TESSLYN'S POV
His eyes are the color of storms.
That's my first real thought as I stare at the stranger beside me. Not blue. Not gray. Something in between—like the sky right before lightning strikes.
"I'm Thayer," he says, but something in his voice sounds like he's not sure he should tell me. Like maybe we should stay strangers.
"Tesslyn." My tongue feels thick from the whiskey. "But everyone calls me Tess."
"Tesslyn," he repeats, testing it. "That's beautiful. Unusual."
"My mom liked old-fashioned names." I take another sip. The burning doesn't hurt anymore. Everything's getting soft around the edges. Fuzzy. Good. "She said I deserved something special."
"Smart woman."
"She works three jobs so I could go to college." The words spill out before I can stop them. Whiskey makes me honest, apparently. "Cleaning houses. Night shifts at the hospital. Weekend catering gigs. All so I wouldn't have debt."
His expression shifts. Something like respect. "That's real love."
"Yeah." My eyes burn. Not from alcohol this time. "Unlike some people who say they love you while screwing your roommate."
Silence. Then: "Is that what happened tonight?"
I laugh. It sounds broken. "Got my acceptance letter today. Full scholarship to my dream school. Rushed to tell my boyfriend. Found him in bed with my best friend. So yeah. That's what happened tonight."
"Christ." Thayer flags down the bartender. "Two more. Top shelf this time."
"I can't afford—"
"My treat." His voice is firm. Kind. "Trust me, if anyone needs top-shelf liquor tonight, it's you."
The bartender pours something amber and expensive-looking. I drink. It's smoother than the cheap stuff. Slides down like silk.
"Three years," I say, staring at my glass. "I was with Callum for three years. And apparently he's been with Sienna—my roommate—for two months. Two months of lies. Of kissing me hello while tasting like her. Of both of them pretending to be my friends."
"People are cowards," Thayer says quietly. "They take the easy way. The selfish way. Especially when they know someone good won't fight back."
I look at him sharply. "How do you know I won't fight back?"
"Because you're here drinking away your pain instead of keying his car." He smiles slightly. "Trust me, I know the type. You're loyal. Forgiving. You probably already blame yourself somehow."
My throat tightens. He's right. Part of me is thinking: Maybe I wasn't enough. Maybe I was boring. Maybe if I'd been prettier, funnier, better—
"Stop," Thayer says, reading my face. "Whatever you're thinking—stop. His betrayal isn't about you. It's about him being too weak to be honest."
"You sound like you know about betrayal."
His jaw tightens. For a second, something dark crosses his face. Pain so deep it makes my chest ache.
"I do," he says finally. "I know about losing someone you thought would stay forever."
"What happened?"
He takes a long drink. "She died. Three years ago. Car accident."
The words slam into me. "Oh God. I'm so sorry. I'm sitting here crying about a cheating boyfriend when you—"
"Pain is pain," he interrupts gently. "Doesn't matter if it's from death or betrayal. Losing someone hurts."
We sit in silence. The bar noise fades away. It's just us, two broken people sharing expensive whiskey.
"I don't even know why I came here," I admit. "I walked for hours. Ended up outside this fancy place. It's not somewhere people like me belong."
"People like you?"
"Poor scholarship kids whose moms clean houses." I gesture at the bar. "Everyone here probably has trust funds."
"I don't care about trust funds." Thayer's voice is intense suddenly. "You know what I see? Someone brave enough to work for her dreams. Someone loyal enough to rush over with good news instead of bragging on social media first. Someone real in a world full of fakes."
My heart does something weird. Skips. Stutters.
"You don't know me," I whisper.
"Maybe not." His eyes lock with mine. "But I'd like to."
The air between us changes. Charges. Like electricity before a storm.
"I should go," I say, but I don't move. Can't move.
"Should you?" His hand reaches out. Slowly. Giving me time to pull away. His fingers brush my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Or are you tired of doing what you should?"
I am. God, I'm so tired of being good. Perfect. The girl who studies hard and trusts people and follows rules.
Where did that get me? Cheated on. Heartbroken. Alone.
"What if I want to do something I shouldn't?" The words come out breathier than I mean.
Thayer leans closer. His cologne—cedar and rain—makes me dizzy. Or maybe that's the whiskey.
"Then do it," he murmurs. "Just for tonight. Be someone different."
His lips are an inch from mine. I can feel his breath. Warm. Unsteady.
Every logical thought in my brain screams warnings. He's older. A stranger. This is reckless and stupid and—
I kiss him.
Just lean forward and press my lips to his. He makes a sound—surprise, maybe—then his hand slides into my hair and he's kissing me back.
It's not like kissing Callum. Not sweet or safe or predictable.
It's fire. Consuming. Like being burned alive and wanting more.
We break apart, both breathing hard.
"Come with me," Thayer says roughly. "My place is close. We can talk. Or not talk. Whatever you want."
I should say no. Should go home. Should be responsible.
But responsible got me heartbroken. And this beautiful stranger looks at me like I'm something precious.
"Okay," I breathe.
He stands, pulling me with him. Throws money on the bar—way too much. We walk outside into cool night air.
His car is sleek. Expensive. He opens the passenger door for me like I'm worth caring for.
We drive in silence. Tension thick between us. His hand finds mine. Holds it tight.
When we pull up to a building—modern, glass, definitely expensive—my heart pounds so hard I hear it.
"Last chance," Thayer says, killing the engine. "We go upstairs, and this becomes real. You don't have to—"
I kiss him again. Harder this time. Desperate.
"I want real," I whisper against his mouth. "Just for tonight. I want to feel something other than broken."
"Then let me put you back together."
We stumble into the elevator. He presses the button for the top floor—penthouse, of course—and then his mouth is on mine again. Hands in my hair. My back against the wall.
The elevator dings. Opens. He pulls me down a hallway, fumbling with keys.
The door swings open. I have a vague impression of hardwood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, city lights glittering below.
Then he's lifting me. Carrying me. His lips on my neck, my jaw, my mouth.
"Tell me your name again," he breathes.
"Tesslyn."
"Tesslyn," he repeats, like a prayer. "Beautiful Tesslyn."
We fall onto his bed together, and for the first time all day, I don't think about Callum.
I don't think about betrayal or broken trust or shattered futures.
I only think about storm-gray eyes and gentle hands and how it feels to be wanted like this.
Like I'm not just enough.
Like I'm everything.
Hours later, I drift toward sleep in his arms. His heartbeat steady under my ear. His fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back.
"Stay," he murmurs. "Don't disappear."
But even as he says it, even as I promise "okay" into his chest, part of me knows the truth.
This is one night. One perfect escape from reality.
By morning, I'll be gone.
And I'll never see this beautiful stranger again.
At least, that's what I think.
I have no idea that in two weeks, I'll walk into my first college class and find him standing at the front of the room.
My professor.