"So…" Mom starts, swirling her fork in her salad like she's about to interrogate a murder suspect. "I'm guessing you had an amazing day at school."
I grit my teeth. We've been sitting in silence for an hour, and I was hoping it would stay that way. "Yeah… I guess." I try to keep my tone flat and casual, like I don't still feel my body thrumming from earlier.
Her eyes glint with mischief. "Is he handsome?"
My fork clatters against the plate. "Can you not, Mum? Please."
"I'm sure he must be very handsome if he got you masturbating on the first day."
I choke. Actually choke. "Mum!!"
She bursts out laughing, like she lives for my humiliation. "Oh relax, honey. I was your age once. And you're lucky I didn't walk in with a boyfriend."
I bury my face in my hands. Death. I need death. Now.
Her laughter softens, and when she speaks again, her voice is gentler. "Look, sweetheart. Crushes are normal. So is… what you were doing. I'm not judging you. But you need to be careful, Rachel. College boys can be awful. They'll charm you, get what they want, and then disappear."
"Yeah," I mutter under my breath. "Good thing it's not a college boy."
"What was that?"
"Nothing," I snap, stabbing at my food.
She studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Just… remember what I always tell you. Your heart is worth protecting. Don't give it away too easily, even if he makes you feel like you're floating."
Her words linger longer than I want them to. My mom thinks she's warning me about frat guys with fake Rolexes and kegs of beer. She has no idea I'm drooling over a man with broad shoulders, a lethal smirk, and the word professor attached to his name.
And the worst part? She's right. My heart is already halfway in his hands, and he doesn't even know it.
"Thanks, Mum. I'll keep that in mind," I say, forcing a smile.
As soon as dinner's over, I make a quick escape back to my room. The door clicks shut, and I slump face-first onto my bed, groaning into my pillow.
Then I start laughing. I can't help it.
He's real. He's fucking real!!
My imaginary man. My stupidly perfect, fantasy-only, too-hot-to-exist-in-reality man is real.
I flip over and stare at the ceiling, grinning like a lunatic. "Professor Aaron MacLean," I whisper to myself, testing the sound of it on my tongue. It's too good.
I grab my laptop and sit cross-legged on the bed. Okay, a little light stalking never hurt anyone. It's basically research.
A quick internet search later, I'm disappointed.
Mr. Aaron MacLean. Forty-two years old. Professor. A bunch of academic achievements, awards, boring articles about literature and philosophy. No social media accounts...in any form.
I sigh and shut the laptop halfway. "Of course you're mysterious. Of course you don't exist online," I mumbled, tossing the laptop aside and staring at the ceiling again, my mind drifting back three years.
I was seventeen then, sitting in my room feeling like the ugliest girl in the universe. Braces. Glasses. Hair that refused to be tamed. Always "the chess princess." Always the one people clapped for, never the one they looked at twice.
That's when I decided I was done.
I quit chess. Took off the braces. Begged Mum to help me burn my old clothes and start fresh.
And for the first time, I tried to be… pretty.
And it worked.
The stares came fast, boys in high school suddenly noticing me, girls whispering. But it wasn't what I thought it would be. The boys didn't see me. They saw a body. Curves. Boobs. Skin.
They didn't want to talk. They just wanted to fuck.
And I wanted my first time to mean something. To be with someone who made me feel wanted. Safe. Desired. So, I made him up.
Mr. MacLean.
My dream man. Mature. Calm. Dominant in that quiet, dangerous way. The kind of man who could look at me once and make my knees shake.
And now he's real.
He exists.
And I'm sitting here like a complete idiot, soaking just thinking about him. I reach for the laptop again, flipping it open with a determined little click.
The cursor blinks in the search bar. I stare at it for a second, chewing my lip, then type:
"How to get my professor to fuck me."
I hit enter.
This time, the internet did not disappoint.
The first link I click reads:
"Ten Ways to Make Your Professor Notice You (Without Getting Expelled)"
I snort. "Without getting expelled." Yeah, that's probably important.
I scroll down and start reading aloud.
"Number one: Dress to impress, but keep it classy." Classy. Right. So I definitely needed new clothes.
"Number two: Be the best student in the room."
Okay, that I can do. I can totally do that. I'll raise my hand every time. Answer every question. Nod like I understand Plato even if I have no idea what the hell he's talking about.
"Number three: Maintain eye contact."
Yeah, sure. Until he catches me staring at his mouth.
"Number four: Ask for extra help after class."
Oh, I'll ask for help, alright. Preferably horizontal.
I keep scrolling. The list gets worse.
"Flatter him subtly."
"Find excuses to visit his office."
"Offer to assist with research projects."
My eyes widen. "Wait… assist with.... Assistant!"
I open a new tab, my heart racing. I type in "Campus Faculty Assistant Listings."
There it is, bold as day. Professor Aaron MacLean is seeking a student assistant for the semester.
I sit up so fast my laptop nearly slides off the bed. "You've got to be kidding me."
It's like the universe heard me fantasizing and said, Alright, girl, here's your shot.
I scroll through the listing. "Must be punctual, organized, and discreet."
Oh, I can be discreet.
So discreet.
I click "Apply."
Then I freeze.
My resume still has "National Chess Champion" on it.
Ugh. The one thing I've been trying to bury keeps haunting me.
I delete it. Replace it with "Detail-oriented and highly motivated student." That sounds professional enough, right? Not like I'm secretly trying to seduce my professor.
After hitting Submit, I toss my laptop aside and flop back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling with a stupid grin.
"I'm one step closer to fucking the man of my dreams."