All Chapters of ONE NIGHT STAND WITH MY PROFESSOR : Chapter 1 - Chapter 8

Andrews POV Thick fog had swallowed Blackwood by final period. It pressed against the school windows like something alive, turning the world outside into shapeless gray. By the time the last bell rang, the halls were already half-empty — students disappearing into the murk quickly, their voices fading one by one until the building felt abandoned. I stood at my locker staring at the folded paper in my hand. MANDATORY ACADEMIC ASSESSMENT. 4:15 PM. PROFESSOR MARK SHAWN. I almost laughed. Of course. Because apparently Blackwood wasn't satisfied with ruining my mental stability during school hours. A group of students brushed past me loudly, but I barely noticed. My eyes stayed fixed on the paper. *Mandatory.* Meaning I couldn't skip it without causing problems. And lately, problems seemed magnetically attached to me. "Looks serious." I looked up sharply. Daniel Reyes leaned casually against the locker beside mine, perfectly composed despite the chill that ha

Andrews POV Rain tapped softly against the windows when I woke up. For a second, I forgot where I was. The mattress beneath me was too soft. The air smelled expensive—cedarwood, cologne, and something darker underneath it. A city glow filtered through half-open blinds, casting pale gray light across an apartment that looked nothing like anywhere I’d ever belonged. Then memory hit me all at once. The party. The whiskey. The stranger with sharp eyes and a low voice. His hands against my waist. The way he looked at me like he actually saw me. Shit. I sat up too quickly, immediately regretting it when my head started pounding. My hoodie was crumpled on the floor beside the bed. So were my jeans. I grabbed them fast, trying not to look toward the other side of the bed. But I did anyway. He was still asleep. One arm stretched across the sheets. Dark hair messy against the pillow. In sleep, he looked younger somehow. Less controlled. Less dangerous. The memories became harder

The Lounge — Andrew's POVThe antique clock above the fireplace ticked loud enough that I could hear it the moment I stepped inside.6:00 PM exactly.I had stood outside the door for nearly two minutes — hand on the brass handle, pulse hammering, telling myself I was being paranoid. That whoever sent those texts was a small, frightened person doing small, frightened things. That I could walk in there, stare them down, and walk back out unchanged.I almost believed it.The private student lounge looked nothing like the rest of Blackwood. The school's corridors were polished in that performative way — elegant marble and framed portraits pretending at history — but this room was something else entirely. Dark oak panels. Deep leather couches the color of dried blood. Low golden light pooling in the crystal glasses and expensive liquor bottles locked behind glass like trophies no one was meant to touch.It smelled like old money and quiet threats.I hated it the moment the door clicked shu

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