New Professor
The first time Celeste Monroe heard his name was in the lecture hall. It was whispered like half-gossip and half warning from the girl beside her.
“Did you hear about the new professor?” Olivia asked as she leaned in, her blonde hair falling across her cheek. “The one replacing Dr. Whitman?" She asked with enthusiasm.
Meanwhile, Celeste barely looked up from her lukewarm coffee. “No. Why?”
Olivia smirked. “He’s insane, strict as hell, don’t take trash from anyone.” She paused for emphasis. “And hot. Like, obscenely hot.”That earned Olivia a raised brow from Celeste, who had been busy with her coffee.
She knew Celeste hadn’t enrolled at Columbia for eye candy, but after three years of lectures from professors who practically smelled like mothballs and tenure, she couldn’t say she wasn’t intrigued and ready for the fun part.
From across the room, another girl joined in. “I heard he left NYU after some scandal.”
Hearing that, Mia’s interest was visibly piqued. “What kind of scandal?” She asked.
“No clue,” the girl said, lowering her voice a she was afraid the walls might hear. “Just that it was messy.” She lowered her voice this time.
Celeste hummed, unconvinced. Professors get fired all the time, plagiarism, department politics, failed reviews. It was probably nothing, she'd said to herself internally.
Right into the conversation, the door opened, and the entire room was hushed as conversations clipped short like scissors to a thread.
He walked in like he owned the place, all eyes instantly went on him as some sized him up while the rest wanted to get into his pants.
He was tall, with dark hair, a sharp jaw and wire-rim glasses that did nothing to dull the intensity behind his eyes. His movements were controlled, and calculated, like someone who didn’t waste time or effort on anything unworthy.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice low and firm. “I’m Professor Adrian Ross. If you’re here because you think ‘Contemporary Literature and Critical Analysis’ is an easy A, leave now.” He affirmed with an icy cold tone as his eyes swept the room, coolly and assessing, until they landed on her. At the same time, Celeste didn’t look away and neither did he.
But then the faintest glint sparked in his expression before he turned back to the syllabus in his hand.
Celeste's pulse kicked. 'Interesting.' She said internally.
This semester had just gotten a hell of a lot more intriguing and by the time her next class rolled around, the rumors had evolved into full-blown academic folklore.
“He was fired for sleeping with a student.”
“No—he exposed a department scandal, and they ran him out.”
“I heard he’s divorced. Or married. Or maybe both.”
Celeste rolled her eyes as Olivia slumped into the seat beside her.
“People are acting like he’s some kind of dark academic antihero,” she muttered.
Mia grinned. “You have to admit—it’s kind of hot.”
She nudged her and Celeste gave her a look. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I? Mysterious, broody professor with a shadowy past? If this were a novel, he’d be the morally gray love interest.”
“This isn’t a novel.”
“No,” Mia said with a wink. “But it’s definitely getting interesting.”
Celeste didn’t answer, because she wasn’t wrong.
The next lecture only deepened the intrigue. Friday morning, the second lecture of the semester with Professor Ross, was a vision of authority in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt. His sleeves were rolled just enough to show off lean forearms and the expensive watch on his wrist. He stood at the board, writing in clean, sharp strokes.
“Literature,” he said, his voice as smooth and cool as poured whiskey, "is about subtext. What isn’t said is just as important as what is.”
At this point, Celeste should’ve been listening and taking notes. Instead, she watched him with great intent.
The way he moved, and the way the entire room hung on his every word. The way her own body buzzed just being near him.
Suddenly, he turned. “Monroe.”
Her name landed like a spotlight. She blinked, straightening. “Yes?”
He studied her with unreadable eyes. “Interpret the passage,” he said.
She glanced down—The Age of Innocence, a scene ripe with unspoken longing and restrained desire. Her voice was steady when she answered.
“They want each other. But they can’t have each other.” She affirmed, and the entire room was laced with silence.
At the same time, a flicker of light crossed his eyes, barely a reaction, but enough to make her breath catch.
“Good,” he said. “Next time, elaborate.”
Saying that, he moved on, just like that. But her pulse was still thrumming, her skin still buzzing.
She wasn’t imagining it, the tension between them was real and unexpected.
The next time she saw him outside of class, it wasn’t planned.
Late evening, the sky bruised violet over campus, Celeste stepped out of the library and spotted him across the courtyard—leaning against a sleek black car, alone, and looking far too serious for someone checking their phone.
He looked guarded, coiled and dangerous.
On the contrary, she could’ve walked past, she should, but her feet moved anyway.
“You know,” she called out, her voice light and teasing, “you look way too serious to be texting.”
His head snapped up, eyes locking onto hers like a loaded gun. Surprise flickered across his face—then vanished, replaced by the same cool mask he wore in class.
“Monroe,” he said, slipping the phone into his coat pocket. “Shouldn’t you be studying?”
She smirked. “Shouldn’t you be grading?”
A twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, but almost.
In a split second, he pushed out of the car, straightening to his full height, and at this point, he was taller than she remembered and broader than she could comprehend.
He didn’t touch her or moved closer, yet the tension stretched taut between them anyway.
She felt it in her bones, he was temptation wrapped in self-restraint, and she wanted to see what it would take to make him snap.
