Martina hadn't meant to slap him.
Obviously. Because who slaps their husband in the middle of his own lecture hall?
Apparently… she did.
River froze, one hand on the edge of his desk, the other lifting slowly to his cheek like he'd just been hit by a confused butterfly with anger issues. His glasses slipped down his nose. A few first-bench students gasped in the exact same pitch, like a very dramatic choir.
"Okay," he said finally, voice low, steady, and one hundred percent the I'm-your-husband-and-also-your-professor-and-I-can't-yell-at-you-right-now tone.
"Interesting choice."
Professor Fisher's History 204 class was packed. It always was — partly because he was brilliant, partly because he was funny, and partly because apparently every student at the university had collectively agreed that he was Attractive With a Capital A no less than that!
Her pulse sprinted. "I didn't— you were— you kept lecturing at me like I was a—"
"A student?" he supplied, blinking. "In my class? During my class?"
God. His sarcasm. She'd married this man voluntarily.
Martina's throat tightened. "You were being impossible."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear — which, honestly, was unfair because his voice did things. Academic things. Biological things. Things that should require institutional review board approval.
"Sweetheart," he murmured, "you looked at your phone for twenty-three consecutive seconds. I counted."
She glared. "That's not— that's barely— you count?"
"I'm a historian," he whispered, as if offended. "I count everything."
The class watched them like they were observing a rare animal documentary titled Professors Behaving Badly.
Martina's face burned. "Can we not do this right now?"
A soft exhale. The kind he did when he was half-annoyed, half-worried, and one hundred percent in love with her even though she'd just slapped him in front of a hundred undergrads who probably thought this was some avant-garde performance piece.
River straightened, adjusted his glasses, and said crisply to the class,
"Pop quiz."
Groans erupted.
He didn't take his eyes off her.
"Martina," he added, "stay after."
Her stomach dropped. but annoyance stem deeper as she rolled her eyes-
"Yeah whatever!"
that--
Martina instantly regretted the eye-roll.
Not because River flinched.
Not because the class collectively went "ooooh" like they were in middle school and not a university that charged actual real-world money.
But because River's expression changed.
Not the professional one.
Not the married-to-you one.
Not even the you-slapped-me-and-I'm-processing-it one.
No.
This was the flaming red, eyebrow twitching, oh-I-am-absolutely-going-to-win-this-fight-later expression.
River Thomas Fisher didn't raise his voice.
He didn't scold.
He didn't say a word.
He just stared at her.
Slowly. Quietly. Like she was a misbehaving primary source that needed… editing.
The class fell silent again, the kind of silence that suggested someone had unplugged the concept of sound.
"Whatever?" he repeated, softly. Too softly. Dangerously softly.
Martina felt her soul climb out of her body and hide behind the whiteboard.
She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
He arched a brow. "Noted."
Noted???
Noted was worse than angry.
Noted meant stored-for-later. Noted meant consequences. Noted meant she, Martina Hoffmann—chaotic, impulsive, alp-bound train-ticket-half-booked—had officially awakened the academic kraken.
River looked away first, only because he had to pick up a stack of quiz papers like a responsible adult with a PhD.
"Pens out," he said to the class in his usual calm, devastatingly composed professor voice.
Then, without looking at her:
"Martina stays. Everyone else leaves immediately after the quiz."
A few students glanced sympathetically at her, as if she were walking into an oral exam with God.
Martina tried to sit still. She tried to focus on the stupid quiz.
She tried to not stare at the sharp line of his shoulders or the way he kept rubbing the spot on his cheek where she'd slapped him.
She tried not to stare—but her eyes kept betraying her. Every time his fingers brushed that cheek, heat crawled up her throat. Great. Fantastic. She was now the kind of person who committed cheek-related violence against her own husband while he was working.
He paced between rows as the class scribbled miserably through the pop quiz he'd weaponized out of thin air. Each time he passed her desk, she felt it.
That quiet, simmering River-energy.
Controlled.
Precise.
A little too calm.
Martina hated calm. Calm meant danger.
She tapped her pen against her paper. Someone two seats over whispered, "Dude, are you okay?"
No. She wasn't okay. She had just slapped her secretly-married professor husband and then rolled her eyes at him like she was auditioning for a teen soap villain role.
"I'm fine," she whispered back, smiling like someone who was absolutely not fine.
