━━━┓ ✠  PART I  ✠ ┏━━━

　　Nothing said "hungover" like sporting the darkest pair of shades you could find and the largest water bottle you owned- 42 ounces to be exact. You strolled into Holdo Hall with both in tow, your oversized Lulu's sunglasses still covering your eyes until you rounded the corner to your English lit classroom; you couldn't have Professor Ren seeing you wearing them, though even if you took them off, he would likely guess your sorry state anyway. You were probably fighting a losing battle- having it in your head that you could wordlessly convince him that you had shown up fresh-minded and ready to learn when you looked as exhausted as you did.

　　Usually, you would just skip class to sleep off your hangover and take the absence for the day. Your grades were good enough to do it; you skirted just above average. You probably would have excelled in most of your courses

not math

if you put in more time. But you found it generally hard to focus once the clock turned midnight and you were still trying to study. Around that time, you'd abandon your work and turn on Netflix if you were still studying at all by that point. And you'd take a party any night

even a weeknight

over a night of cramming. Case in point: last night's excursion to Finn's house party.

　　You coasted on your in-class participation and test-taking skills- certainly not your homework marks. You missed an assignment here and there, but you would have been a truly gifted student if you just applied yourself more. But that was easier said than done, and you settled on simply being marginally better than most.

　　But English Literature  was different- Topics in lit theory, to be exact. You were a junior in a graduate level course doing passably well. English was your strong suit, so you were able to skate by even easier than usual.

　　You hoped Professor Ren noticed your gifts in writing. You generally passed with B+'s and the occasional and blessed A-'s in his class, which was especially decent given that he was a notoriously hard grader. A part of you was continuously disappointed with yourself; think of how much you could impress him if you really applied yourself. Learned better focus? You would be his shining top student.

　　But that wasn't your reality, and this far into the semester, it was probably too late now. You were just near the top, blending in with all the rest.

　　Professor Ren entered the classroom at four o'clock on the dot; just as he always did. He looked stoic and strong; rested but aloof, apathetic, even, but laser-focused. Like someone in the back row could stick a piece of gum under their table and he would notice.

　　And then destroy them.

　　Most people were terrified of him. Enthralled, but terrified. You couldn't exclude yourself from that majority.

　　He didn't say a word of greeting when he entered the room, never did. Instead, he merely set up his materials on his desk and today, started up the computer and opened up powerpoint.

　　Christ, it was lecture day. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, wondering how you were going to stay awake, even for one of his hour-long lectures. Most the time you found them fascinating. More than once, you had taken the lead in classroom discussions. More than once, it had resulted in you and Professor Ren openly debating the topic, going head to head while the rest of the class doodled in their margins or listened uncomfortably.

　　Not everyone had your passion. Your challenging wit.

　　Once, you'd been sure he'd noticed. You'd be sure he'd hold you back after class to tell you he noticed your interest and dedication to the material. But he never did. Probably because he didn't owe you shit, you knew that, but fuck, you wanted to be special. Truly special in his eyes.

　　But that wasn't going to happen. Not today, that much was certain.

　　"The uncanny." Professor Ren began, eyeing his students. You thought his gaze settled on you, stuck in the middle of the room, but it drifted away. You couldn't help but feel disappointment settling in your chest. "Freud's examination of the uncanny begins in his exploration of aesthetics. How do we recognize the uncanny in art? In literature, in psychology, in life itself? If you'll open up Freud's essay, please; I'd prefer you have a hard copy, but if you have it on your laptop, that's fine." His eyes scanned the classroom through his glasses that you were sure cost at least a couple hundred bucks, a silent warning: I'll know if you're not paying attention.

　　The one thing good about lecture day being today of all days was that the blinds were down so you could all see the smartboard. Even the thought of strong sunlight streaming into your eyes made your stomach turn. So you focused instead on your professor. He was unbelievably tall: 6-foot-3 and all muscle. His suit form fitting and rich-looking and clean, an interesting juxtaposition to his youthful black locks that cascaded down to his jaw.

　　Sexy as hell.

　　"Ms. [L/N]."

　　You snapped out of your thoughts, feeling your heart drop to your stomach. Fuck. You thought. How long had he been lecturing? If he asked you to repeat anything he'd been talking about for the last however-long, even just to sum it up, you were fucked. In a split-second of panic, you scanned the slide that was on the projector, racking your brain trying to tie the words to the reading.

　　The reading you didn't finish.

　　Fuck.

　　"Ms. [L/N]." He repeated coolly.

　　"Yes, sir." You answered, quickly this time.

　　"You have horror and disgust." He lifted one hand. "And a sanctimonious reverence." He lifted the other, as if balancing two defying odds. He was clearly continuing off of whatever he'd been saying moments before. Words that you missed. And now he was quizzing you, you could feel it, in front of the entire class. You braced yourself for the question, wracking your brain for any reading you'd ever done on Freud.

　　"What does Freud surmise causes the dance between the two?"

　　His eyes bored flaming holes into yours. Were you the only one who felt the burning ache between the two of you?— No, that was insane. Absolutely fucking insane. He was your fucking professor. Lost in your thoughts once more, you chewed the inside of your cheek, eyes falling to your desk, away from his intoxicating and one-sided eye-fucking gaze that you could only be misinterpreting. Why, in a million years, would he have an eye on one of his students when he could probably have anyone he wanted? You got the vibe that maybe he liked older women.

　　"We don't have all day, Ms. [L/N]."

　　Well, it was Freud after all. And if anyone had a one-size-fits-all answer, it was Freud.

　　"Sex." You blurted out, eyes snapping back up to meet his. You could have sworn his chin twitched up ever so slightly. Other than that, he was as stoic and still as always. Until you saw, without and doubt and irrevocably, that his eyes narrowed at you.

　　"Or, the taboo." You corrected yourself. "Specifically, anything sexual in nature. Things that we hide from everyone else. Things that exist in our subconscious that represent our secret desires."

　　You held your breath, and he held your gaze for a moment. "Threats to our super-ego, the moralizer." He continued, accepting your answer as correct, turning around to pace around the front of the class with his hands clasped behind his back. You felt a swell of pride bubble in your chest. "Next time, Ms. [L/N] I'm sure we would all appreciate a swifter answer, lest we all fall asleep waiting for you to gather your thoughts."

　　Christ. You just couldn't gain one single, solitary win. Not against Professor Ren.

　　Once class was over, and everyone had already started packing up their things five minutes early, as always, Professor Ren stood with his hands on his hips. "I should have your papers back by the end of the week. Until then, I suggest you complete your reading thoroughly."

　　Out of it as usual, you took to packing up your things when half the class was already out the door. You shuddered at the thought of being alone with Professor Ren and scrambled to shove your belongings into your bookbag. Naturally, you were the last out of the door when-

　　"Not you." You stopped in your tracks, feet away from your exit. He was going to murder you. He hated you. You didn't know why; it's not like you were a bad student. But you could feel it. Maybe the sexual tension you'd sensed between the two of you was just pure fucking rage and irritation on his end. You stared at the opening into the hallway, where students milled about; they did anything but notice you standing in the doorway with real, genuine fear in your eyes.

　　"Close the door, Ms. [L/N]."

　　Without thinking, you dropped your bag, figuring he wasn't going to let you out of here without a chat that would probably cause you to go home and cry for hours. Might as well brace yourself now and settle in for the ride.

　　You closed the door.

　　"I suggest you lock it as well."

　　Is he going to beat me up in here?  You thought for a brief moment. With motions that weren't your own, you reached out and locked the door, wondering why he was always singling you out. Humiliating you in front of the entire class.