The Professor

Chapter 1

AUGUST

The first thing Benjamin Crane noticed about Middleton College was the smell of fresh-cut grass and old books. The campus sprawled across rolling hills, its red-brick buildings standing tall against the late August sun. It wasn’t Ivy League, but it had one of the strongest history departments in the country—especially for Ancient History. That was all that mattered.

Dragging his suitcase across the cobbled walkway of Dunham Hall, Benjamin adjusted the strap of his backpack, scanning the upper floors of the dormitory. He hadn’t even stepped inside yet, and he was already forming opinions about the architecture. The building had a late 19th-century Gothic revival style, the kind that would look fantastic on a brochure but was probably falling apart inside.

He reached Room 302 and took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Inside, a mountain of duffel bags and football gear sat on one of the beds. And towering over it was a guy who looked like he could bench press a car.

Benjamin’s new roommate was at least 6’4, thickly built, not bulky in a powerlifter way, but broad-shouldered, sturdy. He had tousled blond hair and warm brown eyes that crinkled at the edges when he grinned.

“Yo, you must be Benjamin.” His voice was deep, easygoing.

“Uh, yeah,” Benjamin said, setting his suitcase down. “And you are…?”

“Oliver McGregor. Football team. Economics major. Occasional ***.” He stuck out a hand, and Benjamin hesitated before shaking it.

“Benjamin Crane. Debate team. History major. Constant smartass.”

Oliver’s grin widened. “Dude, we’re gonna get along just fine.”

Benjamin arched an eyebrow. “You say that now, but wait until I start arguing about economic systems over breakfast.”

“I love arguing,” Oliver declared. “I say stupid shit just to piss people off. It’s a sport for me.”

Benjamin smirked. “Well, now I have a reason to look forward to mornings.”

They settled in quickly. Oliver took the bed by the window, and Benjamin claimed the desk closest to the bookshelf. As they unpacked, Oliver threw a football up and down absentmindedly.

“So,” he said, “you a party guy?”

Benjamin snorted. “Absolutely not.”

“Damn. That’s what the last guy who said that told me, and now he’s a legend at Phi Sigma.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll pass.”

Oliver shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you ever wanna be less of a hermit, I got you.”

SEPTEMBER

The moment Benjamin walked into Ancient History: The Bronze Age, he knew it would be his favorite class.

Middleton College had a reputation for top-tier professors, but none intrigued him as much as Dr. William Bennet. The man was only 26, a rare breed of academic who had secured a teaching position right after earning his master’s. That alone made him interesting, but there was something else—an intensity in the way he lectured, a quiet confidence that made you sit up and pay attention.

He was 6’2, broad-shouldered but softening, the way men did when stress got the better of them. At the start of the semester, his button-ups fit him well, but by late September, they were starting to strain slightly at the midsection. His face was sharp, but there was a new fullness to his jawline, a sign of someone eating their emotions. Benjamin had overheard that his wife was pregnant, and based on his tired, distracted expressions, things at home weren’t exactly a fairy tale.

But when he started lecturing, everything else faded away.

“This course will cover the major civilizations of the Bronze Age—Mycenaean Greece, Minoan Crete, the Hittites, and the Near East. We will discuss trade, warfare, and cultural exchange, but above all, we will be examining mythology as historical narrative.”

Benjamin’s fingers twitched around his pen. Mythology as historical narrative. Finally, a professor who understood the way stories shaped civilizations.

“To begin,” Mr. Bennet continued, “let’s discuss the Iliad. Most people assume it’s purely myth, but scholars have long debated whether there was a real Trojan War. The evidence is… complicated. We have archeological remains of a city that could be Troy, but whether the war happened as Homer describes it? Unlikely. However, mythology often contains kernels of truth.”

Benjamin was hanging onto every word.

For the next hour, Mr. Bennet broke down how oral traditions preserved history, how figures like Achilles and Hector may have been inspired by real warriors, how the Greeks used myth to explain the chaos of their time.

