The text arrives Wednesday at 6 PM while I'm changing my shirt for the third time.
Parker: Meeting in an hour. My office. Looking forward to it.
I stare at the message, heart hammering.
Stella watches me from her bed, textbook forgotten. "You're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling."
"You've changed your outfit four times."
"Three times."
"Still spiraling." She sets down her book. "What are you so nervous about? It's just a research meeting."
"With three other students and a professor who—" I stop myself.
"Who what?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
She gives me a look but doesn't push. "Just wear the black jeans and that grey sweater. You look smart but not like you're trying too hard."
I glance at the outfit she's pointing to. She's right. I change one more time, then grab my laptop and the notebook where I've been scribbling ideas about authenticity and digital performance.
"How do I look?" I ask.
"Like someone who's about to get herself in trouble."
"Perfect."
I leave before she can say anything else.
Dodd Hall is quieter at night. Most students are already at dinner or pre-gaming for weekend plans. The third floor hallway is empty except for the fluorescent lights humming overhead.
His office door is half-open, warm light spilling into the hallway.
I knock softly.
"Come in."
His voice still does something to my spine.
He's behind his desk, reading glasses on, surrounded by stacks of papers. When he looks up and sees me, something shifts in his expression.
"Avery." He stands, gestures to the chair across from him. "You're early."
"Didn't want to be late."
"The others won't be here for another thirty minutes. I asked them to come at 7:30." He removes his glasses, sets them aside. "Wanted to talk to you first."
My stomach flips. "About what?"
"Sit."
I sit, laptop clutched in my lap like armor.
He leans back in his chair, studying me in that way that makes me feel like he's reading a language I didn't know I was speaking.
"Before we start working together," he says slowly, "I need to know we're on the same page."
"Okay."
"This position is intensive. We'll be spending a lot of time together. Late nights, weekends, close quarters. It requires trust."
"I understand."
"Do you?" He leans forward now, elbows on the desk. "Because there are going to be rumors the second people realize you're one of my assistants. You're young, you're—" He stops himself.
"I'm what?"
"You have a significant online presence. That makes you visible. Which means people will talk."
"Let them."
"It's not that simple." His jaw tightens. "If anyone accuses me of impropriety, this program ends. For both of us. Do you understand?"
I hold his gaze. "Nothing improper is happening."
"I know that. But perception matters." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying we need to be careful. Professional boundaries. Clear lines."
"Of course."
But neither of us looks away.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.
Finally, he clears his throat. "Good. Then let's talk about the project."
He pulls up a document on his laptop, angles it so I can see. "We're writing a paper on authenticity in digital spaces. Specifically, how influencers construct identity and whether 'authentic' performance is even possible."
"You're using me as a case study."
"You're a consultant. There's a difference." He almost smiles. "But yes, your experience is relevant. That's why I want you on this project."
He walks me through the outline—methodology, research questions, theoretical framework. His mind is sharp, and he doesn't talk down to me. He treats me like a colleague, like my thoughts actually matter.
When I challenge his approach to Goffman's theory, he grins.
"Most students just take notes and nod."
"I'm not most students."
"No." His voice drops slightly. "You're not."
The air shifts again. Charged. Dangerous.
My phone buzzes on the desk between us. We both glance at it.
Three texts from Liam flash across the screen.
Liam: where are you Liam: we need to talk
Liam: avery answer me
Parker's expression goes carefully neutral.
"Liam," he says slowly. "That's my son's name."
My blood turns to ice.
"Common name," I say, reaching for my phone.
His hand shoots out, not touching mine but close. "Is it him?"
I could lie. Should lie. But something in his gaze tells me he already knows. Has maybe known since Monday when Liam grabbed my wrist in the hallway.
"We went to the same high school. Sacramento area."
"Did you date?"
The question is casual, but there's steel underneath.
"Briefly. Last spring. It ended badly." I meet his eyes. "Is that going to be a problem?"
He's quiet for a long moment, jaw working like he's choosing his words carefully.
"That depends. Are you here because of him?"
Yes. At first. But now I don't know anymore.
"I'm here because I want to study media psychology. Because your lectures actually make sense of everything I've been trying to figure out on my own. Because when you talk about narrative and identity, it feels like you're describing my entire life."
It's the truth. Most of it, anyway.
He holds my gaze, searching for something. Whatever he finds seems to satisfy him.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." He leans back. "But Avery, if this gets complicated—if there's drama with my son in my classroom—you need to tell me. I can't have that disrupting the program."
