12. Lynn
— ? —
Lynn
I’ve made a tactical error.
The tactical error is as follows: I signed a contract with an unfairly attractive lycan professor, spent three days floating on a cloud of romantic possibility, and completely failed to account for the fact that I’m not the only person on this campus with functional eyes.
Professor Draven’s Victorian Literature class has transformed.
The front row, which was empty the first week of the semester, because no one voluntarily sits in the front row, is now packed. Not just occupied. Packed. Girls are practically sitting in each other’s laps to squeeze into those seats.
And they’re dressed like they’re going to a club.
I’m talking full makeup. Carefully curled hair. Tops cut so low they’re basically suggestions. One girl is wearing what I can only describe as a corset masquerading as academic attire.
I sink lower in my usual seat, third row, left side, strategically positioned to see Milo’s face while maintaining plausible deniability about why I chose this exact angle.
“Hi, Professor Draven!”
A perky blonde bounces up to his desk before class starts, holding a Tupperware container like it’s an offering to a god.
“I brought you these,” she says, batting her eyelashes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t achieve liftoff. “Chocolate chip cookies. Homemade. My grandmother’s recipe.”
“That’s very kind, Miss…?”
“Amber. Amber Whitley.” She leans forward, and her top does exactly what it was designed to do. “I’m in your Thursday section too. I’ve been so inspired by your lectures on the Gothic tradition.”
“I appreciate the thought.” Milo takes the container with a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be sure to share them with the department.”
Amber’s face falls slightly, but she recovers quickly. “Of course! Sharing is caring!”
She giggles. Actually giggles. Like we’re in a 1950s sitcom.
I grip my pen so hard it creaks.
“Miss Crowe?”
I look up. Milo is watching me with something dangerously close to amusement.
“Yes, Professor?”
“You’re going to break that pen.”
I look down. The pen is, in fact, bent at an alarming angle.
“I’m fine,” I say through my teeth. “Just really passionate about… Victorian literature.”
His lips twitch. The bastard is enjoying this.
The next twenty minutes are an exercise in torture.
A redhead named Tara presents Milo with an apple, an actual apple, like he’s a character in a children’s book about teacher appreciation. She’s wearing a skirt so short it probably violates multiple dress code provisions.
“For the best professor on campus,” she purrs.
A brunette whose name I don’t catch asks him to sign her copy of Jane Eyre. She’s brought her own pen, a fountain pen, I notice. Like she’s trying to match his aesthetic.
Twins from the back row approach with questions about “extra credit opportunities,” and I swear one of them winks at him.
And then there’s the phone situation.
“Have you seen the Instagram?” my seatmate whispers.
“The what?”
She shows me her phone. There’s an account called @ProfDravenAppreciation with over 2,000 followers. The bio reads: “Dedicated to Ashevale’s finest. Hot takes and hot pics.”
The most recent post is a candid shot of Milo walking across the quad, captioned: those ARMS in that sweater I’m DECEASED ????
The post has 847 likes.
“Someone got a picture of him at the coffee shop yesterday,” my seatmate continues, scrolling. “Look at this one - you can see his jawline in profile. People are losing their minds.”
I stare at the screen, something hot and ugly coiling in my stomach.
That’s my jawline.
Not, okay, not literally mine. But the jawline I’ve memorized. The jawline I’ve traced with my eyes a hundred times, the same one that was inches from my face in the library while he promised to earn my trust.
And now it’s being thirsted over by 2,000 strangers.
“ - and that’s why Dickens’ serialized format fundamentally altered the relationship between author and audience.”
Milo’s voice cuts through my spiral. I realize I’ve missed approximately fifteen minutes of lecture while doom-scrolling someone else’s phone.
“Any questions before we conclude?”
Amber’s hand shoots up. “Professor Draven, I was wondering if you’d be available for office hours this afternoon? I’m having some trouble with the symbolism in Great Expectations, and I thought maybe you could… explain it to me. One on one.”
The way she says “one on one” should be illegal.
“My office hours are posted on the syllabus,” Milo says smoothly. “Though I’d recommend the writing center for supplementary support. They have excellent tutors.”
Ha.
Amber deflates. I shouldn’t feel as satisfied as I do.
“That’s all for today.” Milo starts organizing his notes. “Remember, your close reading responses are due Friday. Miss Crowe, could I speak with you for a moment?”
Every head in the room swivels toward me.
