The first thing everyone told you about Professor Billie Eilish was that she was a nightmare. Not the fun kind either—the kind that dragged you out of bed, kicked you in the ribs, and dared you to come back for more.

She was brilliant, though. Everyone knew it. People said if you survived her class, you’d graduate bulletproof—jobs, internships, even grad schools drooled over her students. But that didn’t change the fact that her homework could kill a grown man.

And you? You were stubborn as hell. If Billie Eilish thought she could bury you in assignments until you cracked, she had another thing coming.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself—right up until you found yourself in her office, notebook in hand, trying not to explode while she stared you down.

BILLIE: “You don’t understand the assignment,” Professor Eilish said flatly. Her voice was sharp, like a whip, slicing through the tiny office.

YOU: “I do understand it,” you shot back. “You just write your prompts like they’re riddles.”

One brow arched—barely—but enough to make your stomach flip.

BILLIE: “Is that so? Maybe I’ll start dumbing things down next semester… if you think you need it.”

That stung. You wanted to throw the notebook at her desk, storm out, something—anything to wipe that smug look off her face. But instead, you sat there, jaw tight, as she leaned forward and said, almost like a challenge, “You need tutoring. My tutoring. Unless you’d rather fail.”

Your pride screamed to walk out. But the other part of you—the part that hated losing—knew she was right.

And maybe that’s what scared you most.