"There won't be drama. We don't talk anymore."
"He seems to think otherwise." His eyes flick to my still-buzzing phone.
"He's wrong."
Parker nods slowly, but something dark crosses his face. Protective, maybe. Or possessive.
"Good."
Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door.
"Professor Parker?" A girl's voice.
"Come in," he calls, and just like that, the moment breaks.
Three students file in—two girls and a guy, all looking nervous and eager. Parker introduces us quickly.
Rachel: senior, communications major, sharp and efficient
Marcus: junior, sociology minor, quiet but observant
Tara: sophomore, film studies, bubbly and a little too enthusiastic
They all stare at me a beat too long. Recognition flickers across their faces.
"Wait, you're Avery Lane," Tara says. "I follow you on Instagram."
"Used to post more," I say carefully.
"You're huge, though. Two million followers?" She looks at Parker. "That's so cool that she's on the team."
Rachel doesn't look impressed. "Followers don't equal research skills."
"Which is why we're all here," Parker cuts in smoothly. "To learn. Avery's experience with digital identity construction makes her uniquely qualified for this project."
Rachel's jaw tightens, but she doesn't argue.
We spend the next ninety minutes going through the research plan. Parker assigns tasks—literature reviews, data collection, interview protocols. He's exacting, demanding, but fair. When Marcus suggests a modification to the methodology, Parker actually listens and adjusts.
By 9 PM, everyone's packing up.
"Same time next week," Parker says. "And I expect progress reports via email by Monday."
Rachel and Marcus leave immediately. Tara lingers, trying to ask me about my Instagram strategy, but I deflect until she finally takes the hint.
Then it's just Parker and me again.
I should leave. Should follow the others out, keep it professional.
Instead, I stand there like an idiot.
"That went well," he says, closing his laptop.
"Rachel hates me."
"Rachel's protective of her GPA. She'll come around." He grabs a book from the corner of his desk, slides it across to me. "For you."
Erving Goffman. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life.
"Your homework," he says. "Read it. Tell me what you think."
Our fingers brush as I take it. Neither of us pulls away immediately.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
We're standing close now, closer than we should be. The office suddenly feels smaller.
"Avery," he says, and the way he says my name makes my breath catch.
"Yeah?"
"About earlier. What I said about boundaries."
"I remember."
"I meant it." But his voice is quieter now. "We have to be careful."
"I know."
"Do you?" He steps closer, and I can smell his cologne—woodsy, expensive, devastating. "Because I'm not sure I do anymore."
My heart stops.
"Professor—"
"Ethan." His voice is barely above a whisper. "When we're alone, you can call me Ethan."
This is crossing a line. We both know it.
I should step back. Should grab my things and leave and pretend this didn't happen.
Instead, I hold his gaze.
"Ethan."
Something flickers in his eyes. Heat. Warning. Want.
Then his phone buzzes on the desk, shattering the moment.
He steps back immediately, running a hand through his hair. "You should go. It's late."
"Right. Yeah."
I grab my laptop, the book, my bag. Move toward the door like I'm on autopilot.
"Avery."
I turn.
He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Conflict. Desire. Regret.
"See you Monday."
"Monday," I echo.
I walk out before I can do something stupid. Before I can ask him what he meant. Before I can close the distance between us and find out if this thing humming between us is real or just in my head.
The hallway is empty. I'm halfway to the stairs when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I open it.
You looked good tonight. - E
My heart stops.
I stare at the message, then save his number.
Type back: Thank you. See you Monday.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
E: I'm looking forward to it.
Then, a moment later:
E: Also—you handled Rachel well. She's tough but she respects strength. You'll win her over.
And finally:
E: Good night, Avery.
Not Miss Lane.
Avery.
I lean against the wall, clutching the book against my chest.
This was supposed to be about revenge. About making Liam jealous. About proving I wasn't weak.
But when Ethan looked at me in his office, when he said my name like it meant something, revenge was the last thing on my mind.
My phone buzzes again.
Zoey: HOW WAS THE MEETING
Me: I think I'm in trouble
Zoey: GOOD TROUBLE OR BAD TROUBLE
I look down at Ethan's texts, still glowing on my screen.
Me: Both
I walk back to my dorm in a daze, and when I pass a group of students laughing on the quad, I wonder if they can see it on my face—the way everything just shifted.
The way I just stopped pretending this is only about revenge.
The way I might actually be falling for him.
And that's infinitely more dangerous than anything I planned.