Karen Higgins adjusted her reading glasses, squinting down at the roster printed on crisp white paper. The font was too small, or maybe her eyes were getting worse. Either way, it was just one more irritation in a morning already off to a rocky start. Her coffee was lukewarm, the sky was an unforgiving gray, and the heating in her office was acting up again—no surprise there. Forty-eight years old, divorced twice, and tenured in a university that barely kept the lights on. This was her life now.
Still, she took a certain pride in her work. As head of the English Literature department at Southwell College, Karen had carved out a reputation for being both brilliant and terrifying. Her students feared her, colleagues respected her from a distance, and the administration mostly stayed out of her way. That suited her just fine.
"Let them hate me," she murmured, flipping to the second page of the roster. "As long as they learn something."
She stood up, smoothed the pleats of her navy skirt, and slipped on a cardigan. Her heels clicked confidently across the linoleum floor of the faculty building. Room 204 awaited—her literary domain for the semester. Advanced Romantic Poetry. Half of the students wouldn't know Keats from Kanye, but that was the challenge. The reason she got up in the morning.
The classroom buzzed with low chatter when she entered. Phones were out. Laptops open. A few students glanced up, most didn't. That was always her favorite part—those first few moments before she commanded the room.
"Phones away. Laptops shut unless you're taking notes. And if you're here for an easy A, I suggest you leave now."
Heads snapped up. A hush fell. Karen's heels echoed ominously as she moved to the front, placed her leather tote on the desk, and wrote her name on the whiteboard in clean, capital letters.
Professor Karen Higgins
She turned. "You may address me as Professor Higgins. Not Miss. Not Ma'am. Not Karen. Any questions before we begin?"
A lone hand rose near the back. Karen's eyes narrowed.
"Yes?"
"Do you allow discussion during lecture, or do you prefer the Socratic method?"
The voice was male, smooth, and completely lacking the usual nervous tremor. Karen looked up—and her breath caught, only for a second.
He was young, of course—they all were—but this one had a kind of presence she hadn't expected. Tall, lean, tousled dark-blond hair that probably never obeyed a comb, and eyes the color of stormy skies. There was something irreverent in his smile, like he already knew he'd gotten under her skin.
"Discussion is permitted," Karen replied coolly, "as long as it's relevant and not self-indulgent."
"Fair enough," he said, shrugging.
"What's your name?"
"Jonny Westlake."
She made a mental note: confident, possibly arrogant. One to watch.
"Let's begin," she said, opening her binder. "Today we're talking about William Blake. A poet whose work straddled mysticism, rebellion, and spiritual ecstasy. If you're here because you liked 'Tyger Tyger' in high school, prepare to be disappointed."
A few nervous chuckles. Karen continued, her voice a steady cadence of authority and elegance. She moved between quotes and interpretations, guiding the students through Blake's Songs of Innocence and Experience like Virgil leading Dante. Most listened with wary attention. A few wrote furiously. Jonny Westlake, however, didn't take a single note. He watched her. Not in a distracted way, but intently. Like he was reading her.
By the time the class ended, Karen was oddly unsettled. She dismissed the students with a nod, already turning back to her desk when she heard a voice behind her.
"Professor Higgins?"
She looked up. It was him. Of course.
"Yes, Mr. Westlake?"
"I just wanted to say... I liked what you said about Blake. The contrast between innocence and experience. It reminded me of—well, never mind. You probably hear that kind of thing all the time."
She tilted her head. "I doubt it. Most students tell me I'm too harsh, or that I ruined poetry for them."
"I don't think you ruin anything. I think you demand attention. There's a difference."
Karen raised an eyebrow. "Are you trying to flatter me, Mr. Westlake?"
"Would it work?"
There it was again—that smile. Karen straightened, reaching for her bag.
"Don't mistake good manners for affection. You're not the first charming student I've encountered."
"Maybe not," he said, backing away toward the door. "But I might be the first one who means it."
He left before she could respond.
---
That evening, Karen sat alone in her townhouse, a glass of wine in hand. The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of floorboards or the hum of her aging refrigerator. On her coffee table sat the graded papers from last semester, still needing final marks. Her cat, Milton, curled against her leg, purring softly.
She should've brushed off Jonny's comment. He was a boy—barely out of adolescence. She was twice his age and then some. He couldn't possibly be serious.
And yet…
That look. The ease with which he spoke to her. As though she were just another person, not a professor or a woman past her prime.
Karen took another sip of wine and shook her head. Ridiculous. She had no time for fantasies, and certainly not for some boy playing at flirtation.
Still, as she drifted to sleep that night,
his voice echoed faintly in her mind:
> "I might be the first one who means it."