Chapter 1

Ariel’s POV

The rain lashed against Professor Grayson’s window. I hadn’t planned on being here, in his private space. The rain pounding the roof filled the awkward silence as I stood by his kitchen counter, my paint stained fingers fidgeting like the hem of my equally stained t-shirt.

“I’m sorry about this,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I should have checked the weather forecast before agreeing to stay late.”

He moved in his kitchen as gracefully as he did in front of his students. He was the youngest professor in the art history department at twenty eight, but he carried himself with the gravity of a much older man.

“There’s nothing to apologise for Ariel,” he replied, his back to me as he filled a kettle with water. “The forecast didn’t call for a storm of this magnitude. I’m sure the weather caught even the meteorologist by surprise.”

I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. I let my eyes wander around his apartment. It was an open concept loft, the kind artists in movies always seemed to have… high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and large windows. One section was clearly designated as his studio, with canvases turned to face the wall as if he couldn’t bear to look at them.

“Do you take honey in your tea?” His question pulled me from my thoughts.

“Yes, please. Just a little.”

This was like a dream come true for me, I hadn’t expected to find myself here tonight. All I’d wanted was to impress him with my dedication to his advanced painting techniques seminar. But when he mentioned staying after class to help me work on my brush control, I jumped at the opportunity. Three hours later, we had been so absorbed in the intricate details of my canvas that neither of us had noticed the sky darkening, until the building shuddered with the first thunderclap.

By then it had been too late. The university studio we had been working in had been flooded slightly at the entrance, and Professor Grayson suggested we continue at his apartment, which was just a short walk across campus. As a girl who’s had a huge crush on him since I stepped into his class, I couldn't say no to such an offer.

Now, standing in his kitchen, seeing him treat tea preparation with the same meticulousness as a Rembrandt analysis, I was suddenly unsure.

“Here.” He handed me a steaming mug branded with the university logo. Our fingers brushed, and I forced myself out to react.

“Thank you.” I cradled the warm ceramic between my paint stained hands.

A closer thunder crack made me flinch, and the lights flickered.

“Are you afraid of storms? I noticed you’ve been flinching ever since it started.” He asked, leaning against the counter opposite me.

I nodded reluctantly, then let out a nervous laugh. “Funny thing is, I used to love storms, I’d sit by the window watching the rain pour. But now it's just a painful reminder of how my dad died.”

I hadn’t meant to share something so personal. I don’t know why I did.

“I understand,” he said simply. And somehow, I knew he did. Loss recognized loss.

“You’ve made remarkable progress in class.” he said after a while.

The compliment made me flush. “I’ve been studying your… I mean, I’ve been working hard to understand how light affects colors.”

“It’s refreshing to teach someone who’s genuinely passionate about the craft.”

“Art is the only thing that makes sense to me sometimes,” I admitted. “When I'm painting, it's like everything else ceases to exist.”

He nodded. “That’s how it should be. Art is the purest conversation between the artist and the world.”

A hard gust of wind shook the windows, making me jump. Lightning flashed, turning the room white for a moment, then back to dim light.”

“Come,” he said, dropping down his mug. “Let me show you something that might distract you from the storm.”

I followed him to the studio corner of his loft, where he knelt before a large flat file cabinet. He pulled open a drawer and carefully took out a portfolio.

“These are some of my earlier works,” he explained, gesturing for me to sit on a nearby stool. “From before I started teaching.”

I was speechless. Everyone in the art department knew that Professor Grayson had been an acclaimed artist but one day decided to become a Professor. He never spoke of his work and certainly never showed it. Not to students, or even his fellow Professors.

I wonder if he showed these to Professor Julia.

“I’d love to see them,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He placed the portfolio on a clean section of his work table and opened it. Inside were drawings and small paintings, impeccably preserved. As he turned the pages, revealing one masterpiece after another, I found myself leaning closer.

“These are incredible,” I gushed. “The emotions in this lady’s eyes… it's like she’s about to speak.”