At the front, River cleared his throat. The class collectively went rigid. He gave no instruction, just continued his slow panther-like pacing.
Martina wrote exactly one answers on the end of tge quiz:
I'm so dead.
Finally—finally—he announced, "Two minutes left."
The groans were quieter this time. Like the class sensed the end of a natural disaster.
Martina tried not to look at him. But then she accidentally looked at him for an entire five seconds, because her self-control was made of damp spaghetti.
River was already looking at her.
Not glaring.
Not furious.
Just… watching. Studying her like she was a rare footnote he wasn't sure whether to keep or cut.
Her stomach flipped. Stupid stomach.
When the timer beeped, River collected the papers without a word. Students practically fled the room, whispering things like:
"Bro, this was wild."
"Is she gonna survive?"
"I thought Fisher was chill—apparently not??"
"My man said pop quiz like it was a threat."
Soon it was just them.
River gathered his notes with the rigid precision of a man who had absolutely hit his limit. Every movement was clipped. Controlled. Historically Dangerous.
The students filed out, buzzing like gossiping bees who had just witnessed the academic equivalent of a meteor.
When the last one left, the door clicked shut.
Then—click.
He locked it.
Martina swallowed.
River Fisher—brilliant historian, beloved professor, devastatingly attractive husband—stood there with his jaw tight, eyes narrowed, hands settling on his hips like his dissertation was about to argue with her.
"What," he hissed, "the hell was that?"
"I was just texting my mom!" she shot back. "You didn't have to snap at me like I was some freshman who still thinks Charlemagne is a cheese."
He stepped closer. Slowly. Too slowly.
And then his fingers were on her chin, tilting her face up. Very professor. Extremely husband.
"Are you kidding me?" he murmured. "You look at your phone during my class? And then you slap me?"
His brow lifted. "Baby, that is textbook defined 'spoiled-brat behavior'."
She flushed hot. Embarrassment and anger dueling like gladiators.
"And what should I call you?" she snapped. "An asshole?"
A low chuckle. Oh no.
He leaned in, still holding her chin gently but with a professor's let-me-make-a-point smugness.
"Oh, I'm an ass now?" he whispered, eyes darkening in that infuriatingly attractive way.
"Sweetheart… Teresa was literally video-calling her boyfriend. Do you think it was because I was trying to act professional with you? No, i just want one pair of eyes on me! to concentrate all my attention on one..." He tapped her chin lightly. "You."
"That's not fair," she muttered. "You treat me like a student."
"In class?" He pretended to gasp. "How shocking."
She glared. He softened, thumb brushing her skin.
"You're the only one who knows me outside this room," he said quietly. "So maybe give me *more* respect. Not less."
There was a beat. A shift. Her anger faltered, guilt sneaking in like a late submission.
"And don't call me an asshole," he added, lips quirking. "You married me, remember?"
"I regret everything."
"No you don't." He smirked. "Now behave… or I'm keeping you here all lunch."
She huffed. "Asshole."
He moved. Fast.
Not rough—just *decisive*—grabbing her wrists and pinning her lightly against the wall, his body close enough to scramble her ability to spell her own name.
He lowered his lips to her ear, voice a low rumble.
"Keep calling me names," he murmured, "and I'll remind you exactly why you love me. And exactly who you belong to."
Her breath hitched.
But then—
"R-River, that's—too tight—"
He released her instantly, stepping back like he'd been burned.
"Baby—shit, I'm sorry," he said, cupping her face with worried hands. "Are you okay? Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to—I just—God, you terrify me sometimes."
She blinked, surprised by how fast he melted.
"I'm okay, sucker," she said with a small grin. Then, softer, "Sorry. I kinda… forgot you're my history teacher during those five hours. Not my emotional support plushie."
He groaned, resting his forehead briefly against hers.
"You're hopeless."
He pulled her into his arms, holding her close, kissing the top of her head like it was instinct.
"But you're my hopeless."
She relaxed against him, letting his warmth settle her. His nose brushed her neck, taking her breath like a vital part of his wellbeing as he were trying to inhale the entire concept of her existence, when she blurted out:
"Um… I forgot to tell you. Mom's sick."
River froze.
Then pulled back just enough to see her face, his brows knitting together instantly.
The Professor Look. The worried husband version.
"What? Sick how?" His hands tightened around her waist, pulling her closer. "What happened? Is it serious?"
