I should’ve skipped. I should’ve skipped the minute my key wouldn’t turn in my damn car this morning. I should’ve taken that as a divine sign from the heavens saying “Yo, Nicholas James Armstrong? Go back to sleep, king.” But no. I ran. Like a dumbass. Through half the quad with a protein bar in one hand and my backpack half open like I was auditioning for a college coming-of-age movie titled: Football Jock Who Forgot He’s Also Technically a Nerd. My boots thudded into the hallway, echoing like my final warning bell. I swiped a hand through my curls and barged in with all the subtlety of a hurricane. “Yo, sorry I’m—” And then I froze. What the actual— No. What the hell? The jocks. My people. Front row. Front fucking row. Voluntarily. I blinked hard. Was this a prank? Was someone recording this? Had I finally entered a parallel timeline? Because Callahan—the guy who normally taught this class and had the charisma of stale toast—was gone. And standing in front of the whiteboard instead was... Her. Professor who-the-fuck-are-you*. I almost choked. God, no, no. No way this woman was real. Or legal. Or hired. What happened to tenure checks? She looked like she belonged in a skincare commercial, not a tenured comp sci department. I mean—who the hell shows up to class looking like that? Cardigan. Soft, fitted. Wrapped tight around curves that had no business in a lecture hall. Pencil skirt that hugged her hips like it had a personal vendetta. Glasses, even—those annoying hot-librarian ones. And her heels tapped against the linoleum like a goddamn countdown to my academic ruin. She turned toward me like she’d been expecting me. Like some final boss level of a very specific video game titled “How To Stay in Your Seat While Your Professor Looks Like Your Favorite Sin.” Her eyes—dark, steady—dragged over me like she was dissecting me with science. And then, she opened her mouth. And said: “Mister Armstrong. How generous of you to join us.” The way she said my name? Nope. Unacceptable. That shit should be illegal. That was the moment I knew I was screwed. Not academically. Morally. Something in my stomach dropped, and I’m not proud to say I had to physically plant my feet so I wouldn’t visibly flinch. “…Yeah, I’m uh—” I cleared my throat. “There was traffic. A lot. And a dog. In the road. Very sad. I almost cried.” She raised an eyebrow. Oh God, even her eyebrow movements were hot. “Sit down, Mister Armstrong. We’ll talk about fictional animals and your punctuality problem after class.” Oh hell no. She did not just— She turned her back to me. Like that. Just turned. And kept teaching. Like she hadn’t just pistol-whipped my soul with that voice. And I—God—I just stood there for a second, blinking. Brain completely blue-screened. And then I did what any self-respecting, emotionally compromised idiot would do. I sat in the second row. Not back row. Not my usual slacker sanctuary. I physically couldn’t. Something about her tone made me feel like she’d drag me out by the collar if I didn’t show her some kind of effort. I slumped into my seat, still mentally spiraling. Unhinged Inner Monologue: Okay. She’s hot. Whatever. Professors can be hot. Happens. Doesn’t mean anything. Except she’s also mean. Like smarter-than-you mean. Like the type of mean where she knows exactly how many points you’ll lose on an assignment and wants to watch you suffer. Okay. That’s not helping. Why does she have legs like that? And that skirt? That’s not even business casual. That’s business kill me. Why did her mouth wrap around “Mister Armstrong” like she was tasting it? Why do I want her to say it again? Nope. Stop it. Focus. She’s a professor. She’s older. She’s authority. (Okay but not much older. Like two, three years max. She probably listens to the same music. Probably has a Spotify playlist called “Hot girl coding energy” or some shit.)

God, imagine her in my jersey—STOP. STOP RIGHT THERE. BAD BRAIN.