When class ended, Benjamin lingered.

“You look like you have something to say, Mr. Crane,” Mr. Bennet remarked, stacking his papers.

Benjamin hesitated for half a second, then went for it. “I just—this is exactly what I want to study. The way mythology interacts with history. The way people shape narratives to fit their worldviews. It’s just—” He exhaled sharply. “It’s fascinating.”

A small smile tugged at Mr. Bennet’s lips. “I’m glad you think so.”

Benjamin’s heart did something stupid in his chest.

Benjamin didn’t mean to develop a crush on his professor. It just… happened.

At first, it was intellectual admiration. Mr. Bennet was brilliant, and he actually listened when Benjamin spoke in class. But then came the other things—the way he rolled his sleeves up when he wrote on the board, the way he sipped coffee absentmindedly during discussions, the way his stomach filled out his dress shirts a little more each week.

The stress-eating was catching up to him.

Benjamin was not supposed to notice that.

So he studied. Overstudied. He wanted to impress Mr. Bennet, to make sure he always noticed him in class. He wrote ten-page essays when only five were required, stayed after lectures to discuss Minoan trade networks, and volunteered for every discussion.

And Mr. Bennet did notice.

“Mr. Crane, I think you’re doing graduate-level work at this point,” he remarked one afternoon.

Benjamin shrugged, trying not to look too pleased. “Just… passionate about the subject.”

Mr. Bennet chuckled. “That’s an understatement.”

And that was the moment Benjamin knew he was in trouble.

OCTOBER

Benjamin had no intention of getting drunk.

Sorority parties weren’t his scene—too many people, too much noise, and way too much cheap alcohol. But Oliver had insisted.

“Come on, dude,” Oliver said, flopping onto Benjamin’s bed after practice, still sweaty and obnoxiously large. “You’ve been glued to your books all semester. Time to live a little.”

“I do plenty of living,” Benjamin retorted, setting down his highlighter. “I swim every morning, I argue in debate, I get in heated online fights about the Athenian versus Spartan political systems—”

Oliver groaned. “Yeah, and that’s exactly why you need a break. Just come with me, have a drink, loosen up. If you hate it, I owe you dinner.”

Benjamin sighed. “Fine. But if some drunk guy spills beer on me, I’m leaving.”

Oliver beamed. “That’s the spirit!”

The Phi Sigma party was chaos.

Music pounded through the house, a bass-heavy rhythm shaking the floors. Girls in crop tops and guys in polos swayed to the beat, red Solo cups in every hand. The air smelled like vodka, sweat, and bad decisions.

Benjamin immediately regretted coming.

“This is your element,” he told Oliver, yelling over the music. “Not mine.”

Oliver grinned. “Then let’s fix that. What’s your poison?”

Benjamin hesitated. “Uh. Wine?”

Oliver snorted. “Yeah, good luck finding that here.” He grabbed two drinks from the kitchen. “This’ll do.”

Benjamin took a sip. It was disgustingly sweet, definitely more juice than alcohol. But as the night wore on, the drinks kept coming. Oliver introduced him to everyone—football players, sorority girls, even a few history majors who recognized him from Mr. Bennet’s class.

Somewhere between his third and fourth cup, the world got pleasantly fuzzy. He danced. He laughed. He argued with a drunk econ major about wealth distribution in Ancient Greece.

It was fun.

Until it wasn’t.

By the time midnight rolled around, Benjamin was very drunk. Oliver had disappeared upstairs with the girl he was seeing, and Benjamin, being a fool, had told him to go.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” he’d said, swaying slightly. “Go forth and be heterosexual.”

Oliver, equally tipsy, had saluted him before vanishing.

And now Benjamin was alone, stumbling onto the sidewalk, the night air cold against his flushed skin.

Walking home should have been easy. It was only ten minutes to the dorms. But with every step, the ground seemed to tilt, and Benjamin was acutely aware of how stupid he had been to drink so much.