Martina winced. "Uh… not super serious. More like… serious-enough-to-use-as-an-excuse-to-go-to-the-Alps serious."
There was a beat.
Then he exhaled—long, slow, like someone deflating after a minor heart attack—and rubbed her back with both hands.
"Jesus, sweetheart." He rested his forehead against hers. "You nearly killed me."
A soft kiss to her hairline.
"Okay. Alright. Let's go."
Her chest unclenched.
He kissed her forehead again, gentler this time, lingering. "I'll drive."
Then she leaned back, raised a brow, and asked in the most insufferably smug tone available to human beings:
"And what excuse are you using?"
He rolled his eyes, taking her hand and lacing their fingers together.
"I'm the teacher," he said, ridiculously proud. "I just walk to the front desk and say 'emergency.' Poof. I'm gone. Academic privilege."
He tugged her hand, smiling in that way that always messed up the internal temperature of her soul.
"Come on, baby," he murmured taking her hand.
She snorted. "Yay. Family vacation. Our first one since the honeymoon."
He gave her that soft, heart-melting smile reserved for her and historical manuscripts.
"Feels like forever since then," he murmured, brushing her knuckles with his lips.
"You're busy with your projects, classes, meetings and...university matters," she said.
"And you're drowning in coursework and writing the texts that shall survive judgement day," he added with a sigh. "We're going to be wrinkled fossils by forty."
She laughed. "But cute fossils."
"The cutest fossils," he teased, slinging an arm around her shoulders as they walked. "For the next few days—no students, no grading, no real world."
He kissed her temple.
"Just me and my wife. And maybe some hiking."
"If you keep clinging to me," she warned, "you'll lose your job."
He stopped, turned her to face him gently, eyes warm.
"Then I'll cling forever."
A soft thumb over her lip.
"The world can wait. You come first."
"Aw… silly."
"Silly for you," he corrected, kissing her forehead.
They walked again, hand in hand.
"To the mountains," he grinned.
"To mom's," she added.
It came out too fast, too honest — the kind of truth that slipped out only when she wasn't paying attention.
Because she was in love with her mother. In the way daughters sometimes are — fiercely, stupidly, helplessly.
River's fingers curled around hers, warm and steady. "Hey," he murmured, brows pulling together the second it comes to people he loved. and especially if his wife loved someone so damn well then it becomes personal matter. "She's okay, right?"
"Yeah. just My sister and niece are staying over. Mom's getting… 'headaches'." I laughed.
He snorted. "Valid. Your niece has the energy of twelve caffeinated squirrels."
"Tell me about it."
He opened the car door for her. "Get in, baby."
She did. He got in beside her, started the engine, glanced over with a teasing smile.
"It's a long drive. Hope you've got ideas for entertaining me."
Then her panic hit.
"WAIT—what about clothes? Suitcase? Cosmetics?"
River laughed so hard the car swerved half a lane.
"Baby, we're going to your mother's. She keeps an emergency stash of your clothes. You could literally survive there a month without packing."
Martina slapped the dashboard. As the car move forth "BUT–"
"But," he echoed, amused, "if you insist, we can stop at your place and grab things."
His hand reached over, warm and sure, tangling with hers.
Then his voice dropped, smug:
"Though honestly? I don't mind the idea of you wearing my clothes."
She scoffed loudly. "Your clothes are plain and boring. I want to look sexy. Hot."
River laughed, an honest, delighted sound.
"You're such a needy little menace, baby."
He looked back at the road with a cocky grin.
"And my clothes aren't boring. They're classic. Masculine."
"Twist it in grand Shakespearean English all you want," she said, "but boring is boring. I can literally put a poll in the student group chat right now asking them to rate Professor River's fashion sense and I swear you'll get like… a flaming one out of ten."
He scoffed, offended.
"My fashion is refined. It's called taste. If people can't appreciate that, they lack culture."
Martina held up both hands. "I'm a liberal. I'm not arguing with a man I married of my own free will, fighting all odds."
River chuckled, squeezing her hand.
"And I'm forever grateful. Despite your tragic inability to appreciate my impeccable wardrobe."
"Well, if we exclude the clothes part," she winked, "you've got taste, mon chérie."
He laughed under his breath.
"You can tease all you want. But the fact remains… you're married to me. Stuck with me. And my so-called boring clothes. For life."
"I'm not denying it—STOP HERE!"