My Hot Professor

The classroom felt smaller than I remembered.

Or maybe it was just him.

Professor Rynne stood at the front of the room, sleeves rolled up, glasses low on his nose, writing on the board like the chalk belonged only to him.

I tried to act normal — quiet, invisible, focused — but my pulse had other plans.

He turned suddenly, eyes sweeping across the room, landing on me for a single second too long.

A second that said he remembered me.

A second that said he shouldn’t.

“Miss Hale,” he said, voice smooth but too careful, “since you’ve returned to the department, I trust you’ll contribute as sharply as you used to.”

Used to.

My stomach flipped.

Everyone looked at me, but his gaze was the only one that mattered, the only one that felt like pressure on my skin.

“Yes, Professor,” I managed, though my voice betrayed me.

His lips twitched — not a smile, just an acknowledgment.

Maybe a warning.

Maybe he was trying to keep things professional.

Maybe he knew he was failing.

He turned back to the board, but I caught it — the way he paused before writing again, just long enough to tell me I wasn’t imagining this.

Just long enough to tell me he felt it too.

Class ended faster than I expected.

Or maybe I just spent the entire hour pretending not to stare at the back of his shoulders.

Students gathered their things and spilled out into the hallway in clusters of chatter and footsteps.

I packed slowly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, hoping he would.

When I finally stood, he was already wiping the board clean, back turned, posture too tense for someone who claimed not to care.

I should’ve left.

I didn’t.

“Miss Hale,” he said, not looking up, but somehow knowing I was still there.

My heart thudded.

“Yes?”

He put the eraser down and turned toward me.

His eyes were calmer now… but only on the surface.

“You didn’t have to stay behind,” he said softly. “Unless you had a question about the material.”

I swallowed.

“No. I just— I wanted to say hello properly. It’s been… years.”

“Yes,” he murmured, hands sliding into his pockets, a gesture that looked too composed. Too practiced. “It has.”

There was a pause.

A long one.

A dangerous one.

His gaze flicked to the door to make sure everyone was gone, then back to me — heavier this time, filled with something he didn’t name.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here again,” he said. “You always had… other plans.”

“I changed them,” I answered. “Does that bother you?”

His jaw tightened almost invisibly.

“No,” he replied. “It just complicates things.”

Complicates.

Not “welcome back.”

Not “good to see you.”

Complicates.

“What things?” I asked, voice low.

He looked at me with the kind of honesty professors weren’t supposed to have with their students — even graduate students.

“The things I thought I buried,” he said quietly.

The air left my lungs.

Before I could answer, footsteps echoed in the hallway, and he stepped back immediately, the moment shattering like glass.

“Email me if you need anything,” he said quickly, already retreating behind his desk, already pretending we hadn’t crossed a line we both felt.

I stood there for a heartbeat more.

Then I walked out, pulse shaking, knowing one thing for certain:

Nothing about this semester was going to stay professional.

I barely remembered walking home.

My body moved, but my mind stayed in that classroom — replaying every look, every pause, every word he shouldn’t have said.

The things I thought I buried.

Buried where?

And why did he say it like that — like I was the one he should’ve stayed away from?

I sat on my bed with my laptop open, pretending to read, pretending to breathe normally.

The more I thought about him, the worse it got.

How he avoided my eyes when someone walked past the door.

How his entire expression dropped the second he realized he wasn’t alone with me anymore.

He felt something.

I knew it.

I felt it too, and that was the problem.

By midnight, I was restless.

By 2 a.m., I gave up on sleep entirely.

Why did I come back?

Because I wanted to start over?

Or because my unfinished business wasn’t just academic?

I closed my eyes.

Tomorrow would be normal.

Tomorrow I’d keep my distance.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

The next morning, I walked into his classroom earlier than usual, hoping to get a seat in the back and stay invisible.

My nerves were ridiculous, but seeing him again felt… unavoidable.

Students filed in.

The air buzzed with chatter.

Then he walked in.

Professor Rynne looked the same — calm, composed — but not at me.

Not once.

Not even accidentally.

He kept his gaze on the attendance tablet like it was the only thing in the world.

Fine, I told myself.

Good.

Professional.

Distance was smart.

I opened my laptop to take notes, determined to focus.

A notification blinked at the top right corner:

“New Department Resource Link — Click to View.”

It looked official.

Academic.

Normal.

So I clicked it.

The sound blasted through the room instantly.

Loud.

Startling.

And absolutely not academic.

It was a freaking P**n!!!

Who the hell sent such to me!! ??

The entire class whipped their heads around at me.

My soul almost left my body.

My volume was at maximum — of course — and whatever auto-playing nonsense opened made me want to slam my laptop shut and run straight out the window.

Someone snorted.

Someone else whispered, “Oh my God—”

My cheeks burned.

I scrambled to mute everything, fingers shaking.

The room fell silent.

Then I heard it — the slow lowering of chalk.

Professor Rynne stopped writing on the board.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked… startled.

And then something else.

Something unreadable.

“Miss Hale,” he said, voice steady but softer than usual, “would you like a moment outside to… fix whatever that was?”

I wanted to disappear.

“Y-yes,” I stammered, wanting to crawl out of my own skin.

As I grabbed my laptop and nearly tripped over my own feet, I heard a few laughs behind me.

Embarrassment pressed hot along my spine.

When I reached the door, I glanced back instinctively.

He was watching me now.

And the look in his eyes wasn’t judgment.

It was something much more complicated.