Unprofessional - I shouldn't want my own student

Adrian Hale had always believed that predictability was a kind of peace. A lecture hall at eight in the morning, the familiar echo of shoes on polished floors, students half-asleep and half-engaged—these were the patterns that made his life quiet, clean, and manageable. No surprises. No disturbances. Nothing that required him to feel more than he intended.

And then she enrolled.

Eden Marlowe walked into his classroom. It was the second week of the semester—early, as she always did—and Adrian felt the shift in the air before he even saw her. It was subtle, like the faintest change in barometric pressure before a storm, but he felt it all the same. He always did.

She wasn’t loud or dramatic. In fact, she moved with a deliberate calmness, her bag slung over her shoulder, her notebook in hand, her gaze sweeping the room before landing right where he stood.

That look—steady, unhesitant, quietly bold—hit him with the force of a confession he didn’t want to hear.

He forced himself to break eye contact first. He always did.

“Miss Marlowe,” he said when she settled into the front row, his tone clipped, cool, professional to a fault. “Early again.”

Her lips curved, just a hint. “I like the quiet before everyone comes in. I can think better.”

“Good habit,” he replied, adjusting his stack of papers with more precision than necessary. “Focus is valuable.”

“You make it easy,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He kept his attention on the lectern, on the textbook, on anything other than the dangerous warmth in her voice.

When the rest of the students filtered in, Adrian began his lecture. His voice was steady, authoritative, perfectly composed. But underneath that thin layer of veneer, he felt the gravitational pull of her attention. She listened differently from the others—not with passive absorption but with sharp, piercing interest that made him feel as though he were the one being studied.

Every time he posed a question, her hand lifted.

Every time he pushed the class toward a deeper interpretation, her eyes lit like she was daring him to go further.

Every time he looked away from her, he felt the tension tighten around his ribs like a band.

It wasn’t flirtation. Not outwardly.

But something in her posture, her confidence, her quiet persistence—it threaded its way into his awareness and refused to leave.

Halfway through, he made the mistake of asking a question far too abstract for the room. A question about intent. About desire versus action. About the ways we justify what we choose.

No one raised a hand.

Except Eden.

Of course.

When he called on her, she didn’t glance at her notes. She didn’t hesitate. Her answer was composed, incisive, and far more intimate than he could have anticipated.

“It’s easy to claim restraint,” she said, her voice low, calm, unflinching. “But harder to admit when you want something you shouldn’t.”

His pulse stumbled.

She held his gaze the entire time she spoke, unblinking, unreadable, and impossibly sure of herself—for a student whose words should have been academic, not personal.

He swallowed, the lecture slipping a beat. “Thank you, Miss Marlowe,” he managed, but his voice was rough at the edges.

When class ended, he dismissed them quickly. Too quickly. He needed distance—space to breathe, to restore the careful barriers she kept cracking with nothing more than her presence.

Students gathered their things, filed out of the room in clusters, chatter rising in the background. But Eden didn’t move. She lingered at her desk, fingers lightly tracing the edge of her notebook before she approached him.

“Professor Hale?”

He forced himself not to react, not to let the tension in his shoulders betray him. “Miss Marlowe,” he said without looking up. “Is there something you need?”

She hesitated, only for a moment. “I wanted to confirm about office hours. You said I could come by.”

His jaw tightened. “Yes. If you need clarification on the material.”

Her smile was subtle, but it felt like a hand closing around his chest. “I do. I want to understand everything you’re teaching.”

He searched her expression for mockery, for intention—anything that would allow him to dismiss the pull between them as his imagination.

But her eyes were steady. Genuine. Adult.

Dangerous.

“Three o’clock,” he said at last, each word slow, controlled. “Tomorrow.”

“Three,” she echoed, her voice softer this time. Then she added, “I’m looking forward to it.”

She turned and walked away, her scent lingering in the air, her presence fading far too slowly.

Adrian sat at his desk long after the door closed behind her, his palms pressed to the cool wood, his breath uneven.

He had been untouched by temptation for years. Untouched by anything real.