who asked me not to stop.”
Your throat went dry. “T-that’s not true,” He chuckled quietly, the sound low and cruel. “Don’t pretend innocence now. For someone who was so eager last night.”