Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 35

The classroom is quieter than usual, like everyone senses something is about to change and doesn’t know how to act casual about it. I slide into my seat near the middle, notebook open, pen aligned carefully on the page. The ritual steadies me. Control where I can get it.

People whisper.

“Is he really new?”

“I heard he came from the capital.”

“No, he’s a transfer. Department shake-up.”

The door opens before anyone can speculate further.

Professor Harry Wilson walks in without announcement, no dramatic pause, no attempt to command the room. He sets his briefcase on the desk, smooth and unhurried, like time bends around him instead of the other way around. He’s not young, but not old either. Early forties, maybe. Tall, composed, dressed simply—dark slacks, light button-down, sleeves rolled to the forearm. No tie.

He looks around the room once, taking everyone in. Not scanning. Observing.

“Good morning,” he says.

His voice is calm. Measured. Not soft, but not sharp. It settles into the room instead of cutting through it.

A few people murmur back.

“My name is Harry Wilson,” he continues. “I’ll be taking over this program for the remainder of the academic year.”

He doesn’t smile immediately. He doesn’t frown. He just exists, comfortably, like he’s not trying to impress anyone.

“I don’t believe in intimidation as a teaching method,” he adds. “If you’re here, it’s because you belong here. My job is to help you prove that to yourselves.”

Something in my chest loosens before I can stop it.

I hate that I notice.

He talks through the syllabus slowly, explaining expectations without threat or condescension. No jokes about failing students. No warnings wrapped in fake humor. Just clarity. When someone asks a question, he listens fully before answering, like the interruption doesn’t bother him.

When his eyes flick to me, it’s brief. Neutral. But my stomach tightens anyway.

Get it together, I tell myself. He’s a professor. He’s doing his job.

Still, I sit straighter.

“Ms. Carter,” he says suddenly.

I freeze for half a second before looking up. “Yes?”

“You wrote the essay on narrative agency last semester, didn’t you?”

My heart stutters. “I—yes.”

He nods. “I read it. Thoughtful work.”

That’s it. No praise piled on. No dramatic emphasis. Just a fact.

“Thank you,” I manage.

He moves on like it’s nothing.

But my hands are shaking under the desk.

After class, students crowd the front with questions. I hang back, packing my things slowly. When I finally stand, Professor Wilson looks up.

“Zoey,” he says.

I stop. “Yes?”

“If you have a moment.”

I hesitate, then step forward. My pulse thuds loud in my ears.

“I wanted to say,” he begins, lowering his voice just enough to feel private without being secretive, “I appreciate students who engage critically without needing validation. It’s rare.”

I blink. “I’m not sure I do that.”

He tilts his head slightly. “You do. Even when you doubt it.”

Something about the way he says it—like it’s not encouragement, just observation—makes my throat tighten.

“I also noticed,” he adds, “that you tend to apologize before asking questions. You don’t need to.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Sorry— I mean—”

He lifts a hand gently. “That wasn’t a correction. Just an invitation.”

“To…?”

“To take up space,” he says simply.

I nod, because I don’t trust my voice.

As I turn to leave, he adds, “My office hours are on the syllabus. If you ever want to talk about your work, my door is open.”

Not if you’re struggling. Not if you’re failing. Just—your work.

I walk out of the room feeling unsteady in a way that isn’t panic.

Outside, the hallway buzzes with noise again. Real life crashes back in. I pull out my phone, half-expecting a message from Chase.

Nothing.

I tell myself that’s fine.

At lunch, Ellen notices immediately.

“You look like you saw a ghost,” she says, sliding her tray onto the table.

“New professor,” I reply.

“That bad?”

“No,” I say quickly. “Actually… the opposite.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Opposite how?”

“He’s just—calm,” I say, searching for the word. “He talks to you like you’re an adult.”

Ellen snorts. “Low bar.”

“I know,” I admit. “But still.”

“Does Chase know?” she asks casually.

“About the professor?” I blink. “Why would he?”

Later, when I do tell Chase, it’s offhand.

“Got a new professor today,” I say while he scrolls on his phone, stretched out on my bed.

“Mm,” he hums.

“He seems… good.”

“Good how?”

“Just good at teaching.”

Chase glances up. “You always say that.”

“I don’t.”

“Relax,” he says. “I’m joking.”

I don’t laugh.

The next class, I notice how professor moves around the room, stopping beside students, asking questions that invite thought instead of cornering them. When someone answers incorrectly, he doesn’t correct them immediately. He asks another question. Leads them there.

When my turn comes, I answer without preface. No apology. No softening.

He nods. “Exactly.”

The word lands heavy.

After class, Amber brushes past me in the hall.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “Teachers notice girls like you.”

I stop. Turn. “What does that mean?”

She smiles. “You know.”

I don’t respond. I don’t need to. The comment slides off me in a way it wouldn’t have yesterday.

Because for the first time in a while, someone saw me without trying to reduce me to a problem.

Walking home, I feel conflicted. Grounded and unsettled at the same time. I don’t like how much safety I felt in that room. I don’t like that my shoulders dropped without permission.

I don’t like that it made me realize how tense I usually am.

At home, my mother asks about school.

“Fine,” I say.

She nods, distracted. “Good. Stay focused.”

I retreat to my room, sit at my desk, open my notebook. I write for an hour without checking my phone. Ideas come easily. My thoughts feel clear.

When I finally stop, I realize something unsettling.

I didn’t think about Chase once.

The realization doesn’t feel like betrayal.

It feels like oxygen.

And that scares me more than anything else.