FOUR.

MICHAEL

I have absolutely no business being where I am right now, but the emotional part of me won the argument.

It has always been like that when it comes to the pretty professor with the red hair.

She’s the reason I’m not in my department.

She’s the reason that even though my major is Computer Engineering with a minor in Economics…

I am sitting in a literature class.

I felt her before I saw her.

She has that effect on me—she becomes the only thing in the world that exists.

The sparkle in her emerald eyes when she talks about something she loves.

The way she bites her lip when she’s excited.

The brush of red hair across her cheek before she tucks it behind her ear.

How every dress clings perfectly to her body.

I see everything.

I notice everything.

I don’t know what she’s discussing with the other professor, but I don’t like the way she’s smiling at him.

I want that smile for myself.

I want to be the reason she glows like that.

The guy is practically blushing and tripping over his own words.

I don’t blame him.

She’s perfect.

When she walks down the hall, my eyes follow her like a magnet.

And when her gaze meets mine, I see it—the flicker of recognition, the rush of color to her cheeks.

She remembers the kiss.

It affected her.

She felt something.

“Professor Townsend.”

She stiffens. Then looks at me and glares.

“Hello.”

She walks away fast—almost running.

Cute.

I want to eat her up.

---

RED

Forget everything I said.

Staying away from him is going to be impossible.

Tell me why this ridiculously beautiful man is sitting in the front row of my class again.

White shirt, black pants, casually dressed yet somehow looking like sin wrapped in silk.

He sits like he owns the room.

Tall, regal, covered in ink that disappears beneath his sleeves.

A sight.

“So, the poem is…”

I glance at him—again—and he’s staring right back at me.

I snap my eyes away.

“The poem is written by Robert Browning.”

Another glance.

He smirks, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

“Professor Townsend, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I squeak.

I clear my throat.

“Yes, Adams.”

“That can’t be right, Professor.”

His voice. Crisp. Dark. British.

I freeze. Slowly look at him.

“Yes, I am fine,” I manage.

My voice is miraculously steady.

“It doesn’t look like it,” he says, leaning back with a small smile.

“Your face is as red as your hair.”

He’s teasing me.

Openly.

Boldly.

“I’m fine. It’s just… hot.”

He hums, clearly amused.

The rest of the class is pure torture.

Fire-in-my-veins torture.

I can barely breathe.

I practically ran out the moment the class ended.

---

I woke up today affirming—manifesting—that Michael would NOT be in my next class.

Guess who is sitting, again, front row, smiling at me?

Good morning to me.

“Good morning, students.”

“Good morning, Professor,” he replies smoothly.

That’s it.

He has to go.

“Excuse me, class. Michael, come with me to my office.”

He rises slowly, towering over me, eyes glimmering with mischief.

“Yes, Professor.”

He takes my book and bag from my hand.

“Ladies first.”

The way his voice washes over me should be illegal.

I walk quickly, refusing to look back—because if I do, I’ll melt.

“Come in,” I say as I enter my office.

“Close the door behind you.”

His presence fills the room instantly.

The warm, woodsy scent of him surrounds me.

It’s too much.

“You have beautiful eyes.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

My whole soul leaves my body.

I slap a hand over my mouth.

He chuckles.

“Thank you for the compliment, Professor Townsend.”

I am losing my mind.

“Sit,” I croak, escaping behind my desk.

He sits.

He watches me.

“What’s your major?”

I try to sound stern.

“Computer Engineering.”

My heart drops.

He doesn’t belong in my class.

“And your minor?”

“Economics.”

I slam my hand on the table, leaning forward.

“Then what are you doing in literature?”

He leans in too, picking up a strand of my hair lying on the table.

“You have beautiful hair.”

I freeze.

His gaze is hot, hungry.

“I’m not playing with you,” he says quietly.

I pull back fast, eyes darting everywhere but to him.

“You can’t be in my class.”

“Why? Are you opposed to a diligent student gaining more knowledge?”

Little brat.

“You have to register for the course first.”

“Already did.”

“What? How?”

He must be lying.

“I’m a registered student.”

I call Student Affairs.

“Send me the list of registered students for my class.”

I hang up and glare at him.

“I’m giving you a chance to come clean.”

He says nothing.

My screen lights up.

I open the document.

“What is your surname?”

“Dew. Michael Dew.”

My hand freezes.

I look up slowly.

Of course.

Of course he’s a Dew.

A billionaire.

A menace.

And of course… his name is right there on the list.

“It turns out you weren’t lying.”

“I could’ve told you that,” he says lightly.

“But you wouldn’t have believed me.”

I want to strangle him.

He grins.

“You can leave.”

He stands.

Then leans over my desk, towering above me again.

“You look cute when you’re upset. Like a little kitten.”

I want to kiss him.

Desperately.

He glances at my lips.

I feel the air shift.

“You should be careful, Professor,” he murmurs, voice like velvet.

“A little kitten like you can be easily eaten.”

Then he walks out.

I exhale shakily, gather my things, and flee to my next class.

He isn’t there.

Good.

Good riddance.

…Liar.

The class feels hollow.

I keep glancing at the door.

Not because of him.

Definitely not because of

him.

---

On my way back to my office, I text Alice.

Me: Let’s have a night out today.

Alice: I’m down. I’m off today.

Me: The club.

Alice: Ouu, someone is sex-starved.

Me: Shut up.

Maybe if I get laid, I’ll get Michael Dew out of my system.

Maybe.