Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 43

Sophie’s POV

Cleo and I are trudging up the sidewalk toward our building, arms loaded with grocery bags that feel like they're filled with concrete blocks instead of food, when she launches into her latest rant about capitalism and higher education.

"Sixty-seven fucking dollars for three textbooks!" she huffs, adjusting her grip on a bag that's threatening to split at the seams. "And they're all previous editions that the professors probably don't even use!"

I'm about to agree when a figure rounds the corner at a steady jog, and my brain completely short-circuits.

Oh my.

It's Cassian.

And seeing him like this, sweat-dampened and breathing controlled, his running clothes clinging to his body like they were painted on by someone with very specific ideas about how to showcase the male form, should probably be illegal in seventeen states.

The moisture-wicking fabric reveals every line of muscle across his chest and shoulders, the definition in his arms that I'd only glimpsed when he'd rolled up his dress shirt sleeves during office hours.

His hair is disheveled from the run, damp at the temples, and there's something almost primal about seeing him stripped of his usual professional polish.

Damn. The thought hits before I can stop it. He's sexy.

Like, genuinely, devastatingly sexy in a way that makes me forget how to breathe properly and remember that I have a functioning libido despite months of trying to convince myself otherwise.

"Sophie, Cleo!" Cassian slows to a stop, pulling out earbuds with a grin that makes my knees feel unreliable. "Fancy meeting you here."

Play it cool, I command my suddenly malfunctioning brain. Do not stare at his chest. Do not notice how his shorts fit. Do not think about what he looks like without the running clothes.

"We live here, remember?" I manage, hoping my voice doesn't betray how my pulse has kicked up to something approaching cardiac event levels. "How was the run?"

"Therapeutic. New city, new routes to explore."

His eyes linger on my face, and there's something in his expression that makes my skin feel warm despite the evening chill.

"I was just thinking I should probably learn more about the neighborhood. Maybe find a local tour guide."

The words hover between us, innocent enough to pass as casual conversation but weighted with invitation that makes my stomach do complicated gymnastics routines.

He's flirting with you, the rational part of my brain observes. Your professor is flirting with you while wearing clothing that should require a permit.

Shut up, I tell my rational brain. We're just being neighborly. Neighbors help neighbors learn about neighborhoods. It's a perfectly normal, non-sexual community service.

Right, my brain responds dryly. And I'm sure that's why you're thinking about licking the sweat off his collarbone.

"I'm sure you could find someone willing to show you around," I say, and immediately want to kick myself for how breathy that sounded.

Like I'm auditioning for a phone sex line instead of having a casual conversation with my neighbor who happens to also be my professor who happens to also be unfairly attractive.

Cleo shifts beside me, grocery bags crinkling as she adjusts her grip, and I can practically feel her absorbing every nuance of our exchange with the intensity of someone conducting sociological research.

"I should let you get inside," Cassian says, but he's backing away with obvious reluctance, like leaving this conversation is the last thing he wants to do. "Those bags look heavy."

"They are," Cleo pipes up for the first time, her voice carefully neutral. "Campus bookstore prices are criminal."

"Tell me about it. I spent my first paycheck on office supplies and immediately regretted every life choice that led me to academia."

His smile turns rueful. "But maybe we could continue this conversation sometime? Over coffee that isn't being worn by either of us?"

The reference to our collision makes heat crawl up my neck, and I'm probably blushing like a teenager who just got asked to prom by the quarterback.

"That sounds…" I start, but he's already jogging backward with that athletic grace that suggests he played sports in college.

"Great. I'll see you both around."

He turns and jogs off before I can formulate a proper response, leaving me standing on the sidewalk watching the way his running shorts fit his ass and trying to remember how to form complete sentences.

Jesus Christ, I think, staring after him until he disappears around the corner. Get it together, Sophie. You're practically drooling.

"Okay, we need to talk," Cleo announces the moment we're through the building's front door.

She doesn't wait for the elevator, dragging me toward the stairwell with the kind of determination that suggests this conversation is going to happen whether I want it to or not.

"About what?" I ask innocently, though we both know exactly what.

Cleo drops her grocery bags and turns to face me with the expression of someone who's about to deliver some hard truths.

"About the fact that the sexual tension between you and Professor Dimples just gave me secondhand arousal," she says bluntly. "Sophie, I can smell the chemistry from three buildings away. You're playing with fire here."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, but even to my own ears it sounds pathetic.

"Bullshit."

Cleo's voice loses its usual playful edge, turning serious in a way that makes my stomach clench.

"Look, I'm not judging. Cassian seems like a genuinely decent guy, and God knows you deserve someone who treats you well after the psychological warfare you've been through."

She pauses, studying my face with uncomfortable intensity.

"But Adrian literally broke into our apartment six days ago. He's back, he's circling like a shark that's caught the scent of blood, and now you're eye-fucking his replacement?"

The words hit like a slap, partly because she's right and partly because having it laid out so bluntly makes me realize how completely fucked up this situation actually is.

"Nothing's happening," I protest weakly. "We're just neighbors. I'm just being friendly."

"Uh-huh." Cleo's expression softens slightly. "Sophie, honey, you just spent five minutes staring at that man like you wanted to climb him like a tree. And he was looking at you like you were the answer to prayers he didn't know he was saying."

"You're exaggerating."

She picks up her grocery bags again, but her eyes never leave my face.

"Look, I get it. Adrian fucked with your head in ways that are probably going to take years to unpack. And Cassian seems like the opposite of that—kind, gentle, normal. I can understand the appeal."

"But?"

"But you're not in a place to make rational decisions about men right now. Especially men in positions of authority over you."

Her voice turns gentle but firm.

"I watched you fall apart once over a professor who couldn't give you what you needed. I won't watch it happen again."

We start climbing the stairs to our apartment, and I find myself gripping the railing harder than necessary.

We reach our floor, and I fumble with my keys, mind spinning with everything Cleo's said. She's right about the chemistry, about the attraction, about how dangerous it is to let myself feel anything for another professor when I'm still dealing with the aftermath of Adrian.

But she's also right about something else—Cassian does seem different.

The way he'd helped me with my coffee disaster, the way he'd saved me from humiliation with the accidental erotica, the way he looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something to be conquered.

"Just promise me you'll be careful," Cleo says, setting her bags on the kitchen counter. "Promise me you won't rush into anything just because it feels good to be wanted by someone who isn't actively trying to destroy your sense of self."

"I promise," I say, and I mean it.

But as I put away groceries and try to focus on normal, domestic activities, I can't stop thinking about the way Cassian had looked in those running clothes.

Or the invitation in his voice when he'd mentioned coffee, or the way my body had responded to his attention like it was coming back to life after months of dormancy.

Maybe Cleo's right, I think, staring at my reflection in the refrigerator door. Maybe I'm not ready for this. Maybe I need more time to heal before I can trust myself to want someone new.

But even as I acknowledge the wisdom in that logic, I can't quite convince myself that "nothing's happening" when every nerve in my body is still humming with awareness.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I'm already wondering what it would feel like to take Cassian up on that coffee invitation.