The looks I receive as I gather my things range from curious to openly hostile. Amber, in particular, glares at me like I’ve personally offended her grandmother and her grandmother’s cookie recipe.
I make my way to the front of the room, hyper-aware of the eyes on my back.
“You wanted to see me, Professor?”
“Close the door.”
The words send a shiver down my spine. I cross to the door, shut it firmly, and hear the lock click into place.
When I turn around, Milo is already moving.
He crosses the distance between us in three strides, pulls me in by the waist, and buries his face in my neck.
“Finally.”
The word is muffled against my skin, his breath hot, his arms wrapped around me so tight it’s almost hard to breathe.
“Milo-”
“Being around you drives me insane.” His lips brush the sensitive spot below my ear, and my knees actually wobble. “Giving a class is torturous. You’re right there, and I can’t touch you, can’t even look at you the way I want to because everyone would see-”
“You seemed pretty comfortable being looked at by everyone else,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
He goes still.
Then he pulls back just enough to see my face, and something knowing enters his expression.
“Are you jealous, darling?”
“No.”
“No?”
He leans a hip against my cart, entirely too pleased with himself, close enough that I can smell pine and something warmer underneath.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“So the death grip on your pen was about Victorian literature.”
“I told you. I’m passionate about the subject.”
“Mm-hmm.” He’s smiling now, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. “And the way you were looking at Amber Whitley when she brought me cookies?”
“I wasn’t looking at her any particular way.”
“You looked like you wanted to set her on fire with your mind.”
“That’s my normal expression.”
“Lindsay.” He cups my face in his hands, tilting it up so I have nowhere to look but his eyes. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I’m just choosing not to engage with your baseless accusations.”
“Tell me.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and I forget how to form sentences. “Tell me you’re jealous.”
“I’m not-”
He pulls me flush against him.
And I feel exactly how hard he is.
My brain short-circuits. There’s nothing but the solid heat of him pressed against my stomach, the physical evidence of his want, the way his eyes have gone dark and hungry.
“That’s how I’ve been,” he says roughly. “Every time you’re around me. Every class, every conversation, every moment you’re in my line of sight. You, Lindsay. You.”
“But they - all those girls-”
“Are faceless.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only truth that matters. “Filler people. Background noise. I couldn’t pick a single one of them out of a lineup.”
“Amber brought you homemade cookies.”
“I don’t know what she looks like.”
“She was standing right in front of you!”
“You were in the third row.” His forehead drops to mine.
“You were wearing that blue sweater that makes your eyes look like the ocean. You were chewing on your pen cap during the section on unreliable narrators. You crossed and uncrossed your legs approximately eleven times during the lecture, and every single time, I lost my train of thought.” His voice drops.
“I couldn’t see anyone else because I couldn’t stop seeing you. ”
The jealousy, that hot, ugly thing that’s been coiling in my chest all morning, starts to unspool.
“Oh,” I whisper.
“Oh,” he agrees. “So yes, darling. Be jealous if you want. But know that you have no reason to be. There’s only you. There’s only ever been you.”
I want to kiss him.
I want to kiss him so badly I can taste it.
But we’re in a classroom with a door that locks from the inside, and there’s a whole lecture hall of students who just watched me get singled out, and someone is definitely going to start asking questions.
“I can’t skip more class,” I say reluctantly.
“I know.”
“And you have another section in an hour.”
“I know.” His thumb traces my jaw anyway.
“So we should-”
“See you tonight.” He presses a kiss to my forehead, chaste, tender, completely at odds with the evidence of his arousal still pressed against me. “At the library.”
“At the library,” I echo.
He releases me slowly, like it causes him physical pain. I unlock the door and slip out before I can do something inadvisable, like climb him in front of the early arrivals for his next class.
The hallway is mercifully empty.
I make it approximately fifteen feet before I have to stop and lean against the wall, pressing my hand to my chest like I can slow my racing heart through sheer force of will.
Tonight.
The library.
Him.
I’m going to combust before then. Spontaneously ignite from wanting and they’ll find nothing but ashes and unfulfilled desire.
But somehow, I make it through the rest of the day.
By the time my shift starts that night, the library is empty.
It isn’t closed, we don’t close for another two hours, but it’s empty. The last patron left a while ago, and the evening staff won’t arrive for a while yet.
It’s just me.
And then it’s me and Milo.
He appears between the stacks like a shadow taking form, all dark hair and sharp angles and eyes that find me instantly.