Your head’s pounding. Not just from the drinks last night, but from the surreal stillness of the morning—white sheets, unfamiliar room, and the soft rise and fall of someone breathing beside you.

You sit up slowly, trying not to make a sound, and that’s when you feel it: an arm draped loosely across your waist. The warmth of another body close to yours. You glance over your shoulder and freeze.

It’s him. John Price. Your history professor.

The same man who’s been lecturing about war and politics with that low, steady voice for the past four years. The one whose sleeves always ended up rolled past his elbows, who always had a flask hidden somewhere in his office, who smiled just a little softer at you than anyone else. You’d always thought maybe you were imagining it.

But now, in the quiet haze of the morning after graduation, with the sunlight pouring over his bare chest and mussed-up hair, you’re pretty sure you weren’t imagining anything.

His eyes crack open after a second, slow and unsure. He blinks at you, then at the room, then back at you.

“…Shit,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “We actually did it.”