(POV Luke)
I woke up at the usual time, with the alarm vibrating next to the bed and the morning light cutting lazily through the curtains. For a few seconds, I just lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to organize the thoughts that were still jumbled from the night before. The silence of the apartment was almost uncomfortable, a stillness that contrasted with the chaos Bianca usually brought with her.
When I got up, it was impossible not to notice Bianca's panties on the floor—the ones she had worn yesterday. They were just lying there, tossed aside as if they had been abandoned in a rush. She had practically run out, leaving everything behind as if she wanted to erase what had happened—or maybe run away from what she felt. I spent a few seconds staring at that piece of clothing on the floor, not out of desire, but because of its symbolism. It was yet another piece of proof that everything with Bianca always ended in confusion.
I left the room and walked down the hallway, still half-asleep. Her bedroom door was closed. She was probably still sleeping—or pretending to be, which wouldn't be anything new. I sighed deeply, running a hand over my face as memories of the previous night surfaced: the words spoken, the intentions behind every gesture. Bianca is complicated—not in a superficial way, but in a way that drains you. This idea of hers, trying to control me… that's not going to happen. I'm nobody's toy.
I'm in a tricky situation—the kind that seems small at first but grows silently until it becomes a real problem. I know I need to assert myself, set boundaries, and get things back on track before everything spirals even further out of control. But not now. Not today. That kind of conversation takes energy, and I didn't have any to spare this morning. For now, the focus was simple: take a shower, get ready, and head to class.
I didn't see Bianca at all that morning. Not a sound from her room. Nothing. I grabbed my things, locked the door, and headed to the university. I parked in the usual lot, the sun already high in the sky. The days had been hotter than usual—and let's be honest, they have their upside. The campus changes completely when the heat arrives; people seem more alive, lighter. Clothes get shorter, smiles loosen.
I'm not a creep. I never have been. But it would be a lie to say I don't notice. Sometimes it's simply pleasant to observe—to see women wearing a different look, more confident, more carefree. There's nothing wrong with that. It's human.
As I walked through the main hallway, blending into the flow of students coming and going, I heard my name being called from behind. I recognized the voice before I even turned around: Emily.
She was wearing a black shirt that was a little short, revealing a strip of skin just above her navel. Black shorts highlighted her fair legs, contrasting with the dark boots that completed the look. Her white hair with blue streaks fell loosely around her face, and she wore a genuine smile—the kind that never feels forced.
"Luke. Good morning."
"Hey, Emily. Good morning. How are you?" I replied.
"I'm doing well. Our play was approved," she said, stepping a little closer.
For a moment, I had to dig through my memory. Then I remembered: on Monday, I had helped her with the petition for the play.
"Oh, that's great," I said sincerely.
Emily seemed… different. Not in a bad way—just not like her usual self. She started twirling the end of her hair around her finger, looking away for a few seconds. It was obvious she wanted to ask something but didn't quite know how.
"You know…" she began. "Even though the play was approved, we still need helpers. To organize, set up the scenery, things like that… and I had already asked you for a favor before…"
She got a bit lost in her own words, but I already knew where this was going.
"It's okay. I can help. I don't know how to act, but I can handle the setup and organization," I interrupted, trying to make things easier for her.
Her eyes lit up, a joyful expression breaking through her usually reserved posture.
"Really? I mean… if you can, that would be a huge help."
She took a deep breath, trying to regain her more contained composure.
"Just send me the schedule. Then I'll see how to organize myself," I said.
"I'll send it later. I have to go—my class is about to start," she replied, saying a quick goodbye before almost rushing down the hallway.
I continued on my way, but I couldn't stop the thought that came as I watched her leave. Does having a good heart hurt your own heart? I agreed to help Vanessa. Now I'm helping Emily. I always say "it's fine." I always find a way. Things would be much simpler if I just made up an excuse and said no—less commitment, less involvement, fewer headaches. But I can't. That's just who I am. And maybe that's my biggest flaw.
Without wasting any more time, I headed to class. The lecture was painfully boring—one of those that feels like it will never end. The professor talked, the slides moved forward, and my mind drifted far away. It's impressive how, when we have no interest, time seems to crawl. Every minute felt like two. Eventually, the class ended.
