Forbidden Desires.

Celeste's p.o.v.

The first time I hear his name, it's from the girl in the seat next to me, it's whispered like a secret, laced between curiosity and warning.

"Did you hear about the new professor?" Mia leans in, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "The one taking over for Dr. Whitman?"

I glance up from my barely-touched coffee. "No. Why?"

She smirks. "He's insane. Strict as hell, doesn't take bullshit from anyone." She pauses for an effect. "Oh, and hot. Like, ridiculously hot."

That catches my attention. Not that I care much, I didn't exactly enroll in Columbia University's Literature and Media Studies program for eye candy but after three years of lectures from professors who look like they were born in a library, a little visual interest wouldn't hurt I guess.

At the same time, across the room, another girl chimes in. "I heard he left his last job because of a scandal."

Mia's eyebrows lift, and she tilts to face the girl. "What kind of scandal?"

The girl shrugs, lowering her voice like the walls might be listening. "No idea. But he was at NYU before this, and now he's here."

I hum, quite uninterested as professors get fired for all kinds of things, plagiarism, departmental politics, bad tenure reviews. It's probably nothing too serious.

Shortly after, the door opens and at that point, I realize just how wrong I was.

In an instant, the room goes silent as he walks in.

He was tall, dark-haired, sharp-featured, with a strong jaw and glasses that did nothing to soften his intensity.

He moves with purpose, quite controlled, and precise with his gaze sweeping over the room like he's already assessing which of us will waste his time.

"Good morning," he says, his voice low and commanding. "I'm Professor Adrian Cross. If you're in this class because you think 'Contemporary Literature and Critical Analysis' will be an easy A, you're in the wrong place."

His eyes flicker over the rows of students, and for a second, they land on me, and I hold his gaze.

Immediately a sharp glint flares in his expression before he looks away.

'Interesting.' I huff, straighten in my seat, and at the same time, the rumors suddenly become a lot more intriguing as this semester just got a whole lot more interesting than the last ones.

On the contrary, by the time my next class rolls around, the rumors about Professor Cross have reached full-blown urban legend status.

"He got fired from NYU for sleeping with a student."

"No, I heard he exposed some department scandal and they forced him out."

"He's married. Or was. Left his wife for-"

"-a grad student."

I roll my eyes as Mia slides into the seat next to me, dropping her bag onto the desk.

"People are acting like he's some kind of dark academic antihero," I muttered, flipping through my notes. "It's pathetic."

Mia smirks. "You have to admit, it's kind of hot." I give her a look.

She shrugs. "What? Mysterious, and broody professor with a questionable past? If this were a novel, he'd be the morally gray love interest."

I snort. "This isn't a novel."

"No, but it's definitely getting interesting."

I scoff and don't answer her, in as much as I hate to admit it but she's right. My interest sharpens the next time I see him.

It's Friday morning, the second lecture of the semester, and Professor Cross is every bit as intense as the first time.

He's dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the lean muscles of his forearms. His glasses rest on the bridge of his nose as he writes something on the board in quick, efficient strokes.

"Literature is about subtext," he says, voice smooth but firm. "What isn't said is just as important as what is."

On the contrary, I should be listening and taking notes. But instead, I watch him effortlessly.

The way he moves, and commands the room without trying. The way every girl in this class is pretending not to be just as fascinated as I am.

Suddenly, he turns. "Monroe."

It takes me a second to realize he's talking to me.

I blink, sitting up. "Yes?"

He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. "What's your interpretation of this passage?"

I glance down at the book open on my desk. It's an excerpt from The Age of Innocence-a scene crackling with unspoken desire, and tension simmering beneath polite conversation.

I should say something smart or analytical. Instead, my mouth betrays me.

"They want each other," I say, my voice steady. "But they can't have each other," I say and a beat of silence covers the hall.

His gaze flickers-just the slightest shift, the briefest moment of something I can't quite name.

Then he nods. "Good. Next time, elaborate."

He moves on before I can react, calling on someone else, but my pulse is still thrumming.

Because for a second I swear I saw the same tension in his eyes, that I feel creeping into my bones.

Suddenly, I understand why the rumors won't stop.

Meanwhile, the next time I see Professor Cross outside of class, it's by accident.

I'm leaving the library late, the sky outside a deep shade of blue, when I spot him standing by the faculty building. He's alone, leaning against a sleek black car, phone in hand. His expression is unreadable, his brows furrowed, and jaw tight.

For a second, I consider walking past him without a word. But something about the way he's standing stiff, and guarded, makes me pause. Like he's waiting for something or someone.

Or maybe I'm just looking for an excuse.

Either way, my feet move before my brain can stop them.

"You know," I say as I approach, "you look way too serious to be texting."

His head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine immediately. For a brief moment, surprise crosses his face. Then in a split second, it's gone, replaced by his usual cool detachment.

"Monroe," he says, slipping his phone into his pocket. "Shouldn't you be studying?"

I smirk. "Shouldn't you be grading?"

His lips twitch, like he might almost smile. But he doesn't. Instead, he pushes off the car, straightening to his full height. He's taller than I realized and way broader, too.