My Forbidden Student

Stella Morrison's POV:

The door to Lecture Hall B swung open fifteen minutes late.

I didn't look up. Didn't need to. The collective intake of breath from half the female students in the room told me everything I needed to know about whoever had just walked in.

"Sorry I'm late, Professor."

My hand froze mid-sentence, the dry-erase marker hovering over the word "secure."

That voice.

I turned slowly, keeping my expression neutral despite the sudden tightness in my chest.

He was making his way down the aisle steps—faded hoodie, basketball shorts, the kind of effortless confidence that made heads turn as he passed. A girl in the third row nudged her friend, whispering something that made them both giggle. Another one in the front was already fixing her hair.

Then he stepped into the sunlight streaming through the tall windows, and I saw his face.

The angle of his jaw. Those eyes. The dimples when he smiled at someone's whispered greeting.

Oh, God.

No.

The memory hit me like a freight train.

Zoe's pre-wedding party. The rooftop terrace. Too much champagne.

"Come on, Stella, you need to have some fun—you're always so serious!"

My mother's voice in my head: "Twenty-eight and still single? All your cousins are married now."

The room spinning. Stumbling.

Strong hands catching me. "You okay? Let me get you some water."

Dimples when he smiled. "Let me take you home."

The elevator mirror. Everything going blank.

Waking up in that hotel room.

With him.

I blinked hard, forcing myself back to the present.

He was scanning the lecture hall now, his gaze sweeping past the scattered students in the back, past the eager note-takers in the middle, and landing on the front row. On the three empty seats directly in my line of sight.

Our eyes met.

Something flickered across his face—recognition, maybe—before that easy smile spread wider.

Oh, hell no.

"Find a seat," I said, my voice steady, perhaps even slightly bored. "We're discussing attachment theory, which you've now missed the introduction to. I suggest you get the notes from someone who actually respects other people's time."

A few scattered laughs rippled through the classroom.

His smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before recovering.

Good.

Whatever had happened that night at Zoe's party—whatever mortifying lapse in judgment had led to me waking up disheveled in that hotel room—it couldn't matter here.

In this room, I held all the power.

"As I was saying," I continued, forcing my voice into its usual crisp authority, "our early relationships shape how we connect with others throughout our lives."

He settled into the front row seat, slinging his backpack onto the floor with a soft thud. I didn't wait to see what he pulled out. I returned to the whiteboard, desperate to look anywhere but at him.

But the details kept flooding back.

That hotel room. Sunlight through half-drawn curtains. My dress draped over a chair.

Him on the other side of the bed. Shirtless. Already awake, scrolling through his phone like this was perfectly normal.

"Morning," he'd said, his voice rough with sleep.

I'd frozen. The sheets. The fact that we were both—

He'd sat up, running a hand through his hair. "Look, about last night—"

Then he'd stopped, his gaze flicking over my face, reading the panic there.

That slow, infuriating smile had started to spread.

"You were pretty wasted," he'd said, his tone deliberately casual. "You couldn't tell me your address, so I just... got us a room."

Not confirming. Not denying.

"Did we—" I'd started, hating how small my voice sounded.

He'd tilted his head. "Do you remember?"

"No."

"Hmm." He'd picked up his phone again. "Probably for the best."

I'd scrambled out of bed—or tried to. The sheet tangled around my legs, and I grabbed it, wrapping it around myself as I stood.

Except he was still sitting on the other end.

I tugged. The sheet didn't move.

He glanced down, then back up at me, one eyebrow raised.

"Do you mind?" I snapped.

"Not particularly," he said, that smile widening.

I yanked harder. He didn't budge.

"Let go."

"I'm not holding it."

"You're sitting on it!"

"Technically, you could just—"

I gave one final, desperate pull.

The sheet came free.

And suddenly I was standing there, completely exposed, morning light streaming through the windows.

His eyes went wide.

For a fraction of a second, we both froze—him staring, me paralyzed with horror—and then his gaze dropped, just for an instant, before snapping back up.

"Don't look!" I shrieked, diving for my dress.

"I'm not—" he started, but his voice had gone rough, and when I glanced back, his face had flushed, his eyes fixed firmly on the ceiling.

"Turn around!"

"Already not looking," he said, but I caught the edge of amusement in his voice.

I grabbed my dress with shaking hands and yanked it over my head. My bra was nowhere to be found, my underwear tangled somewhere in the sheets, and I didn't care—I just needed to get out.

I pulled out every bill in my wallet.

Six hundred dollars, dropped on the nightstand.

He glanced at the cash, then back at me, that flush still visible. "Generous."

"For your trouble," I managed.

"My trouble." He repeated it slowly. That smile returned, wider now. "You know, if you're interested in a monthly rate—"

I'd walked out before he could finish.

And now he was here.

Focus.

I clicked to the next slide. "Inconsistent patterns," I said, my hand tightening on the remote, "create unpredictability. The constant need for reassurance in relationships."

The irony nearly choked me. Here I was, lecturing about intimacy while desperately pretending the man from that hotel room didn't exist.

Someone who was now sitting in my classroom.

Someone who had seen me completely naked.

My face burned.

In the front row, his hand shot up.