The lecture hall smelled like fresh paint and expensive dreams.
I should have known.
When I registered for Introduction to Contemporary Visual Arts, I imagined something soft. Something safe. Something that required observation instead of participation.
I didn't expect him.
I was sitting between Maya and Tessa, half-listening to them argue about whether we should join the campus arts club or the debate society when the door opened.
And the air shifted.
I didn't look up immediately.
I didn't need to.
My body recognized him before my brain did.
The same way it had in the bar.
The same way it had when he stepped closer that night, when his voice lowered just enough to make the world disappear.
My stomach tightened.
Slowly, I lifted my head.
And there he was.
Adrian.
Except not Adrian.
Professor Adrian Vale.
Standing at the front of the classroom in a black fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms lightly dusted in charcoal. His hair slightly messy like he never cared enough to tame it. A relaxed posture that screamed confidence without effort.
He looked different in daylight.
Sharper.
More dangerous.
More real.
He scanned the room casually.
Then his eyes landed on me.
And for a split second
He froze.
It was subtle.
No one else would notice.
But I did.
Because I was watching too closely.
His brows lifted slightly.
Recognition.
And then
He smiled.
That same slow, knowing smile from the bar.
Warm.
Unbothered.
Devastating.
"Well," he said lightly, setting his bag down on the desk, "this is promising. You all look… moderately awake."
The class laughed.
His voice was different here.
Lighter.
More playful.
He picked up the attendance sheet.
"Let's start with names," he said. "I'd like to know who I'll be traumatising with critiques this semester."
More laughter.
He began calling names.
One by one.
Then
Mine.
He paused.
Not long.
Just enough.
He looked up.
Directly at me.
"That's familiar," he said casually.
The class giggled.
My face burned.
"Have we met?" he added, tilting his head slightly.
The room erupted into playful teasing.
"Ohhhh."
"Professorrrr."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
He held my gaze.
Just long enough to make sure I understood.
Then he let out a soft breath of amusement.
"Ah," he said gently. "I remember now."
He didn't explain.
He didn't elaborate.
He simply made a small note beside my name and moved on.
Only I knew.
Only I felt the electricity crack under my skin.
Maya leaned into me immediately.
"Wait," she whispered harshly. "Do you know him?"
"No," I lied too quickly.
Tessa's eyes were wide. "He's hot."
"Yes," Maya breathed. "Like illegal."
I swallowed.
If only they knew.
He moved around the room as he spoke, hands animated, energy effortless.
"Art," he said, "isn't about talent. It's about honesty. And most of you are terrible at being honest."
The class laughed again.
He smiled.
That smile.
God.
It was easy. Bright. Charming.
And fake.
I could see it now.
Because I had seen him without it.
In the quiet of his apartment.
In the dark before sleep.
In the split second after he asked if I wanted him to stop.
That smile wasn't who he was.
It was armor.
And I hated that I knew that.
I tried to focus on the lecture.
On the way he described color as emotion.
On the way he moved like he owned space without trying.
On the way every girl in the room watched him like he was an exhibition piece.
But my mind kept drifting.
To his mouth.
To his hands.
To the memory of the way he had said my name.
When class ended, students flooded forward.
Questions.
Laughter.
Attempts to be memorable.
I stayed seated.
I didn't trust my legs.
He laughed easily at something a guy said.
He smiled at Maya when she asked about project requirements.
He was relaxed. Playful.
Unreachable.
When I finally stood, he was looking at me again.
Not staring.
Just observing.
Like I was a painting he hadn't decided how to interpret.
I walked past him without speaking.
But I felt it.
The awareness.
Like heat at my back.
College life was supposed to distract me.
And in many ways, it did.
Dorm nights were loud and chaotic. Maya blasted music while Tessa tried to recreate viral makeup looks on all of us. We ordered cheap pizza and argued about which senior boys were worth flirting with.
They talked about Professor Vale constantly.
"Did you see the way he rolled his sleeves today?"
"His hands are so veiny."
"He smells expensive."
I pretended not to care.
Pretended not to remember exactly what he smelled like.
Pretended not to compare every boy on campus to him.
Even my boyfriend.
He was trying.
Flowers.
Surprise lunches.
Public affection.
Too much public affection.
"Let's get coffee," he said one afternoon, slinging an arm around my shoulders like possession.
We walked past the arts building.
And there he was.
Leaning casually against the railing outside.
Laughing.
With another professor.
A woman.
Tall. Confident. Sharp cheekbones. Red lipstick.
Her hand rested lightly on his arm.
Too lightly.
Too familiar.
He said something low to her.
She laughed.
Then she leaned closer.
My steps slowed.
My boyfriend kept walking.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said automatically.
But my chest felt tight.
Adrian looked up.
Our eyes met.
He smiled.
Friendly.
Unbothered.
Like nothing had ever happened.
Like I was just another student passing by.
The female professor said something and he looked back at her, amused.
And suddenly I hated that I wasn't the one making him laugh.
That night, I dreamed about him.
Not about the bar.
Not about what we did.
Just about him looking at me.
In a classroom full of people.
Like I was the only color in a black-and-white world.
I woke up irritated with myself.
This was ridiculous.
He wasn't interested.
He was free-spirited.
Carefree.
Smiling.
And probably sleeping with whoever he wanted.
He didn't do love.
You could see it in the way he moved.
Nothing stuck to him.
Not glances.
Not attention.
Not people.
Except me.
And I didn't know if that was real or something I invented.
Two weeks later, I went to submit a sketch project.
His office door was slightly open.
I knocked softly.
No answer.
I stepped closer.
And then
A sound.
Soft.
A breath that wasn't alone.
A low, controlled laugh.
His voice.
"Relax," he murmured.
A woman's soft gasp followed.
My body froze.
I didn't mean to look.
But I did.
Through the narrow gap.
The female professor from before was pressed lightly against his desk.
His hand rested at her waist.
Her head tilted back slightly.
Her lipstick smudged.
My breath caught.
Not because it was shocking.
But because it wasn't.
He looked comfortable.
Casual.
Like this was normal.
Like intimacy was something he treated like a cigarette, used and discarded.
I should have walked away.
I didn't.
I stood there, heart pounding, watching just long enough to feel the memory of that night crash back into me.
The way his fingers had traced slowly.
The way he had whispered.
The way he had looked at me afterward, quiet, unreadable.
The female professor moaned softly again.
My stomach tightened.
I stepped back quickly, pulse racing, and walked away before he could see me.
The rest of the day felt unreal.
In class, he smiled like usual.
Charmed the room.
Made jokes.
Complimented someone's abstract piece.
And when he looked at me
He paused.
Just slightly.
Like he sensed something different.
Like he felt the shift in my gaze.
Did he know I saw?
Did he care?
He continued the lecture without hesitation.
Carefree.
Unattached.
And I realized something terrifying.
It didn't hurt.
It didn't make me angry.
It made me want him more.
Because if he could be that detached…
If he could treat something intimate like it was nothing…
Then maybe I meant nothing too.
And that should have made it easier.
But it didn't.
It made me desperate.
Because I didn't want to be nothing.
I wanted to be the one thing that cracked his composure.
The one thing he couldn't treat casually.
And that was the most dangerous desire of all.