Page 4 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

SOPHIE

W alking into school the next morning, I try to convince myself that the extra care I took getting ready has absolutely nothing to do with the hot new teacher.

I just felt like looking decent today, that’s all.

A little more mascara, some lip gloss, actual effort with my hair. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except, obviously, it does.

I’ve been spiraling since first period yesterday . Since he walked into that classroom and changed everything. I haven’t stopped thinking about him, about our night at the bar. His hands on my waist, the way he smelled, and the way his body felt pressed against mine.

Even more than that… the way he made me laugh. The way his eyes locked onto mine like I was the only person in the room. Now that he’s Mr. Hayes, my teacher, I should want to forget all of it. But I don’t. Not even a little.

There’s no logical reason for the pull between us. It was one night, and now he’s off-limits in every way that matters. But it’s hard to forget the version of him I met before he became Mr. Hayes. That guy felt easy to be around. Funny, warm, and confident, but not arrogant.

Now he’s standing at the front of the room, all quiet intensity and careful posture. Stoic. Unreadable. This version of him feels like a stranger, and maybe that’s what makes it so hard to see. Because I’ve already seen the real him, the one behind the teacher mask.

And I liked it.

Okay. I really liked it.

I slide into my seat next to Sal, who has also clearly dressed with extra intention today. Her top’s low enough to get her sent to the office, and her lipstick is a red that could end careers. I glance at her and arch a brow.

“And who are we so dressed up for?”

She grins. “Oh, no one special. A girl can’t just want to look hot for herself?”

I laugh, rolling my eyes.

She’s absurdly gorgeous. Thick lashes, olive skin, legs that belong in a music video. She knows exactly what she’s working with and doesn’t hesitate to weaponize it. If I were into girls, I’d have a photo of her hidden under my pillow.

I’m not bad-looking, just… different. Softer. Light brown curls that frizz the second the weather shifts, eyes that match my hair, skin so pale I’ll burn if I even think about the sun too hard. Sal says I’m beautiful and I try to believe her. Some days I almost do.

Mr. Hayes is at his desk, staring at the paper held in his grip, his jaw clenched tight. After a few seconds, he tosses it in the trash hard enough to make the clang of metal ring out across the room.

Sal leans closer. “What do you think that was?”

“No clue. Maybe someone challenged his authority and now he’s plotting their murder. ”

She snorts. “He definitely owns a punching bag. Or journals in all caps.”

Then he stands and faces the class.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and worn. “Quick change. The assignments your last teacher left? They’re… not great. We still have to hit the state-mandated readings—yes, that includes Romeo and Juliet —but I’m adjusting how we approach them.”

He moves to the whiteboard and writes something I don’t register. I’m too busy watching the way he holds the marker. The tension in his shoulders. The way his shirt clings to his back when he stretches to reach the top line.

He’s too composed, too professional. It makes me wonder if he’s trying to pretend just as hard as I am.

“For now,” he continues, “take the rest of the period and just write. About the reading. About how it made you feel. Or what it reminded you of. There is no structure, no right answer. If you didn’t read it, open the book now and start.

I don’t care what it looks like—just get something on the page. ”

Groans ripple across the room.

I pull out my notebook and stare at the blank page like it’s mocking me.

Writing about feelings isn’t exactly my thing.

I tried journaling once, thought maybe it would help me sort through the mess in my head, but all it did was make everything more chaotic.

I can write essays, reports, assignments with rubrics and rules. But my own thoughts? No, thank you.

Sal’s already writing. She actually likes this kind of thing, says it’s like therapy on paper. I envy her for that.

So instead of writing, I sketch.

My pen moves without permission. Lines and shadows taking shape on the page before me. A jawline. The curve of a brow. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I’m halfway through.

Him.

A messy portrait. The set of his mouth, the weight of his stare, the slight crease between his brows. It’s not perfect, but it’s how I see him.

It’s stupid, I know it is. But drawing calms me. It’s the one thing that helps me breathe when everything else in my chest feels too tight.

I glance at him every few seconds to get the details right. Not because I need to, I’ve memorized him already, but because I want to. Because a part of me wants to capture this version of him before it disappears under all the rules and expectations.

And then I feel it.

That shift in the air. That silent warning in my skin. Someone’s standing too close.

I look up.

He’s right there.

Mr. Hayes.

He’s staring down at my notebook, at my drawing—at himself.

My heart lurches in my chest and I feel the blood rush to my face. I slam my hand over the page like that’ll somehow undo what he just saw.

His expression doesn’t change, not exactly. But there’s something in his eyes I can’t read. Surprise? Tension? Maybe nothing… maybe I’m imagining it. He hovers there for just a second too long, then moves on. Leaving me rattled in his wake.

I spend the rest of class staring at the corner of my desk, pretending to write, pretending not to exist. I don’t look up again. I can’t.

When the bell rings, I’m already halfway packed. Ready to disappear and erase the last hour from memory.

But then his voice cuts through the chaos of scraping chairs and rustling paper.

“Drop your pages on my desk before you leave. I won’t read them—just confirming participation. You’ll get them back tomorrow.”

I freeze.

He saw it. He already saw it. But now he’ll have it.

I could fake something else. Scrawl a few messy lines and pretend it’s what I'd been working on this whole time, but something stubborn rises in me. If he’s going to see how I see him, really see him, then fine.

Let him.

He crossed the line first. Whether he meant to or not, he walked into my life, not the other way around.

Sal drops her paper on the pile and throws me a quick grin over her shoulder. “You good?” she mouths.

I nod. Barely.

I walk up, place the page face-up on the stack, making no move to try to hide it. Then I hold my chin high and leave the room.

The second I step into the hallway, I can finally breathe again. My pulse is still racing, my skin still hot. I don’t know what he thought when he saw it. If he thinks I’m obsessed, or if he thinks it’s a joke… If he thinks about me at all.

But it’s out there now.

No taking it back.