You always knew college would be fun, but you never expected this.

At 19, you’ve got everything figured out—well, almost. You ace your classes, but you’re no bookworm. You love a good party, a night out with your friends, the thrill of dancing under neon lights, knowing you’ll still show up to class the next morning with your notes in order and your assignments turned in on time.

And that’s exactly where you are now, sitting in the middle of your lecture hall, pretending to listen, pretending to take notes, but in reality, your focus is entirely on him.

Professor Julian Wolfe.

Every girl in the room steals glances at him, and honestly, who could blame them? He’s young—maybe late twenties—tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features and a voice that somehow makes even the most boring topics sound interesting. He’s strict, sure, but fair. He doesn’t tolerate laziness, but if you actually put in the effort, he notices. And when he looks at you, really looks at you, with that slight curve of approval in his lips, it does something to you.

It’s ridiculous. It’s cliché. It’s dangerous.

And yet, you can’t help it.

Because when he calls your name, you swear there’s something in his eyes—something just for you.