2

POV: Selena

“You didn’t get off again, did you?”

Claudine’s voice sliced through the apartment like a siren—way too loud, way too accurate for not even nine in the morning. I sat on the kitchen counter in my oversized tee, clutching a mug of black coffee like it was the only relationship I hadn’t outgrown.

“I heard that damn rose buzzing all night,” she teased, grabbing the oat milk and giving me a pointed look.

My face lit up like a stoplight. “Could you not say that like we’re on speaker for the entire building?”

“Oh, please.” She flipped her curls with zero remorse, standing in front of the fridge in nothing but a sports bra and silky boxers. “Half the girls on this floor have something shaped like a flower. Or a fruit. Or a freakin’ alien. You think your vibrator is a secret?”

Claudine Rossi had been my roommate since freshman year, and despite only three years passing, it felt like she’d known me through five different lives. We were opposites in every possible way.

Where I was soft and quiet, she was a flame—loud, wild, devastatingly beautiful. Her curls were always a little messy, her eyeliner always deadly, and her outfits screamed confidence even when they barely counted as clothes.

She treated pleasure like a lifestyle. And she got it—courtesy of Ayden Chase, our campus basketball golden boy with thighs carved out of mythology and the memory of a fish. Their relationship, if you could even call it that, was built on gym sweat, missed calls, and broken condoms.

Meanwhile, I had Evan. Or maybe I didn’t. Not anymore.

I stared into my coffee like it might have the answers. “We argued last night.”

Claudine raised an eyebrow. “Shocking. Let me guess—you asked him to try something new and he acted like you suggested cannibalism.”

I looked at her.

Her eyes widened. “Wait. You did, didn’t you?” She laughed. “What’d you do? Ask for a little hair pulling? A complete sentence? Dear god, not eye contact.”

“I told him to choke me,” I said into my cup.

She dropped the milk carton. “HELL yes. You kinky queen.”

Then she squinted. “Wait. Did he actually do it?”

I shook my head, small and ashamed. “No. He rolled off me and acted like I needed professional help.”

Claudine groaned so loudly it echoed. “Ugh. Of course he did. That man thinks missionary is adventurous. What exactly did he say?”

I exhaled. “He literally said, ‘So now you want to be abused during sex?’ Like I asked him to stab me or something.”

She slammed the oat milk down like it insulted her personally. “Coming from someone whose idea of foreplay is shutting off the lights? Spare me. That man has all the sexual energy of a damp sponge.”

Despite myself, I laughed. Too hard. Then too suddenly, I almost cried.

Because even if the sex sucked, Evan was familiar. Predictable. A constant in a life where I was always holding the pieces together.

“I just…” I pressed my palm to my forehead. “It wasn’t about the kink. I just wanted to feel something. Anything.”

Claudine didn’t blink. “It’s not you, babe. Evan’s ego is louder than his strokes, and somehow still less satisfying. You need someone who listens. Someone who gets you. Not just… performs on top of you.”

I snorted. “You’re horrible.”

“I’m right,” she said smugly. “I’m also thrilled you’re finally free of that human paper towel. He was bland, babe. Like cafeteria rice cakes.”

Her words settled into my bones. I’d never had another boyfriend. Never had the luxury of high school drama. While other girls were having sleepovers and first kisses, I was making lunches and helping my little sisters with math homework.

My dad came home every night exhausted from factory work, covered in ash and silence. So when Evan showed interest, it felt easy. Simple. Like I didn’t have to learn a new role—I could just be the good girl he wanted.

But now? That role didn’t fit anymore.

“Come on.” Claudine was already dressed and slipping on boots. “We’ve got class in ten. Let’s go distract ourselves with power-hungry professors and emotionally stunted poets.”

I grabbed my bag, following her outside. The sunlight stabbed through the fog in my brain, but I was still moving slow, every step heavy with last night’s wreckage.

As we neared the lit-up stone steps of the humanities building, Claudine leaned closer. “Did you hear the gossip?”

“About what?”

“New lit professor. Apparently he’s sexy as sin and scarier than death. Ayden said he made some grad student cry just by correcting a comma.”

I rolled my eyes. “Lovely. Can’t wait.”

But the moment the classroom door opened, I felt it.

The room shifted. The air changed. Conversations died midsentence. Even Jessica, our resident hookup historian, shut up mid-brag.

It wasn’t just how he looked—though, Jesus Christ.

It was the energy. The danger.

He moved like he knew every eye was on him. Black dress shirt, pressed charcoal slacks, leather briefcase. Everything about him screamed: I’m in control, and you want me to stay that way.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t do that fake “I’m relatable” professor thing. He scanned the room like a blade cutting through fabric.

He dropped his briefcase with a solid thud, adjusted his sleeves with surgeon-like precision, then spoke:

“Literature is manipulation,” he said. “I’m Professor Adrian Louise. Let’s begin.”

My heart did something stupid. Something involuntary.

He had to be at least late thirties, maybe early forties. But not in a trying-too-hard way. No. He wore his age like armor. Sharp jawline, strands of silver threading his dark hair, those cold eyes that didn’t look at you—they undressed you intellectually and left you bare.

He didn’t observe the class. He assessed us.

Fifteen minutes into a deep dive on Victorian-era power structures, my phone buzzed. I shouldn’t have looked. Every rational part of me screamed not to.

But I did.

Private message. Unknown user. Blank profile. One photo.

Evan. Tongue down some girl’s throat in a frat hallway I recognized too well.

Caption: “Thought you should know. Sorry if this ruins your day.”

I gasped.

Too loud.

Heads turned. And then—his eyes. Professor Louise’s gaze found mine like a sniper scope.

“If there’s something more important than my lecture, do share it with the rest of us.”

My voice caught in my throat. “I’m—sorry—”

“Then kindly remove yourself until you’re capable of participating.”

The room was dead silent.

Claudine reached for my hand under the desk, gave it a squeeze. I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. I was already crumbling.

After class, she found me by the stairwell.

“You okay?”

I showed her the photo.

Her jaw locked. “That’s it. We’re going out tonight.”