“Thank you. It’s been a long time since anyone has seen these.” Though his expression was unchanged, something flickered in his eyes.

“Why did you stop?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, and I immediately wished I could take it back. “I’m sorry, that’s personal, I shouldn’t have…”

It’s alright,” he interrupted gently. “It’s a fair question.” He paused, as if considering how much to share. “Let’s just say, I lost my muse. I couldn't find meaning in it anymore.”

The sadness in his voice made my chest tighten. “Do you think you’ll ever start painting again?”

He closed the portfolio before answering. “I don’t know. Do you think you’ll ever learn to love the storm again?”

That was a question I didn’t have the answers to, so I remained silent. I wanted to tell him that I could still see the artist in him, in the way he guided his student’s hand to correct a brushstroke. The words caught in my throat. Wouldn’t that be too intimate for a student to say to her professor?

“The storm seems to be clearing.” Professor Grayson observed, rising from his seat. “But I think it would be best if you stayed here tonight. The roads will be flooded, and it's not too safe to walk back to the dorms in this weather.”

The thought of spending the night in Professor Grayson’s apartment made my stomach flutter in excitement. “I don’t want to impose…”

“You’re not imposing,” he assured me. “I have a spare room. It’s small, just an office with a futon, but it's comfortable enough for one night.”

I nodded, relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

“A little,” I admitted.

“I’ll prepare something for us to eat.”

“You’re gonna cook?” I didn’t realize when the question slipped out of my mouth.

“You sound surprised,” He chuckled. “Cooking might be the only art I haven’t completely abandoned.”

I followed him to the kitchen, and watched as he gathered ingredients from the refrigerator.

“Can I help?” I offered.

He glanced up at me. “Yes. You can dice these tomatoes while I handle the onions and garlic.”

He handed me a knife and cutting board, and we worked side by side in silence. It all seemed too incredible to be true… Professor Grayson, the brilliant, reserved art historian, was making pasta sauce with me in his kitchen while the storm raged outside. I wished I could replay this moment over and over again.

“Have you always been interested in art?” He asked as he expertly minced garlic.

The question surprised me. In class, he rarely engaged in personal conversation. “Yes, for as long as I can remember. It’s something my dad and I shared a passion for.” I smiled at the memory. “He used to say, when kids my age requested toys, I was begging for colored pencils and sketchbooks. I didn’t really connect with other people, especially kids my age, so I became quite secluded.”

“And yet you’re a cheerleader,” he observed, but not in a mean way. “That’s an unusual combination.”

I felt my cheeks warm slightly. “People always seem surprised by that.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest…”

“No, it's okay,” I interrupted. “I get that a lot. The truth is, cheerleading is just another form of expression for me. It’s a different kind of art.” I hesitated, then added, “Plus, it makes my mom happy to see me doing something she considers fun. She worries that I spend too much time alone with drawing.”

Professor Grayson nodded thoughtfully. “It’s good to have multiple outlets. Art can be isolating sometimes.”

“Is that why you became a professor?” I asked. “To be less isolated?”

He considered this as he stirred the sauce. “Partly. Teaching forces me to engage with the world in ways I’d normally avoid.” He gave a lopsided, self-deprecating smile. “Though my colleagues would probably tell you I still don’t engage enough.”

‘Professor Julia seems to think you engage just fine.’ I thought to myself.

“The sauce is almost ready. Would you mind setting the table? Plates are in the cabinet.”

“Sure.” I retrieved two plates and set them on the small dining table. By the time I’d found silverware and napkins Professor Grayson was serving pasta into a large bowl.

“Mmm, smells nice.” I commented.

“It’s nothing fancy,” he said as we sat down. “Just spaghetti with fresh tomato sauce.”

“Whatever, it smells amazing, and I’m sure it’s gonna taste the same.” I assured him, suddenly aware of how hungry I was. The first bite confirmed it… the sauce was rich and flavorful.

“This is really good,” I said after swallowing. “You weren’t kidding about not abandoning cooking.”

