The Professor I Can't Stand

My alarm goes off at seven, and I immediately want to throw my phone across the room. Monday mornings are the worst, and today is especially bad because I have Professor Adrian Cross's seminar at nine. Two hours of him tearing apart everything I believe in while looking unfairly hot doing it. I roll out of bed and check my messages. There are three new ones from A.H., and my mood instantly improves. **A.H.:** *Hope you slept well. Remember what I said, don't let that professor get to you today.* **A.H.:** *Also, I've been thinking about what you said last night. About honesty in relationships. I think you're right. People spend too much time playing games.* **A.H.:** *Okay, I'll stop rambling. Have a good day, E.* I'm smiling at my phone like a complete idiot. Sophie walks past my open door, sees my face, and immediately backtracks. "Oh my God, you're texting him already? The mysterious A.H.?" "Go away," I say, but I'm still smiling. "You're glowing. This is amazing. I told you that the app would work." "Sophie, I swear—" "Fine, fine. I'm leaving." She grins. "But I want details later!" I quickly type back a response to A.H. **Me:** *Good morning. Thanks for the pep talk. I'll try to survive today's seminar without strangling my professor.* **A.H.:** *That's the spirit. Let me know how it goes.* I set my phone down and force myself to get ready. Shower, coffee, the usual routine. I throw on jeans and an oversized sweater because I refuse to dress up for Adrian Cross's class. My hair goes up in a messy bun because I can't be bothered to do anything else with it. By eight-thirty, I'm out the door with my bag, my laptop, and a large iced coffee that I probably shouldn't be drinking this early, but whatever. I need caffeine. Blackwood University's campus is beautiful in the fall. The old stone buildings are covered in ivy, and the trees are all orange and red. It's the kind of place that looks like it belongs in a movie about prestigious colleges where everyone wears scarves and discusses philosophy. Sterling Hall, where the English Department is housed, is my least favorite building on campus. Not because it's not beautiful, with its Gothic architecture and tall windows but because it's where Professor Cross's office is located. Where his classroom is. Where I have to spend way too much time pretending I'm not affected by him. I'm not the only one heading to his seminar. There are seven other graduate students in the class, and we all have the same expression: exhausted and slightly terrified. "Emma, hey!" It's Michael, one of the other students. He's nice enough, kind of nerdy, always trying to impress Professor Cross with obscure literary references. "Are you ready for today?" "As ready as I'll ever be." I take a long sip of my coffee. "Did you finish the reading?" "Barely. That essay on postmodern narrative theory was brutal. I have no idea what half of it meant." "Same. But you know Cross will ask us to explain it anyway." Michael winces. "Yeah. And then he'll tell us we're all wrong." We walked into the classroom together. It's one of those old seminar rooms with a long wooden table in the center and chairs arranged around it. Big windows let in natural light, and there are bookshelves lining the walls. It should feel cozy, but instead it feels like a trap. I take my usual seat, third chair from the end, and pull out my laptop. A few other students trickle in. There's Sarah, who always agrees with whatever Professor Cross says. There's James, who never talks unless directly called on. There's Rachel, who's probably the smartest one here but acts like she's not. And then, at exactly nine o'clock, Professor Adrian Cross walks in, and the entire energy of the room shifts. I hate that I notice him immediately. That my eyes go straight to him like some kind of automatic response I can't control. He's wearing black today. Black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms. Black pants that fit him perfectly. His dark hair is slightly messy, like he ran his hands through it this morning, and he hasn't shaved in a day or two, giving him that rough edge that makes him look less like a stuffy professor and more like... I don't even know. Something dangerous. His gray eyes scan the room, landing on each of us briefly before moving on. When they hit me, I feel it like a physical touch. I force myself to look down at my laptop. "Good morning," he says, and his voice is deep and controlled. "Let's get started." No pleasantries. No small talk. That's Adrian Cross. Straight to business, no time wasted. He sets his bag down on the desk at the front of the room but doesn't sit. He never sits during seminars. He paces, or leans against the desk, or stands by the window. Always moving, always in control of the space. "I assume you all completed the reading on postmodern narrative structures," he says, his tone suggesting he knows at least half of us didn't finish it. "Let's discuss the main argument. Sarah, start us off. What's the author trying to say about the death of linear storytelling?" Sarah straightens in her chair, eager as always. "Well, the essay argues that postmodern literature rejects traditional narrative structures in favor of fragmented, non-linear approaches that better reflect the chaos of modern life." "Adequate summary," Adrian says, which is basically his version of "good job." He turns to the rest of us. "But