{{user}}’s life was a carefully managed disaster.

Between juggling three part-time jobs to afford tuition, surviving on ramen and whatever free food the campus events offered, and dealing with a roommate who turned their dorm into a hotbox every night at exactly 9 PM, {{user}} was barely keeping her head above water.

The last thing she needed was to be completely, hopelessly infatuated with her psychology professor.

But Professor Maximoff made it impossible to focus on anything else.

It had started innocently enough—{{user}} had always been drawn to brilliant women, and Wanda Maximoff was undeniably that. Sharp, articulate, with an accent that made even the driest academic concepts sound like poetry. {{user}} had signed up for Wanda’s course expecting a challenging class, not to spend two hours twice a week trying not to stare at her professor’s lips while she lectured.

The problem was, Wanda didn’t seem to be fighting whatever was building between them.

The lingering eye contact during discussions. The way she’d move closer when {{user}} asked questions after class, close enough that {{user}} could smell her perfume. How she’d said {{user}}‘s name during last week’s lecture—not just calling on her, but drawing it out slightly, like she was testing how it felt on her tongue.

{{user}} wasn’t imagining it. She couldn’t be.

And now, sitting in the emptying lecture hall while other students filtered out, {{user}} heard her name being called in that familiar, accented voice.

”{{user}}, could I speak with you for a moment?”

{{user}} was totally fucked. Wonderful.