The Professor

He was forbidden. My teacher. My first desire.

Now, a decade later, I was flying back home to Willowridge—dressed to sin, carrying a reunion invite and a manuscript that read like a confession.

I was nervous. Not the kind of sweet jitters that came with meeting readers at a signing—this was worse. Sharper. A clawing anxiety that scraped at the edges of my mind.

Because this wasn’t just any event, this was my high school—the place where it all began. The place where I learned how easily a heart could break.

I could almost see myself at seventeen again: quiet, invisible, the kind of girl who melted into the back row of every classroom. I wasn’t the social type. I didn’t go to parties, didn’t flirt in hallways, didn’t wear the kind of clothes that drew attention.

The popular girls barely noticed me, and the boys? They didn’t see me at all.

So I hid in books—always a stack in my arms, always another story waiting to swallow me up. Those pages became my escape, my refuge when the world outside felt too sharp. I studied hard too, almost obsessively, because it was the one thing I knew I was good at.

And yet, retracing these halls in my memory, I couldn’t help the tug of nostalgia—the slam of locker doors plastered with posters, the school trips where everyone sang loudly on the bus. I never joined in, but I always listened.

Even from the edges, those moments belonged to me in their own quiet way.

It hadn’t all been pain. There was warmth too: teachers who believed in me, afternoons spent scribbling in notebooks, the rush of discovering words that felt like they belonged only to me. And though I hadn’t realized it back then, every lonely corner, every page turned, every bittersweet memory was shaping me into who I’d become.

I wasn’t the shy wallflower anymore. I had a name now.

People spoke as if I’d built an unstoppable empire, but some days it still felt like I’d bluffed my way here and was waiting to be found out.

Being labeled a “successful alumna” was surreal enough. Sandra made it even more so by insisting I sign books right alongside the nostalgia.

My agent—and my best friend—was the one who kept my chaotic life on track. Short, curvy, and loud, with fiery red hair to match, she was the reason I could churn out book after book while drinking my body weight in coffee.

She also had a knack for forcing me out of my comfort zone—like today.

“Are you sure this dress is a good idea?” I asked as I stepped off the helicopter, the blades whipping the cool autumn air around me.

The wind tugged at my hair and carried with it the faint scent of damp leaves and woodsmoke, as if the season itself wanted to remind me where I was.

I tugged nervously at the hem of the tight red midi dress Sandra had chosen. It hugged every curve, the neckline so deep I could practically see my own heartbeat.

My skin prickled in the chilly breeze, goosebumps rising despite the heat pooling low in my stomach from pure anxiety.

Sandra stepped out behind me, her heels striking the stone with confidence I could never fake. She carried the faint sweetness of vanilla and expensive perfume, sharp against the earthy bite of autumn air.

One look at her told me I didn’t have a choice in this.

“Would you rather show up in that gray sweatpants set with the holes in the knees?”

“Sarah, this dress is perfect. You’re just freaking out because it’s not a sweatshirt. It’s one night. Tomorrow, you can go back to hiding behind your laptop and writing about intense sex that you don’t actually have anymore.”

“Hey!”

“Am I wrong?”

I sighed. “Maybe.”

“That’s my girl.” Sliding her sunglasses on, she strode toward the waiting limo like she owned the place.

We climbed inside, and I frowned. “Is all this really necessary?”

Sandra shrugged and reached for the glass of champagne waiting for us. “Blame your old principal. Apparently, this is how they’re treating their star guest.”

“It’s three p.m.”

“Time is an illusion,” she shot back, waving the glass.

The drive was short—thirty minutes—and as we pulled up to the old mansion that housed my high school, memories hit hard.

High school had never been about cliques or crowds for me. What I lacked in friends, I found in teachers. They noticed me in ways my classmates never did—encouraging me when I raised my hand, smiling at my essays, nudging me into competitions I would’ve been too shy to enter alone.

Those moments mattered. They made me feel like I had worth, like someone saw me.

Somewhere between essays and novels, I began to dream—not of popularity, not of being noticed, but of writing my own words one day.

The building looked almost the same: a stone porch, a brick facade, and dark wooden beams.

But the campus had grown—an Olympic-size pool now stood where a dusty field once was, along with sleek dorms and sparkling courts.

I stepped out, my breath catching. For a moment, I was seventeen again, arms full of books, dreaming of a life far beyond these walls.

Sandra joined me with our bags, but before I could speak, a familiar voice boomed across the courtyard.

