The silence stretches out between us, thick and uncomfortable. He's still at the podium, and I'm still in the third row, maybe ten feet away, though somehow it feels closer than that.
"You wanted to talk to me?" I try to keep my voice steady.
"Come down here," he says, gesturing toward the front. "I'm not going to shout across the room."
I grab my bag and make my way down the steps, each footfall echoing in the empty lecture hall. When I reach the bottom, I stop a few feet from the podium, maintaining what feels like a professional distance.
He's leaning against the desk with his arms crossed, watching me with that evaluating look I'm starting to recognize.
"Your reflection paper," he begins.
My stomach tightens. "What about it?"
"You submitted it two days early."
"Is that a problem?"
"No, it's just interesting. Most students wait until the last possible minute. You submitted yours Tuesday night." He tilts his head slightly, studying me. "I had time to actually read it, which is unusual for me at this point in the semester."
"I just had time and figured I'd get it done," I say with a shrug.
"Or you wanted to make a good impression."
The observation is uncomfortably accurate, and I feel exposed. I hold his gaze anyway. "Can't it be both?"
His lips twitch like he might smile. "I suppose it can."
He pushes off from the desk and walks a bit closer, stopping about three feet away. Close enough that I catch a hint of his cologne—something clean and expensive, maybe sandalwood. It's distracting.
"I read your paper," he says. "It was good. Thoughtful. You actually engaged with the assignment instead of just summarizing what you posted online."
"Thank you."
"You wrote about performance, about curating a narrative after a betrayal." He pauses, watching my reaction. "You didn't give specifics, but the subtext was clear."
My chest tightens. I didn't mention Liam by name, didn't give details, but apparently I hadn't been as subtle as I thought.
"The assignment was to analyze our online presence," I say carefully. "That's what I did."
"You did more than that. You were honest about the motivations behind it. Most students won't admit they're performing for an audience. They'll claim everything they post is authentic, even when it's obviously constructed." He crosses his arms again. "You didn't pretend. That takes a certain kind of self-awareness."
"Or maybe I'm just more calculating," I say, testing the word.
"Or that." He doesn't seem bothered by the admission. "Is that a bad thing?"
"Depends on what I'm calculating, I guess."
He studies my face like he's trying to read something there. The silence stretches for a moment before he speaks again.
"You handled yourself well in class today when I called on you."
"You put me on the spot."
"I did. But you didn't flinch, didn't stumble. Most students would have, being singled out in front of two hundred people, especially with a personal question like that."
"It wasn't that personal," I say, though we both know that's not entirely true.
"Wasn't it? I asked if you were moving forward. That's not exactly an academic question, Miss Lane."
My heart is beating faster now. "You asked it in the context of the lecture. Goffman, performance of self. It was relevant to the material."
"I asked because I was curious," he says simply, and the admission catches me completely off guard.
"Curious about what?"
"About you. You're different from most of the students in this class." He seems to consider his next words carefully. "You're deliberate in everything you do. Intentional. Most eighteen-year-olds are still figuring themselves out, reacting to whatever life throws at them. But you don't do that. You calculate, you plan."
He's right, and it's unsettling that he can see it so clearly.
"Is that why you asked me to stay after class?" I ask. "To tell me I'm calculating?"
"I asked you to stay because I wanted to make sure you understand something." He takes a breath, and his expression becomes more serious. "This class is challenging, and I can already tell you're going to excel. You're smart, you're prepared, you think critically. Those are all good things."
"Thank you."
"But you're also ambitious. I can see it in the way you carry yourself, the way you engage. You want more than just a good grade from this class." His voice drops slightly. "And I recognize that hunger."
The word sends an unexpected shiver through me. "And that's a problem?"
"No, ambition is what drives people to succeed. But it can also cloud judgment, make you take risks you shouldn't take."
"What kind of risks?" I ask quietly.
He doesn't answer right away. When he does speak, his voice is careful, measured. "You're young and talented. You have a real future ahead of you. Don't sabotage it by wanting too much too fast, or by focusing your energy on the wrong goals."
I feel like he's saying something more than his words convey. "I'm not sabotaging anything."
"Not yet." His tone is almost gentle. "But I've seen it before. Students who get fixated on proving something, who mistake intensity for genuine connection. It never ends well."
My breath catches. Is he talking about the grad student the girls mentioned? Or is he talking about me?
"I'm just here to learn," I say, but even as I say it, I know it sounds hollow.
"Are you?" The question hangs between us, weighted with meaning.
I should say yes. Should insist I'm just another student trying to get through his class. But I can't quite make myself lie when he's looking at me like that.
"I'm here for a lot of reasons," I admit.
"That's what I thought."
The silence that follows is heavy. We're standing closer than we should be. I should step back, create more distance, but I don't move. Neither does he.
"Your answer in class today," he says quietly. "About trying to move forward. Was that true?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Because if you're still stuck in the past, you'll make decisions based on hurt, on revenge, on proving something to people who don't deserve your energy. Those kinds of decisions rarely lead anywhere good."
The words cut deeper than I expect. He knows. Maybe not the specifics, maybe not the details of my plan, but he knows I'm not here purely for an education.
"I'm not stuck," I say, though I'm not entirely sure that's true.
"Good." He leans in slightly, just enough that I have to look up to maintain eye contact. "Because ambition is a powerful thing, Miss Lane. When it's focused on the right goals, it can take you anywhere you want to go."
His voice drops lower, more intimate. "But when it's misdirected? When it becomes about proving something to the wrong people? It becomes intoxicating. And intoxication leads to bad decisions."
My heart is hammering against my ribs. This is clearly a warning—stay away, don't cross lines, don't mistake this professional relationship for something it's not. But it doesn't feel like a warning. It feels like a dare.
"I'll be careful," I whisper.
"Will you?"
"Yes."
He holds my gaze for what feels like an eternity, then steps back, restoring the professional distance between us. "Good. I'm glad we had this talk."
He walks back to his desk and starts packing up his laptop, effectively dismissing me. I stand there for a moment, trying to process what just happened, feeling slightly dizzy.
"You're excused, Miss Lane."
Right. I grab my bag and turn toward the exit.
"Miss Lane."
I stop and look back.
He's watching me again, his laptop halfway into his bag. "Your reflection paper. A-plus."
"Thank you."
"Keep up the good work."
I nod and head up the steps and out the door into the hallway. I make it maybe ten feet before my legs feel unsteady. I lean against the wall and try to catch my breath.
What the hell just happened?
He warned me off, told me to be careful, told me ambition can cloud judgment. But the way he looked at me, the way he leaned in—that wasn't just professorial concern. That was something else entirely.
I pull out my phone and open Instagram, needing to ground myself in something familiar. I take a quick photo of the empty hallway with its afternoon light streaming through the windows.
Caption: some conversations change everything.
I post it and watch the likes start rolling in almost immediately. My followers have no idea. No idea what just happened in that lecture hall. No idea that the professor just warned me away while somehow pulling me closer at the same time. No idea that I'm standing in this hallway with my hands shaking and my heart racing, thinking about the way his voice dropped when he said the word "intoxicating."
My phone buzzes with a text from Riley: lunch?
Me: yeah. meet you at the dining hall in 10
I push off the wall and start walking toward the exit, whispering to myself, "Careful, Avery."
But careful is the last thing I want to be.