Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 34

Cassian’s POV

I stare at my reflection in the faculty restroom mirror, dabbing uselessly at coffee stains with paper towels that accomplish absolutely nothing.

My dress shirt looks like abstract art painted in caffeine—brown splatters across white cotton that no amount of cold water is going to fix.

But I can't stop smiling.

"Well, Harrison," I tell my reflection, grinning like an idiot despite looking like I've been in a fight with an espresso machine. "That's one way to make a first impression."

On the counter beside me lies a single sheet of paper—assignment notes covered in hurried handwriting and coffee splatters. At the top, in neat block letters that somehow survived the caffeinated disaster: Sophie Hale, Literature 304.

"Sophie," I say the name out loud, testing how it sounds in my mouth.

It fits her perfectly—soft syllables for a girl who swears like a sailor and moves through hallways like a beautiful tornado.

The way she'd looked at me, all wide brown eyes and mortified embarrassment, that gorgeous flush spreading across her cheeks when she realized she'd turned me into a walking coffee advertisement.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I mimic her voice, laughing at the memory. "I'm so sorry, I'm such a disaster."

She has no idea how wrong she is about that last part.

Dark hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, escaping from whatever attempt she'd made to tame it that morning.

She wore comfortable clothes—an oversized sweater that somehow made her look smaller and more vulnerable, practical shoes that suggested she prioritized getting places over looking perfect.

There was something refreshingly genuine about her complete lack of pretense.

But up close, she was... striking. The kind of magnetic chaos that made me want to know what thoughts lived behind those expressive eyes, what made her laugh, what made her gasp in pleasure.

Easy there, I warn my reflection. You just met her. And technically, she assaulted you with caffeine. And she’s a student.

"Although," I add, pulling my spare shirt from my office bag, "if that's how she flirts, I'm definitely interested in seeing what she does when she actually likes someone."

The spare shirt is a habit I'd developed after years of hoping for this opportunity. Always be prepared, because you never know when life might finally give you what you've been working toward.

The Literature Department position at this university had been my dream job since graduate school—the prestige, the research opportunities, the chance to shape young minds in one of the most respected English programs in the country.

I'd applied three times over the years. Three times I'd made it to the final round of interviews. Three times I'd been rejected in favor of candidates with better connections, more ruthless ambition, or simply the luck to be in the right place at the right time.

"Third time's the charm, they say," I mutter, buttoning up the clean shirt. "Well, technically this was the fourth time, but who's counting?"

The first rejection had been devastating. Fresh out of graduate school, idealistic and naive, convinced that merit alone would be enough.

The second had been disappointing but educational—I'd learned to play the political game better, to schmooze at conferences and publish in the right journals.

The third rejection had been infuriating. I'd been the most qualified candidate by every objective measure, but they'd chosen Adrian Lewis instead.

A man with connections, charm, and just enough ruthless ambition to convince the hiring committee that he was their golden boy.

"But sometimes," I tell my reflection, adjusting my collar, "the universe corrects itself. Sometimes men who think they're untouchable finally face consequences for their actions."

My phone buzzes against the marble counter, interrupting my philosophical moment. A text from my cousin.

Lisette: How's the first week treating you, Professor Harrison?

I grin, typing back quickly: Coffee-stained but optimistic. Lunch tomorrow?

Her response comes almost immediately: Of course. I want to hear everything about how you're settling in. Especially if you've met any... interesting students.

I pause, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. There's something in that phrasing, something that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Lisette had been instrumental in helping me land this position—her recommendation carried serious weight in academic circles, and her inside knowledge of the department's politics had been invaluable during the interview process.

But lately, there'd been an edge to our conversations. A sharpness that suggested personal investment beyond familial support.

When Adrian Lewis's scandal broke, when the investigation started and his career imploded, Lisette had been... pleased. More than pleased, actually. She'd been almost gleeful about his downfall.

Lisette: You deserve this position, Cassian. You always did. Adrian Lewis was a mistake the universe needed to correct.

Me: Right. Well, I'm grateful for the opportunity, regardless of how it came about.

Lisette: Sometimes good people need to help the universe along. Justice doesn't always serve itself.

I stare at the screen, that uneasy feeling growing stronger. There's something in her tone that I don't quite like, something that makes me wonder exactly how much "help" she'd provided in Adrian's downfall.

Me: Did you know him well? Lewis?

The pause stretches longer than usual before her response arrives.

Lisette: We had history. Ancient history. Nothing that concerns you now.

Me: Right. Of course.

Lisette: Focus on the future, Cassian. Your future. I'm sure you'll find this position very... fulfilling. In every way.

I set the phone down, that last comment sending another chill through me. Lisette's support had been crucial, but I'm starting to realize I might not fully understand her motivations.

"Whatever," I mutter, folding Sophie's assignment notes carefully. "Water under the bridge. Lewis is gone, I'm here, and life moves forward."

I tuck the coffee-stained paper into my jacket pocket, right over my heart. Her handwriting is messy but determined, notes scrawled in the margins like she was having conversations with the text.

There's something endearing about the way she thinks on paper, the way her thoughts seem to spill out faster than her pen can keep up.

"Sophie Hale," I say her name again, feeling how it fits in my mouth. "Literature 304."

That means she's likely a junior or senior, old enough to make her own decisions, smart enough to appreciate good literature. And if her reaction to our collision is any indication, she's got spirit underneath all that mortified embarrassment.

I check my appearance one more time in the mirror. The clean shirt fits well, and the coffee disaster has actually worked in my favor—given me a reason to talk to her, a story we'll both remember.

"Time to see what other disasters the universe has in store," I tell my reflection, grinning as I head toward the door.

But as I walk toward my first official class as Professor Harrison, I can't shake the feeling that Sophie Hale is going to be much more than just an interesting student.

She's going to be exactly what I've been looking for.