“It’s difficult to abandon eating,” he replied. “And I’ve never been one for takeout every night.”

I smiled, feeling more relaxed. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering if he ever cooked for professor Julia.

We ate in silence for a while. As we finished, I gathered our plates and insisted on washing up, it was the least I could do in return for his hospitality.

“You don’t have to do that.” He protested.

“I want to,” I replied firmly. “You cooked, I’ll clean. It’s only fair.”

He caved with a nod and leaned against the counter, watching me work. I tried not to feel self conscious under his gaze.

“What made you take my seminar?” He asked suddenly. “It’s not required for your degree.”

I kept my eyes on the plate I was washing. “I’ve seen what our students produce by the end of the semester. They’re improved by the experience of working with you.”

Of course I wasn’t going to say that I’ve been drawn to him from the moment I laid eyes on him.

When I finally looked up, his expression was unreadable. “That’s… very kind of you to say.”

“It’s just the truth,” I replied, suddenly feeling bold. “You’re a good teacher, Professor Grayson.”

“Luther,” he corrected. “If you’re going to spend the night in my apartment, I think you can call me Luther outside of class.”

“Luther.” I repeated, testing the feel of his name on my lips. It felt foreign.

The sudden, massive crack of thunder directly overhead made me drop the fork I was washing. It clattered loudly in the sink as the lights flickered once, twice, and then went out completely.

I gasped, swallowed by darkness. The storm, which had seemed to be moving away, had apparently slammed back with more fury.

“Don’t move,” Luther’s voice came from nearby. “There are candles in a drawer. Let me find them.”

I heard him moving around, the sound of drawers opening and closing. With my heart pounding, the irrational fear of darkness only compounded the dread the storm ready instilled.

“Here we go,” Luther said after what felt like eternity. He lit several more candles, placing them around the apartment.

“Are you alright?”he asked, returning to where I stood frozen by the sink.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Another burst of thunder made me flinch violently.

“Ariel,” Luther said gently. He set the candle he was holding on the counter and touched my shoulders lightly. “It’s just a storm. It can’t hurt you here.”

“I know it’s ridiculous,” I said, embarrassed by my reaction. “I’m nineteen years old. I shouldn’t be afraid of thunder. This is so embarrassing.”

“Fear isn’t over governed by logic,” he replied. “And it's not ridiculous”

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the apartment far more brightly than the candles, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Without thinking, I stepped forward and found myself pressed against Luther’s chest, my hands clutching his shirt.

For a moment, he went still. Then slowly, his arms came around me in a hesitant embrace.

“You’re safe.” He murmured.

We stood like that, my heartbeat gradually slowing to match the steady rhythm of his. I became intensely aware of the warmth of his body, the scent of his cologne, and the gentle pressure of his hand on my back.

I should step away, I thought. I shouldn’t be crossing a line I wasn’t supposed to cross. But as we stood in the candle lit darkness, with the storm raging outside, it was hard to remember why that line existed in the first place.

I raised my head, staring up at him. Slowly, I stood on my toes, silently praying he wouldn't push me away. I placed a soft kiss on his lips. As soon as our lips touched, I suddenly realized what I was doing and pulled back.

“I’m sorry, I don’t usually… I mean, I’m not usually…”

“Stop talking.”

Suddenly, he grabbed my waist and pulled me closer. He captured my lips in his, kissing me like he’s been dying to do that for a long time.

The kiss got heated, and within a few minutes, my clothes had been discarded. He lifted me, and I felt weightless in his arms, as he carried me to his bedroom. He laid me on the bed and stripped off his clothes.

He began to explore me with a consuming hunger, as if he couldn’t get enough. He kissed every inch of my skin, taking me until we were both completely drained.

~~~

His deep thrusts made my eyes heavy, the sensation overwhelming. My hands gripped his bare shoulders as I closed my eyes tightly.

~~~

He withdrew, his release warm against my skin, then he traced a finger along my arm.

“Beautiful.” He murmured.