Page 7 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

SOPHIE

I wake up early the next morning, the sound of my alarm cutting through the haze of sleep. It’s a small victory. Me, a lover of the snooze button, actually getting out of bed the first time it goes off. The thought of seeing Mr. Hayes crosses my mind, and suddenly, my bed feels a lot less inviting.

If he teaches me nothing this semester, he still gets credit for giving me the motivation to be on time every day. And for someone like me, who would rather sleep until noon, that’s saying something.

I throw on a cropped tee and pull on my favorite high-waisted jeans, the fabric scraping against my legs.

My hair is its usual chaos of curls, some tight, some loose, refusing to be tamed, but today, I don’t just throw it up into a messy bun.

I spend fifteen full minutes trying to coax it into something close to “effortlessly pretty.” Spoiler: it’s anything but.

I swipe on mascara as a final touch, hoping it makes me look like I’ve been awake longer than five minutes.

At school, Sal is nowhere to be found. Wonderful. She probably ditched today, but she hasn’t texted like she usually does. I shoot her a quick message, then make my way to class. I’m a little worried, but I assume she’s just playing hooky.

The bell rings, and Mr. Hayes stands up, eyes scanning the room.

They meet mine for just a second, and the butterflies in my stomach wake up instantly.

There’s a shift in his expression, so small I almost miss it.

But I caught it. An expression of longing.

Like he is struggling with all of this, too.

I try to focus on what he’s saying, I do, but I keep getting pulled in by him. The way his face lights up when he talks, the rise in his voice when he hits a line he clearly loves, and the way he gestures like the words need more space than his voice can give them.

He actually seems to care about writing and reading. About the way words shape the world. It doesn’t feel like a performance, it feels like a genuine look into his mind and soul.

Before I know it, the hour is gone and the bell rings again, signaling our freedom.

But I don’t want to be free.

“Before you all leave,” his gravelly voice cuts through the shuffle of backpacks and chairs, “make sure you turn in your homework from last night. See you tomorrow.”

Shit.

The homework.

Yeah, that completely slipped my mind.

I scramble to remember what the assignment even was. My stomach sinks when I realize I’ve got absolutely nothing. Off to a great start already. I bite my lip, weighing my chances of sneaking out undetected. But when I glance up, his eyes find mine again. No chance.

I hang back, waiting until I can take my place at the end of the line. His desk is cluttered with papers, books, and assorted coffee mugs. My palms feel damp, nerves creeping in fast. I don’t want to disappoint him… and not just because he’s my teacher .

“So, about that assignment,” I say, trying to sound casual but not really pulling it off. I shift my weight to one hip and cross my arms. “I may have forgotten about it until now. I’m sorry.”

His gaze settles on my face. His eyes are dark, steady, and entirely too good at seeing more than I want him to. He can read me without trying. He did it at the bar too, but it felt electric then. Here, it feels like a trap.

His hair is falling into his eyes again.

Those dark, always slightly too-long curls that can’t help but find their way back there.

The scruff on his jaw matches it. I wonder what it would feel like to touch it.

Scratchy? Softer than it looks? The thought is so loud in my head that I nearly flinch.

My fingers twitch, and I ball my fists before I act on the impulse to reach out and touch him.

I feel heat rising in my chest, but I hold his gaze. Barely.

“I see,” he says, his tone unreadable. “The poem I assigned was beautiful. I was looking forward to hearing your thoughts.” He pauses, like he’s considering something. “How about an alternative? Draw me something. Anything. Just put your heart into it, and I’ll count it.”

I blink. That’s the last thing I expected.

If every assignment could be replaced with art, I’d have perfect grades across the board.

I smile. Not the polite kind, the real kind. I feel like I can breathe again. “Yes. Absolutely. Thank you, Mr. Hayes. I won’t let you down.”

His expression softens, just slightly. A flash of a gentler feeling, like warmth, hidden under his professionalism. His voice lowers.

“I know you won’t.”

I walk away with my heart fluttering in my chest. Feeling both light and heavy at the same time.

At home, I can’t stop thinking about what he said. Not just the words, but the way he said them, and even more so, the way they made me feel. The way he looked at me when he said them, like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just one more student on a roster.

My desk is a mess. It’s stained with makeup, foundation swipes and eyeshadow dust ground into the surface. My parents hate it. They remind me often to clean it up. They paid for the desk, and they expect it to stay pristine.

The same goes for my room. Minimal and tidy. The version of me they want to show off.

But the real me? She’s messier than that. Definitely not built for display.

I pull out the sketchbook Sal gave me for my birthday. Its edges are soft and worn. I flip to a clean page and reach for the charcoals. Deep blacks and cool greys, my comfort colors. The ones that match the way I feel more often than not.

The blank page stares back at me, like it knows I’m stalling. Normally, I’d already be halfway done, but this is different. I'm drawing this for him.

Eventually, I settle on a self-portrait. Personal, but not too personal. Something honest without giving too much away. It still feels like a risk. The idea of him holding it, of him looking at me and seeing it… seeing me… makes my chest tighten.

Music plays low through my speakers, Sleep Token on repeat. I let it carry me into the work. I let the charcoal move the way it wants across the page. Shadows, lines, emotion splaying from my fingertips.

When I sit back, the face on the page isn’t just a portrait of me, it's emotion on a page. It’s tired and curious and open and afraid. The eyes are windows to the soul they say, and I'm not hiding.

It feels like too much.

But with him, it doesn’t feel unsafe.

And I don’t know what to do with that .

I slide the drawing into a folder, careful not to smudge it. Then I grab a joint from my stash and slip outside, the evening air colder than I expected.

My thoughts are loud again. Twisting and tripping over each other. Too many feelings I don’t know how to name.

This won’t fix anything.

But maybe, for a little while, it’ll help me breathe.