“The wonderful and talented Sarah Levick!”

I turned, and my heart soared. Principal Chad Stanfort. He looked older now, his once-brown hair completely gray, but his warm smile and sparkling blue eyes were just as I remembered.

“Principal Stanfort!” I called, letting him pull me into a fatherly hug.

He still smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and mint—a scent that dropped me right back into late afternoons spent in his office, talking poetry competitions and essay prizes.

“I’m so proud of you, Sarah,” he said warmly. “I always knew you’d do something amazing with that sharp mind of yours.”

I smiled, feeling a rare blush creep up my neck. “Thank you. It’s so good to be back.”

“And who is this lovely young lady?” His gaze shifted to my best friend.

“This is my agent, Sandra.”

She smiled, then flushed when he took her hand and kissed it gently. “A pleasure to meet you,” he said, with old-fashioned charm.

Sandra let out a small sigh, her cheeks pink. I raised an eyebrow but filed it away for later teasing.

Inside, the familiar halls stirred something deep—laughter echoing faintly in my ears, teenage insecurities prickling under my skin.

Sometimes I thought about that shy, bookish girl I used to be—the one who had kept her head down, living more in stories than in the real world. If she could see me now, walking these halls as a published author, she wouldn’t believe it.

I hadn’t gotten here by chance. It had taken courage—and the right influence at the right moment. Someone had lit a spark in me when I needed it most, and that carried me farther than I ever dreamed.

I liked to think—hoped—that she’d have been proud.

And then, one memory stood out above the rest. A face. Vivid. Unshakable. One I hadn’t seen in years.

I froze midstep.

“Sarah?” Sandra touched my arm.

But I couldn’t speak.

Because deep down, I knew.

“Come on, I’ll give you a tour before the party starts. We still have time,” Principal Stanfort said, leading us toward his office.

He carried our bags, pointing out renovations with pride. This was clearly his home as much as his workplace. Since his wife—the school’s coprincipal—had died three years ago, he’d been carrying it all alone.

I understood that kind of aloneness more than most people I knew. My mother had died the day I was born, and my father’s heart gave out when I was barely old enough to stand on my own. Sandra was the only family I had.

We left our bags and headed to the main hall. It had always been stunning, but after the renovation, it felt almost magical—vaulted ceilings, glass walls, and natural light pouring into the space.

A stage stood at one end, and small round tables dotted the room, laden with trays of food and drinks. Servers made last-minute adjustments as familiar staff moved through the space.

I grabbed a canapé, my fingers brushing my dress instinctively, as if I were still the gawky girl in baggy sweaters and thick glasses.

“How does it feel to be back in the glory years?” Sandra teased.

“Glory years? Hardly.” I laughed. “I was the school nerd.”

“My success was with the teachers, not the students.” I shrugged, biting into the tart. “And this”—I waved a hand over my curves—“didn’t exist ten years ago.”

Sandra burst out laughing. I gave a playful shake of my hips, earning another round.

The laughter died the moment I saw him.

He walked in with the same quiet confidence, commanding attention without trying. My pulse pounded in my ears as adrenaline surged through me, locking my legs and stealing my breath.

William Stanfort.

Time had only made him more striking. His tall frame, those broad shoulders, the soft curls of his brown hair—it was all etched into my memory. His narrow green eyes were still intense, his strong jawline lending him an air of quiet authority.

And that smile… It undid me. It was still the most perfect I’d ever seen.

All the emotions I’d locked away came rushing back with the force of a tidal wave. My hands trembled around the tart.

“Wait… is that him?” Sandra’s voice jolted me.

“No. Who?” I stammered, trying to deflect. Badly.

“Oh my God, Sarah. That’s him, isn’t it? He looks exactly like you described. Your readers would eat him alive.”

“Stop, Sandra,” I hissed, panic rising in my chest. “Don’t ruin this—”

But then he looked at me.

Our eyes locked.

The room disappeared.

A smile curved my lips without permission. His smile lingered, warm as sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

And then—he started walking toward me.

He moved with purpose, focus unbroken, as though no one else existed. My heart felt ready to burst.

I tried to steady myself, but the ground beneath me seemed to shift with every step he took.

“Sarah,” he said, his voice richer, deeper than I remembered.

My name fell from his lips with a familiarity that burned—as if it had always belonged to him, not me.

And just like that, every forbidden feeling I thought I’d buried between secret pages clawed its way back to the surface.