He was halfway back when he heard a familiar voice.

“Mr. Crane?”

Benjamin squinted through the dim streetlights.

And there, walking a golden retriever in an offensively tight Henley, was Mr. Bennet.

Benjamin blinked. Nope. Definitely real.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered.

Mr. Bennet’s brows knit together in concern. “Are you—” He took in Benjamin’s flushed face, the unsteady way he swayed on his feet. “You’re drunk.”

Benjamin groaned. “Not that drunk.”

Mr. Bennet exhaled sharply. “Where’s your roommate?”

Benjamin waved a hand vaguely. “Busy. He left, but I told him it was fine.”

Mr. Bennet muttered something under his breath before sighing. “Alright, come on. I’ll walk you back.”

Benjamin wanted to argue. He really did. But Mr. Bennet’s hand was suddenly on his arm, steadying him, and his biceps were unfairly solid, and Benjamin’s brain short-circuited.

He was not going to survive this.

They walked in silence, the retriever trotting beside them. Benjamin focused on not tripping over his own feet.

“You shouldn’t be walking alone like this,” Mr. Bennet said eventually. “You’re lucky I found you.”

Benjamin snorted. “What, you gonna write me up?”

Mr. Bennet gave him a look. “No, but I am going to make sure you get home safely.”

Benjamin huffed. “You’re way too nice.”

“Not really,” Mr. Bennet said. “I just don’t want one of my best students getting hit by a car because he made bad choices at a frat party.”

Benjamin’s heart stupidly skipped at best student.

When they finally reached the dorm, Mr. Bennet waited as Benjamin fumbled for his key.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Mr. Bennet asked.

Benjamin grinned lazily. “I’ll live.”

Mr. Bennet sighed. “Go sleep it off, Mr. Crane.”

Benjamin saluted him before stumbling inside, he barely

The hangover was hell.

But the real problem was Ancient History class.

Benjamin dragged himself to the lecture hall, head throbbing, stomach queasy. He was praying Mr. Bennet wouldn’t mention last night.

No such luck.

After class, as students filtered out, Mr. Bennet glanced at him. “Mr. Crane, stay for a moment.”

Benjamin swallowed. “Sure.”

When the room was empty, Mr. Bennet crossed his arms, his dress shirt straining slightly against his middle.

Benjamin’s brain went completely blank.

“Are you feeling alright?” Mr. Bennet asked.

Benjamin blinked. “Uh. Yeah. Fine.”

Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow. “Because you didn’t seem fine last night.”

Benjamin groaned. “Oh my God, can we not talk about that?”

Mr. Bennet gave him a stern look. “We are talking about it. You need to be more careful, Mr. Crane. Alcohol isn’t just some game. You’re a freshman, and I don’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

Benjamin barely heard him.

Because holy shit, his professor had definitely gained weight.

His stomach pressed against his belt, his shirt buttons visibly straining, the fabric pulling when he moved.

Benjamin’s eyes kept drifting lower.

And then—Mr. Bennet noticed.

For a split second, his gaze flickered downward, following Benjamin’s line of sight. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Benjamin’s face burned.

“I—um—yeah, I’ll be careful,” he blurted, scrambling to gather his things. “Thanks for the concern, Professor, see you next week, okaybye—”

He practically ran out of the lecture hall.

December – Winter Break

By the time finals ended, Benjamin had aced every class, including Mr. Bennet’s. His obsessive studying had paid off.

As he packed for winter break, he glanced at the final paper he’d written for Ancient History. A+.

There was a note at the bottom.

“Excellent work as always, Mr. Crane. Enjoy your break.”

Benjamin sighed dramatically.

Winter break would be hell. Because now, he had four whole weeks to think about Mr. Bennet’s stomach and what the hell he was supposed to do about this crush.

Spoiler alert: Nothing.

Because nothing was ever going to happen.

Right?