Chapter 24 #2
The words finally start flowing after that, my fingers moving faster than my brain can second-guess them. I keep typing, writing something that I’m not sure even makes sense, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m writing.
“Alright, that’s all for today,” Professor Stephenson says, glancing around the room as students begin shutting their laptops. “Upload your assignments to the portal before next week’s workshop. Late submissions will make me deeply disappointed in you as writers.”
The end? Already? Where did the last sixty minutes go?
Around me, chairs scrape against the floor as everyone starts packing up, but I’m still staring at my screen. The document that started completely blank is now filled with fragmented thoughts and half-formed truths that have somehow turned into almost two pages.
“Are you going to leave?” Stevie asks, shoving her notebook in her bag, “or are you planning an extended stay in Professor Squat Machine’s classroom? Because if you’re staying, I’d like to apply for residency too.”
I look up so fast that my knee hits the underside of the desk. Professor Stephenson is still standing near the front while students filter around him toward the door.
“Miss Sanderson?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Could you stay back for a moment?”
Beside me, Stevie freezes mid-zip.
I swallow, worry immediately flooding my thoughts because I know exactly what he wants to talk to me about. The story I submitted last week.
My stomach knots immediately.
He hates it.
I knew it.
Every anxious thought I’ve spent years trying to outrun crashes into me all at once.
Wrong major. Not talented enough. Too emotional. Trying too hard.
I keep my expression even. “Sure.”
Stevie slings her bag over her shoulder, leaning down as she passes me. “I’ll be right outside,” she whispers dramatically. “Like... right outside.”
“Go.”
“Going,” she says, squeezing my arm before disappearing out the door.
I wait until most of the class clears out before forcing myself out of my seat and walking to the front with my laptop clutched against my chest like some kind of shield.
Professor Stephenson flips through a stack of papers before pulling one free.
My stomach drops the second I see my name at the top.
Hunniford Sanderson - Week Two Fiction Submission.
I inwardly cringe.
I wrote that story in two hours after staring at the blank page all night. Half of it came from the book I’ve been secretly trying to write for months before inevitably convincing myself that it’s terrible every single time I open the document again.
“This,” he says, holding up the pages, “is a wasted assignment.”
My stomach drops, and I take a sharp breath.
“Oh.” It’s all I can get out, but can you blame me?
He glances down at the paper again, shaking his head slightly, and humiliation floods through me so quickly I actually consider pretending to pass out just to escape this conversation.
“It’s not what I expected when I asked for a short story in a genre of your choosing,” he continues.
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“The premise itself is simple enough,” he says, leaning back against the edge of the desk. “A girl realizing the people around her weren’t honest with her. Not exactly reinventing fiction.”
My face burns.
“But the execution surprised me.”
Wait, what?
“It did?”
“Yes.” He taps the paper lightly. “Because you didn’t write the emotion like you were trying to impress someone. You wrote it from inside the character instead of explaining it from the outside.”
He flips through the pages before stopping at one paragraph.
“Here.”
I look down at the line he’s pointing to—the exact sentence I almost deleted six different times before turning it in.
“I feel her regret, her pain, and I lived it with her.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I suddenly regret every autobiographical thought I accidentally let bleed into that story.
“You have a strong voice, Miss Sanderson,” he says, meeting my eyes again through his glasses. “One people actually want to read.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, still unable to take a compliment, but answering the way Dr. Reeves always told me to. Eventually, these comments won’t feel as monumental, but right now, it feels good.
He nods. He hasn't moved from the edge of the desk, and he's still holding the paper as he looks at me through his thick black glasses.
“Is everything alright?” he asks.
No. Everything is absolutely not alright. Someone I respect just told me I’m good at the one thing I’ve secretly been terrified I’m terrible at.
Instead of saying any of that, I nod too quickly. “Yeah. I just...” I tighten my grip on my laptop. “The story is actually based on something bigger I’ve been working on.”
“A bigger project?”
“A book,” I admit quietly. “Or at least... I think it is.”
His brow lifts slightly behind his glasses. “You’re writing a novel?”
Heat crawls up my neck. Saying it out loud makes it feel embarrassingly real. “Kind of. I started it over summer break.”
“And you’ve just been sitting on it?”
The question makes me laugh nervously. “Mostly avoiding it, actually.”
Professor Stephenson studies me for a second before holding the paper against the desk. “Would you let me read it?”
My brain completely stalls.
“You want to read it?”
“Yes.” His tone is matter of fact, like this shouldn’t surprise me nearly as much as it does.
“You have instinct, Miss Sanderson. That’s harder to teach than technique.
” He gestures lightly with the pages. “Most young writers overwrite emotion because they’re afraid the reader won’t feel it otherwise.
