Chapter 4: Thirst in the Lecture Hall

The first time I attended Dr. Hart's class, I picked his only elective that week. More bodies for cover; fewer eyes on me, theoretically.

With so many students, I could blend right in—just one face in a sea of laptops.

Ethan didn't want to sit with me—he couldn't distance himself fast enough, terrified his classmates would find out we knew each other. He practically crab-walked to the opposite corner.

He begged me not to make a scene in class. As if I’d propose from the third row.

I just laughed. What could I possibly do? Force a kiss on Dr. Hart in his own classroom? Please—I’d be scared he’d sue me! No way I’m testing the legal system personally. That joke made me giggle internally.

I picked a seat in the middle of the room. Not front-row obvious, not back-row invisible.

Next to me sat a group of lively female students, full of energy. Their chatter hopped like sparrows.

They were chatting—the pre-class gossip pipeline was running hot.

"Will Dr. Hart wear a suit today?" Wardrobe speculation: a legitimate sport.

"It's cold, so probably a coat." Meteorology meets fashion forecasting.

"I heard Professor Benson from the architecture department is trying to date Dr. Hart."

"Yeah! I saw her give him a gift!" Student math says gift equals interest.

"But rumor has it Dr. Hart's still single because he's hung up on his first love." Urban legend nested inside another.

"I heard that too—supposedly someone from high school." The myth gained footnotes.

My ears perked up. If that was true, it would make chasing him even harder. A ghost of the past is stiff competition.

While I was listening in, the noisy classroom suddenly fell silent. The air shifted like a stage curtain dropping.

Dr. Hart walked in from the door to the podium, moving like he had a private walkway laid just for him.

He wore a white turtleneck sweater, black slacks, and a long camel coat. Clean lines, elegant warmth—classic professor chic.

Compared to the all-black, cold look from last time, he seemed more refined and gentle today. Less blade, more silk.

Maybe it was because he was facing students—his face wasn't so frosty. Authority softened by routine.

Dr. Hart started calling roll at random. I realized he was using the Socratic method—cold-calling students, a law school standard. For non-law folks, it's a way to keep everyone on their toes.

When he got to a student near me, his gaze lingered on me for a few seconds. That look felt like being marked in permanent ink.

I smiled at him openly. Sincere and admittedly thirsty.

He kept his expression neutral, eyes calm as he looked away. A masterclass in self-control.

No more roll call. He started the lecture. The room settled into note-taking hums and clicking keys.

Dr. Hart was an excellent teacher—crisp, precise, no fluff. Every concept landed where it needed to.

That day, he covered intellectual property law—a topic close to home for me as a comic artist. My attention snapped to perfect focus.

I listened intently. For once, my crush served my professional interests.

While he lectured, I noticed a tiny black mole below his ear—a detail my pencil couldn’t resist.

During a pause, he posed a question and gave the students time to think. Silence rippled; pens hovered.

I sketched him in my notebook, staring openly from time to time. Not subtle, and not sorry.

His nose was tall and straight, Adam's apple prominent, fingers strong around the mic, knuckles defined as he tapped the podium.

I'd heard men with these features were supposed to be... well-endowed. Old wives’ tale, but my brain was holding a conference I did not authorize.