that's just surface level. What's the deeper implication? Emma, what do you think?" Of course he's calling on me. He always calls on me. I look up from my laptop, meeting his eyes. "The deeper implication is that authors are rejecting the idea that life has a clear beginning, middle, and end. They're saying that meaning is constructed, not inherent. We impose narrative on chaos because it makes us feel better, but that doesn't make it real." Something flickers in Adrian's expression. Interest, maybe. Or approval. It's gone before I can identify it. "Good. And do you agree with that perspective?" "I think it's pretentious bullshit." The room goes silent. A few people actually gasp. You don't just call academic theory "bullshit" in Adrian Cross's class. But Adrian's lips twitch. Almost a smile. Almost. "Elaborate." I lean back in my chair, feeling bolder now. "Just because life doesn't follow a neat three-act structure doesn't mean there's no meaning to it. Yes, we construct narratives, but that's how humans process experience. Dismissing that as artificial ignores the fact that storytelling is fundamental to how we understand ourselves and each other. The postmodern obsession with fragmentation feels more like showing off than actually saying something valuable." Adrian is watching me now, really watching me, and I feel heat creep up my neck. "Interesting argument," he says slowly. "Does anyone want to challenge Emma's perspective?" Michael jumps in, trying to defend the essay. Then Sarah adds something. Soon the whole class is debating, but I barely hear them. Because Adrian is still looking at me, and there's something in his gaze that makes my stomach flip. Finally, he turns away, addressing the class. "This is what I want to see. Critical thinking. Not just accepting what you read, but interrogating it. Emma's right that postmodernism can be self-indulgent. But the theory also has value in questioning our assumptions about truth and meaning." Did he just say I was right? Professor Adrian Cross just said I was right? The rest of the seminar passes in a blur of discussion. Adrian challenges every point anyone makes, pushes us to think harder, never lets us get comfortable. By the time class ends at eleven, my brain feels fried. As everyone starts packing up, Adrian's voice cuts through the chatter. "Emma, stay back for a minute. We need to discuss your thesis progress." My stomach drops. Here we go. The other students file out, and suddenly it's just me and Adrian in this room. He's leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching me with those intense gray eyes. I stand and walk over, clutching my laptop like a shield. "What about my thesis?" "Your latest chapter. The one you submitted last week." He reaches behind him and picks up a printed copy covered in red marks. My chapter. Bleeding with his notes. "Sit." It's not a request. I sit in the chair closest to his desk, and he moves to stand beside me, too close. He always does this. Gets into my personal space like he doesn't notice or doesn't care. He leans over me, pointing at a paragraph on the first page. I catch his scent—something clean and masculine, probably expensive cologne mixed with coffee and something uniquely him. It's distracting as hell. "This argument here," he says, his voice lower now that we're alone. "You're holding back. You touch on the feminist critique of the text but don't commit to it. Why?" "I... I didn't want to be too aggressive with the interpretation." "Too aggressive?" He straightens up and looks down at me. "Emma, you just spent an hour in my class calling postmodern theory pretentious bullshit. You're not afraid of being aggressive. So why are you playing it safe in your writing?" I meet his eyes, defensive. "Maybe because every time I take a strong stance, you tear it apart." "I tear apart weak arguments. When you actually commit to a position and back it up, I have nothing to criticize." He pauses. "You're smarter than this chapter suggests. I know you are. I've seen it in class." Something in my chest tightens. Is that... a compliment? From Adrian Cross? "So you want me to rewrite it." "I want you to write what you actually think, not what you think I want to read." He sets the chapter down on the desk. "You have potential, Emma. Stop wasting it by trying to please people." Our eyes lock, and for a second, something passes between us. Something electric and confusing and completely inappropriate. I stand up quickly, needing space. "Fine. I'll rewrite it." "Good." He doesn't move, so we're standing close now, too close. "Office hours are Wednesday afternoon if you want to go over your revisions." "I know when your office hours are." "Do you?" There's something in his tone I can't quite read. Almost like... amusement? Challenge? "I have to go," I say abruptly, grabbing my laptop and backing toward the door. "I have another class." I don't. But I need to get out of this room before I do something stupid like ask him why he looks at me the way he does. "Emma," he calls when I'm at the door. I turn back. "Good work today. In the seminar. You challenged the text. That's what I want to see." I don't trust myself to respond, so I just nod and leave. Once I'm in the hallway, I lean against the wall and take a deep breath. What the hell was that? My phone buzzes. It's A.H. **A.H.:** *How was the seminar? Did you survive?