You don’t. You trust the emotion enough to leave space around it. ”
My knees knock. Nobody has ever talked about me like this. Not any teachers, at least. Zach says stuff like this all the time, but he’s already told me I could burp the alphabet and he’d be impressed, so it loses its meaning.
“I’d be happy to look at it whenever you’re comfortable sharing,” he adds. “No pressure.”
“Oh.” I adjust my laptop awkwardly against my chest. “Okay. I’ll... let you know when it’s ready.”
A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Good. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you do with this week’s assignment too.”
“Thank you, Professor Stephenson.”
The next class starts filtering into the room behind me, conversations and backpacks filling the silence between us.
“I’ll see you next week, Miss Sanderson.”
“See you next week.”
I leave the classroom feeling strangely weightless, and Stevie appears beside me the second I step into the hallway like she’s been summoned.
Her arm loops dramatically through mine as she steers us toward the exit of the English building. She hums quietly under her breath for a few seconds before finally looking at me.
“You okay?” I ask, still too dazed to fully process what just happened.
“Me?” She presses her hand to her chest. “Honey, I’m thriving. I’m currently imagining the story you and Professor Biceps-and-Books are going to tell your future children. Professor/student romances are too overdone these days, so you might need to come up with something else.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, please. I saw everything.”
“You were standing outside the room. You couldn’t hear us.”
“I didn’t need to. I could feel the tension between you two from the other side of the door.” She fans herself. “It was hot, and I kind of wished he just cupped your cheeks and kissed you.”
“That’s a jump.”
“No. A jump would be him wrapping your legs around his waist and then pushing all his papers off the desk and taking you right then and there.”
“Stevie!”
“What?” she asks with a laugh. “I can’t even be angry with you about it because I’m happy at least one of us is living the dream.”
“It was not a romantic encounter. He just liked my assignment and offered to read the book I’m writing.”
She stops walking so abruptly that I almost yank her arm out of mine.
“He offered to read your book?”
I immediately regret saying it out loud. “I don’t actually have a book for him to read.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she steamrolls right over me.
“And for the record? That’s hotter than if he’d flirted with you.”
“Stevie.”
“I’m serious. A man believing in your artistic vision?” She sighs dreamily. “Disgustingly attractive.”
I shake my head, laughing under my breath as we continue outside.
“So, besides replaying your forbidden intellectual romance for the next six hours, do you have plans tonight?” she asks.
“No.”
“Good. Dining hall at seven. I need to tell you about this unhinged show I started watching. It’s called The Baseball Bachelor, have you heard of it?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Perfect. Then you’ll be just as shocked as I was when I tell you who showed up.” She checks the time on her phone and groans. “Crap. I have exactly five minutes to get across campus before my psych professor starts locking doors again.”
Before I can react, she kisses my cheek dramatically. “See you later, roomie.”
I watch her disappear down the sidewalk with a smile tugging at my mouth.
I never thought trusting new people would feel possible again. Not after everything with Jenni, and how badly I spiraled after trying to become whoever everyone else wanted me to be.
This feels different, though.
As much as I didn’t want to admit it at the time, Zach was right. I was so insecure that I attached to the first person who smiled at me. This time, the relationship has developed over the last three weeks, and it’s based on a mutual interest in books and TV. It’s simple, easy, and dare I say, fun.
I check my phone as I walk back to my dorm, surprised to see a message from Zach.
I open it, and as the attachment loads, I read the message underneath the photo.
Zach: Miss you.
My stomach tightens instantly.
Then the image loads, and I nearly walk straight into the bike rack.
“Holy shit,” I mutter under my breath, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
It’s a post-workout selfie, and Zach knows exactly what he’s doing.
His shirt is pushed up just enough to expose the sharp lines of his lower stomach, his damp skin glistening under the harsh gym lighting. Sweat disappears beneath the waistband of his shorts, and my eyes immediately focus on the thick vein trailing down his abdomen.
His hair is damp and messy, like he’s been dragging his hands through it between sets, and his lips are parted slightly from exertion, but it’s his eyes that completely ruin me.
Focused.
Heavy.
It doesn’t feel like he was looking at his phone when he took the picture. It feels like he was looking directly at me.
Heat blooms low in my stomach so fast it’s embarrassing.
This is my fault.
The second I started flirting back, I should’ve known where this would go. Zach Evans has never understood moderation a day in his life. Give that man an inch of encouragement, and suddenly he’s acting like he’s starring in a thirst trap compilation.
Damn it.
Honey: You’re insufferable.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Zach: You’re still looking at it, aren’t you?
Unfortunately, he knows me too well.
Honey: I hate you.
Zach: No, you don’t.
Another bubble appears before I can answer.
Zach: You’re thinking about me.
I glance back down at the photo and immediately regret it.
Honey: You’re so full of yourself.
Zach: Don’t worry, Honeycomb. I’m thinking about you too.