I gathered my things slowly, feeling a strange emptiness. Not having Nathan around made everything more monotonous. With him, even the most tedious classes were tolerable. Unfortunately, he wasn't taking this course this semester. As I left the room, that feeling lingered—like things were piling up: Bianca, Emily, Vanessa, Sofia, Olivia—and I was just pushing it all forward, pretending I could handle it. Maybe I can. Or maybe I'm just delaying the inevitable.
The hallway was crowded, as always between classes. Voices overlapped, footsteps hurried, people complained about the next subject. I, on the other hand, had something to look forward to. My next class was with Margaret. And, surprisingly, her class is good. Maybe it's not just the content. Margaret has a presence that commands attention effortlessly. Beautiful, mature, confident. She speaks, and people listen. She doesn't raise her voice or force authority—she simply has it. And yes, it would be hypocritical to deny that her looks help. There's something undeniably fascinating about her round ass.
I was walking without any rush, mentally reviewing the upcoming lecture, when it happened again. Someone called my name from behind. This time, it wasn't a soft or familiar voice. It was male. And I knew exactly who it was before I even turned.
"Look who it is—the tough guy."
I turned slowly. Luther. Arrogant posture, bleached hair catching attention from afar, a crooked, provoking smile on his face. The difference this time was that he was alone—without his two pet thugs.
"I saw your video from the party. You stopped Olivia from seeing me," he said.
I gave a half-smile, more mocking than amused.
"You're crazy, aren't you? Speaking of the party… where are the two sluts that usually stick to you like glue?"
I pretended to look around. His expression changed instantly. Arrogance vanished, replaced by raw anger. People nearby slowed down or stopped altogether. Everyone knew Luther's reputation—and they knew I'd been the "hero" of that fight.
The tension thickened. He stepped closer, veins standing out on his neck, fists clenched.
"Listen to me, asshole. I'm going to end your life," he said in a low, poisonous tone.
A threat—but an empty one. We were at the university. He knew he couldn't do anything there. This was intimidation, nothing more. Still, people like him are unstable—time bombs waiting to explode. I tilted my head, smiling with disdain.
"You can't do that," I said, almost laughing.
"Are you doubting me?"
"Well… yeah. After all, you're weak."
That did it. I saw the exact moment his pupils contracted. His body lunged forward, fists raised. The punch came fast and violent—but instead of taking it, my body reacted on instinct. I dodged, and in the same movement, drove my fist into his side. The impact was dry and precise. He folded immediately, gasping for air, clutching his torso.
Even I was surprised.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The voice was calm, firm, authoritative. The crowd parted, and there she was—Margaret. Elegant as ever, heels clicking against the floor, dressed in black, her red hair perfectly styled. She adjusted her glasses and took in the scene silently.
I was standing upright. Luther was bent over in pain. To anyone arriving at that moment, I looked like the aggressor.
"All of you, go to class. You two," she said firmly. "You, the blond one, to your classroom. Luke, inside."
"But—" Luther began.
"Dear student," she interrupted calmly, "if you wish to continue, I will hear the witnesses from the beginning and determine exactly who started this. Whoever did will not go unpunished. So, go to class… or would you prefer to stay?"
Luther froze. He knew continuing would expose him. He backed off, throwing me a look full of hatred.
"Luke," Margaret said before entering the classroom. "My office after class."
Curiosity hammered in my head the entire lesson. When the bell rang, I followed her to her office. Everything was meticulously organized, and the air carried a bittersweet scent—probably her perfume. One detail stood out: there were no photos of her husband anymore.
"Why did you call me, Professor? It's lunch hour. I'm hungry."
"I need an intern. I'd like to know if you're interested," she said, smiling slightly.
"An internship?"
"Yes. Something like a right-hand man. Paperwork, students, administration…"
"That sounds more like a secretary."
She adjusted her glasses.
"It is. A secretary. My life is a bit of a mess. I need someone to organize things. And that someone will be you."
"Um… no."
"That's unfortunate. It would also be unfortunate to revisit what happened earlier—and even more so if I took the blond boy's side."
I smiled in disbelief.
"Are you blackmailing me?"
"Blackmail? Never. It's an exchange. I stay quiet, and you work for me."
A clever old fox.
"Fine. But I need to organize myself. I agreed to help set up a play."
"I never imagined you liked theater," she said.
"I don't. I just didn't say no."
"It doesn't matter. Get organized and contact me, my new secretary," she said with a victorious smile.
As I left, something in her eyes caught my attention—behind the confidence, behind the glasses. A deep, silent sadness.
I sighed. Another complicated woman entering my routine… and me, once again, saying yes.