* I almost laughed. If only he knew. **Me:** *Survived. Barely. I called an essay pretentious bullshit in front of everyone.* **A.H.:** *And did your professor kick you out of class?* **Me:** *No. He said I made a good point. Then he told me my thesis chapter isn't aggressive enough.* **A.H.:** *Sounds like he knows you're capable of more. That's not necessarily a bad thing.* **Me:** *You're very generous with your interpretations of Professor Cross.* **A.H.:** *Or maybe I just think you're smarter than you give yourself credit for. Trust your instincts, E. If you think something is bullshit, say it. Own it.* I smile at my phone. This stranger gets me in a way that's kind of scary and kind of wonderful. **Me:** *Thanks. I needed to hear that.* **A.H.:** *Anytime. That's what I'm here for.* I head to the campus coffee shop, order another iced coffee I definitely don't need, and find a table in the corner. I pull out my laptop and open my thesis chapter, looking at all of Adrian's red marks. He's right. I was holding back. Playing it safe. Trying to write what I thought he wanted instead of what I actually believe. Screw that. I open a new document and start rewriting. This time, I didn't hold back. I make my argument bold, aggressive, unapologetic. I cite sources that support my feminist reading of the text and dismantle the traditional interpretations that have dominated the field for decades. It feels good. Powerful. Like I'm finally writing in my own voice. My phone buzzes again. Another message from A.H. **A.H.:** *Random question. What's the most rebellious thing you've ever done?* I think about it for a minute. **Me:** *When I was sixteen, I snuck out to go to a concert my parents said I couldn't attend. Got caught coming back at 3 AM. Grounded for a month. Totally worth it.* **A.H.:** *Teenage rebellion. Classic. What concert?* **Me:** *You're going to laugh. It was a punk rock show. I had this phase.* **A.H.:** *I'm not laughing. I think it's great. Everyone should have a rebellious phase.* **Me:** *Did you?* **A.H.:** *I was pretty tame growing up. Too focused on school and getting into the right university. But I'm learning it's never too late to break a few rules.* There's something in that message that feels weighted. Like he's not just talking about teenage rebellion. **Me:** *What rules are you thinking about breaking?* The response takes longer this time. **A.H.:** *The kind that keeps me from going after what I really want.* My heart does this stupid flutter thing. **Me:** *That's cryptic.* **A.H.:** *Sorry. Just thinking out loud. Forget I said anything.* **Me:** *No, I'm curious now. What do you want that the rules won't let you have?* Another long pause. **A.H.:** *I'll tell you someday. When I'm braver.* I stare at that message for a long time, trying to figure out what it means. But before I can respond, Sophie shows up and slides into the chair across from me. "Okay, spill. How was class with the hot professor?" I close my laptop quickly. "Same as always. Brutal." "Did he do that thing where he stares at you for too long?" "He doesn't stare at me." "Emma. Everyone has noticed. He definitely stares at you." "You're imagining things." "Am I?" Sophie leans forward, grinning. "Because Michael told me that during class today, Professor Cross basically said you were right about something. And apparently he never does that." "He said my point was interesting. That's not the same as saying I was right." "For Adrian Cross, that's basically a marriage proposal." I throw a balled-up napkin at her. "You're ridiculous." "And you're in denial." She pulls out her own laptop. "But whatever. Tell me more about A.H. Have you guys talked about meeting up yet?" "Not really. He's still being weird about his 'complicated situation.'" "Red flag." "Or maybe he just values privacy." "Or maybe he's married." "He said he's not." "They always say that." I roll my eyes. "You're so cynical." "I'm realistic. But fine, give him the benefit of the doubt for now. Just be careful, okay? I don't want you getting hurt again." "I'm not going to get hurt. We're just talking." "Famous last words," Sophie mutters. We spend the next hour working on our respective assignments. Well, Sophie works. I mostly stare at my thesis chapter and think about the weird tension in Adrian's classroom this morning. The way he looked at me when I challenged the reading. The way he stood too close when we were alone. Sophie's right about one thing. He does stare at me. More than he should. More than is appropriate for a professor and his student. And God help me, I like it. My phone buzzes again. **A.H.:** *Still working on that thesis?* **Me:** *Yep. Rewriting the whole chapter. Making it more aggressive, like someone told me to.* **A.H.:** *Good. Don't hold back, E. The world needs more women who aren't afraid to take up space and speak their minds.* **Me:** *You sound like a feminist.* **A.H.:** *I respect intelligence and strength. If that makes me a feminist, so be it.* I'm smiling at my phone again. Sophie notices. "You've got it bad for this guy." "Shut up." "Just saying. You've been texting him nonstop for two days." "Three days, actually." "Oh my God, even worse." But she's grinning. "I'm happy for you, Em. Really. You deserve something good after Marcus." I look back at my phone, at A.H.'s message about not holding back. Maybe Sophie's right. Maybe I do have it bad for this guy. The question is: what am I going to do about it?