Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 91

Sophie’s POV

A couple of weeks pass, and Adrian is away on business. He's been vague about the details—meetings, he said, with people who might help rehabilitate his academic reputation. I didn't push for more.

The distance between us since Cassian's trial has made every conversation feel like navigating a minefield, and some days it's easier to just let things lie.

But his absence means something I haven't had in months: solitude.

I relish it by inviting Cleo over. The apartment feels less like a gilded cage with my best friend sprawled across the couch, her legs draped over the armrest, stealing bites of my snacks like we're back in our freshman dorm room pretending to study.

"You're glowing." Cleo points a chip at my face accusingly. "It's disgusting. Pregnancy is supposed to make you bloated and miserable, not radiant."

"I threw up three times this morning." I snatch the chip bag back from her. "Trust me, the glow is an illusion."

"Still. You look good, Soph." Her expression softens into something genuine. "How are you really feeling?"

I consider the question, let myself actually think about the answer instead of deflecting with sarcasm.

"The pregnancy is progressing well. The doctors say the baby is healthy, all the tests are coming back normal."

My hand moves to my stomach, where the slight swell has become impossible to hide.

"I'm starting to show. Had to buy new jeans last week because nothing fits anymore."

"The horror." Cleo clutches her chest in mock distress. "Shopping for clothes. However will you survive?"

I throw a pillow at her. She catches it, laughing.

"I've been thinking about going back to campus." The words come out before I've fully decided to say them.

"Maybe the scandal has died down enough. Maybe I can reclaim some normalcy, finish my degree like a regular person instead of hiding in Adrian's apartment like a fugitive."

Cleo's expression shifts—concern flickering beneath the casual warmth. "Are you sure that's a good idea? The comments online haven't exactly stopped."

"They've slowed down. People have shorter attention spans than we give them credit for." I shrug, trying to project confidence I don't entirely feel. "I can't hide forever, Cleo. At some point, I have to face the world again."

She looks like she wants to argue, but she lets it go. We both know I'm not asking for permission.

I redirect before she can circle back to the topic. "Speaking of things we should discuss—what's going on with you and Ayden?"

Cleo freezes mid-reach for another chip. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I have eyes." I shift on the couch to face her fully. "The way you look at each other now. The casual touches that linger way too long to be casual. You practically sat in his lap at the courthouse."

"I did not sit in his lap."

"You were one strong breeze away from it."

Cleo groans, dropping her head back against the couch cushions. "I don't know, Soph. It's complicated. We're figuring it out."

"Figuring what out? You've been dancing around each other for months."

"That's the problem!" She throws her hands up in frustration.

"We've been 'friends with benefits' for so long that I don't know how to transition into something else. What if I tell him I want more and he doesn't? What if we try dating and it ruins everything we already have?"

"Or," I counter gently, "what if it's amazing and you've been wasting time being scared?"

Cleo looks at me with something vulnerable in her eyes—rare for her, precious. "When did you become a relationship expert?"

"I'm literally pregnant by my former professor after a scandal that made national news. I'm the opposite of an expert."

I reach over and squeeze her hand.

"But I know you, and I know Ayden. And I've seen the way he looks at you when you're not paying attention. That's not complicated, that's just waiting for one of you to be brave."

She squeezes back, something shifting in her expression. "I'll think about it."

"That's all I ask." I let it go—for now. Some conversations need time to percolate.

"Come on." I push myself off the couch, extending a hand to help her up. "I'm starving and we've demolished everything up here. Let's raid the kitchen."

We head downstairs, our conversation drifting to lighter topics—a new show Cleo's been watching, a professor she can't stand, the ridiculousness of maternity fashion.

The apartment is quiet around us, afternoon light streaming through the tall windows, and for a moment everything feels almost normal.

Then I stop mid-step. There's a man in the living room.

Tall—over six feet, broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of controlled grace that suggests he knows exactly how dangerous he could be if he wanted to.

He's pacing casually, examining Adrian's bookshelf like he's browsing a museum exhibit, completely at ease in a space he has no business being in.

I grab Cleo's arm, yanking her back behind the wall before he can see us.

"Who the hell is that?" Cleo's whisper is sharp with panic. "Did Adrian give someone a key?"

"Not that he told me about." My heart is hammering against my ribs. "A thief? A stalker? Someone from Adrian's past?"

"Since when do thieves stroll through someone's house like they're appraising the décor?" Cleo hisses. "He looks way too comfortable."

"I've never seen a thief in my life, so I wouldn't know!"

"Well neither have I, but I'm pretty sure they don't stop to admire first editions!"

We press ourselves against the wall, breathing hard, minds racing. I should call Adrian. I should call the police. But my phone is upstairs on the couch, and this stranger is between us and any exit.

"Okay, here's what we do." Cleo's voice drops even lower. "I'll grab that ugly vase from the hallway table—the one that looks like a murder weapon waiting to happen. You stay behind me. When I give the signal, we rush him from behind."

"That's your plan? Attack a man twice our size?"

"Do you have a better one?"

I don't. God help us both, I don't.

We creep forward, Cleo's fingers closing around the heavy ceramic vase. My pulse pounds in my ears. Three more steps. Two. One—

The front door swings open. Both of us scream.

I clutch Cleo, she clutches me, the vase nearly shatters on the floor as she fumbles to keep hold of it. My heart explodes into my throat.

Adrian stands in the doorway, eyebrows raised, taking in the scene with an expression caught between confusion and amusement.

"What exactly is happening here?"

"There's a man in your living room!" I manage to gasp out. "We thought… We were going to—"

Adrian's gaze shifts past us to the stranger, who has turned from the bookshelf with an expression of mild interest. Not surprise, not alarm, just... curiosity.

"Bellamy." Adrian's voice carries a note of exasperation. "I would appreciate it if you didn't scare my pregnant woman."

The stranger—Bellamy—shrugs one shoulder. "I was told to wait—I waited. Not my fault they didn't know I was coming."

"Because I was going to introduce you properly." Adrian steps inside, closing the door behind him. "Before you decided to let yourself in and wander around like you own the place."

"Old habits."

My heart is still pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins with nowhere to go. I step forward, placing myself between Cleo and both men.

"Someone needs to explain what's happening. Right now."

Beside me, Cleo clutches her stomach with her free hand. "Jesus Christ, the adrenaline rush is probably going to stop my period..."

Adrian doesn't hesitate. He crosses to me, his hand finding my elbow in a gesture that's both possessive and reassuring.

"Sophie, this is Bellamy. An old friend." His eyes meet mine, and I see something guarded in their depths—secrets he's not ready to share. "And as of today, your personal security."