**Chapter 5: The First Lecture**
Tuesday arrived like a storm that had been gathering for days—quiet at first, then sudden and unavoidable.
Ava stood outside Hawthorne Hall at 12:45 p.m., backpack slung over one shoulder, heart hammering so hard she could feel it in her fingertips. The building was old brick and ivy, the kind of place that looked like it had been standing since the university was founded in 1892. Students streamed past her, laughing, scrolling phones, oblivious to the fact that her entire world was about to tilt on its axis again.
She'd spent the weekend avoiding mirrors that showed too much truth. Avoiding Liam's texts (seven unread). Avoiding the memory of Sebastian's hands on her skin by burying herself in unpacking boxes and reorganizing her dorm closet. It hadn't worked. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his mouth moving slow and deliberate between her thighs, heard the rough catch in his breath when she'd whispered his name like a secret ingredient.
Mia had texted her that morning:
**Mia:** Front row or back row?
**Ava:** Middle. Neutral territory.
**Mia:** Smart. Don't make eye contact for the first ten minutes or you'll combust.
**Ava:** Already combusting. Send help.
**Mia:** Sending holy water and moral support. You got this, queen.
Ava took a breath that tasted like campus air—cut grass, coffee carts, faint rain on stone—and pushed through the double doors.
Hawthorne 214 was a tiered lecture hall, maybe eighty seats, wood paneling darkened by decades of use. A chalkboard stretched across the front wall. A podium. A single long table with a projector and a stack of syllabi.
He was already there.
Sebastian stood at the front, writing something on the board in neat, slanted handwriting: *Introduction to American Literature: Desire, Power, and the American Dream*. Below it, the course number and his name in all caps.
**Dr. Sebastian Kane**
He wore charcoal slacks today, a crisp white button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbows, no tie. The top button was undone. Casual enough to look effortless, sharp enough to remind everyone he was in charge. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd showered recently, and when he turned to face the filling room, his eyes swept the seats—and landed on her.
For one heartbeat, the air between them crackled.
Then he looked away. Professional. Detached. Like she was just another eighteen-year-old freshman in a sea of them.
Ava chose a seat in the middle row, third from the aisle. Not too eager. Not hiding. She set her notebook down, uncapped a pen, and stared at the blank page until the words blurred.
Students kept filing in. A girl with pink hair sat two seats over and immediately started texting. A guy in a baseball cap dropped into the seat directly in front of her, blocking part of her view. Good. Less temptation to stare.
At exactly 1:00 p.m., Sebastian set the chalk down, wiped his hands on a cloth, and stepped to the podium.
"Good afternoon," he said. His voice carried without effort—low, measured, the same velvet that had whispered filthy promises against her throat two nights ago. "I'm Dr. Kane. This is Introduction to American Literature. If you're here because you thought it would be an easy A, you're in the wrong room. If you're here because stories still matter to you, welcome."
A few nervous laughs rippled through the hall.
He passed out the syllabus—thick packets that landed with soft thuds on desktops. When he reached her row, he handed the stack to the guy in front without looking at her directly. Their fingers didn't brush. Nothing happened.
Nothing except the way her pulse jumped anyway.
He returned to the front.
"Over the next fifteen weeks," he continued, "we'll read novels and stories that wrestle with what it means to want something you're not supposed to have. Desire that destroys. Desire that redeems. Desire that refuses to stay buried." He paused, letting the words settle. "Sound familiar?"
A couple people murmured agreement. Ava's pen froze mid-note.
He clicked the projector on. The first slide appeared: *Nathaniel Hawthorne – The Scarlet Letter*.
"Many of you have read this in high school. Most of you hated it." Dry smiles from the class. "Today I want you to forget what you think you know. Forget the boring morality tale. This is a book about a woman who refuses to let shame define her. About a man who carries his sin in secret until it eats him alive. About a society that pretends purity while drowning in hypocrisy."
He paced slowly in front of the table, hands in his pockets.
"Question for the room: What makes a forbidden desire so powerful? Is it the risk? The secrecy? Or is it the simple fact that once you taste it, everything else starts to taste like ash?"
Silence for a beat. Then a hand went up in the front row.
"Yes?" Sebastian nodded.
A guy with glasses cleared his throat. "I think it's the secrecy. Once it's out in the open, the thrill dies."
Sebastian's gaze flicked—briefly, almost imperceptibly—toward Ava's row.
"Possibly," he said. "But what if the secrecy isn't the thrill? What if it's the only thing keeping the desire alive? What if exposing it would ruin everything… and yet you still can't stop wanting more?"
The room felt smaller. Warmer. Ava pressed her thighs together under the desk, heat blooming low in her belly.
Another hand. A girl this time. "But isn't that just… toxic? Wanting something that could hurt people?"
Sebastian leaned against the podium. "Toxic implies poison. But desire isn't always poison. Sometimes it's medicine. Sometimes it's the only honest thing in a life full of polite lies. The question isn't whether it hurts. The question is whether you're willing to pay the price when it does."
He straightened. "For Thursday, read the first eight chapters of *The Scarlet Letter*. Come prepared to discuss Hester Prynne's first public shaming. No summaries from SparkNotes. I'll know."
Light laughter. Notebooks closed. Chairs scraped.
Ava stayed seated as people filed out, pretending to organize her things. Her hands shook slightly.
When the room was nearly empty, she stood.
He was erasing the board, back to her.
She walked down the aisle, steps deliberate.
"Professor Kane," she said quietly.
He didn't turn immediately. Finished wiping the last word—*desire*—from the board. Then he set the eraser down and faced her.
"Miss Thompson." Neutral. Professional. But his eyes darkened the second they met hers.
She stopped a few feet away. "Good lecture."
"Thank you."
A beat.
"I didn't expect the topic to be so… on the nose."
One corner of his mouth lifted. "Life has a way of doing that."
She glanced toward the open door. The hallway was emptying fast.
"I'm trying to act normal," she said. "Failing spectacularly."
"You're doing fine." He stepped closer—still respectable distance, but close enough she caught the faint scent of his cologne. The same one that had clung to her skin Saturday night. "You took notes. You didn't run out screaming. Progress."
She laughed under her breath. "Barely."
He studied her for a long moment. "You okay?"
"No," she admitted. "But I'm here."
"Good." He glanced at his watch. "Office hours are Thursdays, 3–5. If you have questions about the reading…"
"I might."
He nodded once. "Then I'll see you Thursday."
She turned to leave.
"Ava."
She paused at the door.
His voice dropped, just for her. "You're stronger than you think. Don't let anyone—including me—make you forget that."
She didn't look back. Just nodded, once, and walked out into the hallway.
The rest of the day blurred—another class, lunch with Mia (who demanded every detail and got most of them), a quick call from her mom checking in. But underneath it all ran a current she couldn't ignore.
Thursday office hours loomed like a promise.
Or a warning.
Either way, she already knew she'd be there.
Because the lecture had been right about one thing.
Once you tasted something real—something raw and forbidden and terrifyingly honest—everything else did start to taste like ash.
And she was tired of settling for ash.
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