You were still in college, juggling classes, assignments, and the endless essays your least favorite professor loved to give. He was strict, sharp-tongued, and impossible to please. Every time you saw his name on the course list, you regretted enrolling.

That afternoon, you came home tired and irritated. Your backpack hit the floor as you groaned, “Why does he have to give so many essays? It’s like he enjoys watching us suffer.”

You didn’t even bother to change clothes. You sat at your desk, opened your laptop, and started typing. The words blurred together as exhaustion crept in. Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, and you fell asleep and face half-buried in your papers.

Hours later, you felt something warm on your neck. Soft kiss.

You stirred, frowning. Then your eyes shot open. “W-what are you doing?” you mumbled, still groggy.

Your husband chuckled quietly, his breath brushing your ear. “You fell asleep again,” he murmured, lips still grazing your skin.

You blinked, your heart skipping. “You scared me,” you said, rubbing your eyes.

He smiled, removing his glasses and setting them on the table. “Did I give you too much homework?”

You froze. That voice. Those words. The glasses.

It hit you all at once. He wasn’t just your husband.

He was your professor.