Page 2

Callie

The silence is unbearable.

I’m standing just a few feet from Professor Roman Thorne’s desk, and I swear the walls of the auditorium are closing in. The last student left a few moments ago, and now it’s just the two of us. Him and me.

And that notebook.

He’s flicking through the pages again. Leisurely. Like he’s flipping through some light bedtime reading, instead of the filthiest, most humiliating things I’ve ever written.

My skin feels like it’s on fire.

Every breath feels too loud in the stillness.

My legs are trembling, but I’m too frozen to run.

I want to speak, to explain, or deny, or disappear into the floor.

But I can’t make my mouth work. I’m just…

staring. Staring at the spiral-bound notebook in his hands, where all my dirty little secrets are spelled out in black ink.

I remember the moment I realized it was gone. Yesterday, after class, I’d been in a rush and packed up in a hurry, distracted by the sound of his voice still echoing in my ears. I must have left it on my seat, the last row in the back.

I never thought he’d find it. Or read it.

My stomach twists violently.

He knows I’ve spent the last few months scribbling down detailed, explicit fantasies about him. Every filthy scene. Every sick, needy, breathless thought I’ve ever had about my professor, my idol, laid bare in that little battered notebook.

My heart is pounding so hard it’s making me dizzy.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to see any of it. The notebook was just mine. A private outlet. A way to bleed out the obsession I’ve been carrying around since long before I stepped into his classroom.

It started with the books.

I remember devouring one of his novels during my first year of college, staying up until dawn because I couldn’t stop turning the pages.

It wasn’t just the plot or the prose. It was him.

The way he wrote strong, complex men who could destroy an enemy one moment and cradle his woman with such tenderness the next.

The way he understood power, and surrender, and desire. The way it all felt so real.

When I found out he’d actually been in the military before becoming a writer, it made sense. The way his characters moved, spoke, commanded, it was like they weren’t imagined. They were remembered.

Then came the movies. I watched all the adaptations, some more than once. I’d pretend I was analyzing them for narrative structure, but really, I was watching the lead actors and wondering if he was anything like them.

And when I found his social media page containing videos he’d posted of himself discussing his books, I nearly died.

He wasn’t just hot. He was devastatingly perfect.

Dark, gray-streaked hair. Broad shoulders.

That mouth. And of course, that voice. I’ve imagined him moaning my name or commanding me to do any number of filthy things countless times since I first heard his voice.

So, yeah. I became obsessed. He was already in my head, so I started writing him into my fantasies. I couldn’t help it. The way he looked, the way he sounded... how could I not?

The notebook started long before he ever became my professor. Long before I saw him walk into that lecture hall on the first day of the semester, wearing that worn button-down and dark jeans, setting his coffee beside the podium like it was just another Tuesday.

But it wasn’t another Tuesday. Not for me. It was the day my entire world tilted on its axis.

Seeing him in person, he was so much more than I imagined. More alive. More powerful. More real.

And now, here I am. Standing in front of him like a guilty schoolgirl, too ashamed to speak, too turned on to breathe properly, while he sits there calmly flipping through the most explicit things I’ve ever written.

About him.

He clears his throat softly, and I flinch. But he doesn’t speak. Just turns another page.

The silence stretches. My skin prickles.

But then he looks up from the notebook, right at me. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes… they burn. God, how they burn.

“You’re an incredible writer, Callie.”

I blink. Hard.

My lips part, but no sound comes out. I must’ve misheard him. My pulse is rushing too fast, roaring in my ears, swallowing his words and twisting them into something they can’t possibly be.

“I mean it,” he says, his voice smooth as silk. “Your prose is stunning. The rawness. The rhythm. The way you built tension...” He pauses, lips curling just slightly. “You didn’t just write a fantasy. You crafted it. With detail. With feeling.”

My legs nearly give out.

My entire face is on fire. I can feel the blush blooming from my chest to my cheeks, all the way to the tips of my ears. I duck my head, mortified. There’s no hiding how red I am.

My throat tightens. I don’t know if I want to cry or crawl under a desk or kiss him senseless.

He taps his fingers gently on the closed notebook. “And I have to admit… you captured me perfectly.”

I force myself to meet his eyes and immediately regret it. They’re heavy with meaning. Intense. Devouring.

I stammer. “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to read that.”

“I’m not sorry. Not in the least.”

I can’t breathe. My whole body is buzzing, and I’m torn between horror and disbelief and an almost painful swell of pride. The man who’s inspired everything I’ve written for the last year is complimenting me. Complimenting my writing.

And I swear to God, I’m getting lightheaded.

Roman shifts in his chair, the movement casual but magnetic. “Have you written anything else?” he asks, softer now. Curious.

I nod slowly. “I… I’ve written a novel.”

That earns me a spark of genuine interest. “What kind?”

“Dark academia. Romantic. A little tragic.” I swallow. “It’s about obsession. About two people who shouldn’t be together, but can’t stay away from each other.”

His eyes darken. “Sounds familiar.”

My breath hitches.

“I’d like to read it,” he adds, his voice low and certain. “If you’d let me.”

“I...” My voice breaks. “Okay. I mean… yes. I’d love that.”

“Good girl,” he says, and I swear I almost come on the spot.

The air between us shifts. Becoming denser. Warmer.

“Which of your fantasies is your favorite?” he asks, his gaze unwavering.

My eyes go wide. “What?”

“I’m curious,” he says, his voice dark and hungry now.

“You wrote dozens. Some softer. Some not. Some with restraint. Some with none. So I’m wondering…

” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Which one kept you up at night? Which one caused you to slide your hands into your panties and play with your wet little cunt?”

I want to melt into the floor. I’m starting to realize that the real Roman Thorne is much bolder than the version of him in my imagination. Much more filthy.

So much hotter.

“I... I don’t know. Ummm, I don’t really have a... have a favorite.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t believe a word of it. His gaze drags slowly down my body and back up again, heavy and knowing.

“You can tell me,” he says, voice dipping even lower, “and we can act it out right now. Or…” He tilts his head, his mouth curving into something darker. “I can pick one. Either way, it’s time for me to start making all your dreams come true.”