synapse: jealousy surfaces and pettiness is dialed up
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, smut, penetrative sex, fingering, jealousy, angst
The next afternoon, Emerson’s dorm halls smelled like old carpet and someone’s microwaved noodles, the kind of stale, familiar warmth that made it impossible to pretend life had changed no matter what Y/N had done the night before.
She climbed the stairs slower than usual, bag strap digging into her shoulder, hair still slightly wind-tossed from the walk back. Her dress was gone, replaced with something safer: soft sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers. An outfit that tried to convince the world she’d simply spent a normal Saturday night doing normal college things.
Her body didn’t feel normal.
Neither did the guilt sitting heavy in her stomach, because she already knew what she was walking into.
Their door was shut. No music playing. No laughter from inside. Nothing. The quiet felt pointed.
Y/N hesitated with her hand hovering near the knob, then pushed the door open carefully.
She sat at her desk with her typewriter in front of her, posture rigid, shoulders set like armor. A page was rolled in, but she wasn’t typing. She was just staring at it like it had personally betrayed her. Her hair was pulled back, and her expression had that sharp, closed-off look she wore when she was trying very hard not to feel something.
Y/N stepped inside and shut the door softly behind her.
“Hey,” Y/N said, voice cautious, like she was approaching a wild animal.
Nancy didn’t look up. “Hey,” she replied flatly.
Y/N swallowed. “How’s your day going?”
Nancy’s fingers tapped the edge of the desk once. “Fine.”
Two syllables. Even less warmth.
Y/N stood there for a beat, absorbing the chill like it was a physical temperature in the room. She shifted her bag off her shoulder, trying to read Nancy’s face, but Nancy gave her nothing, eyes fixed on the typewriter, jaw set, mouth pressed into a line.
The silent treatment wasn’t Nancy’s style, not really. Nancy usually talked when she was upset, sharp words, lectures, that “journalism major” tone that sounded like a front-page editorial.
This was Nancy going quiet because she didn’t trust herself not to explode.
Y/N cleared her throat. “So… are we still mad about…”
Nancy cut in without looking at her. “Yes.”
Y/N winced. “Okay. Fair.”
Nancy’s stare stayed locked on the page. “You called him.”
Y/N tried to sound casual. “Technically, I dialed and you talked.”
Nancy’s head finally lifted.
The look she gave Y/N could’ve stopped traffic.
Y/N’s hands lifted in immediate surrender. “Okay, okay. Don’t, don’t do that face. I know. I know.”
Nancy’s voice stayed clipped. “Do you?”
“Yes,” Y/N said quickly. “I do. I was wrong. I was…” she searched for a word that didn’t make her sound like a complete menace, “being a total menace.”
Nancy’s expression did not soften.
Y/N exhaled slowly, accepting that words alone were not going to fix this. She turned back toward the door, then immediately leaned down to pick up something she’d been carrying with suspicious care.
A small, pink pastry box.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Y/N held it up like an offering at an altar. “I brought peace.”
Nancy blinked once. “Is that…”
“Donuts,” Y/N said, voice hopeful. “From that place we like. The one near Boylston. The good ones.”
Nancy stared at the box like she was trying to decide if bribery was insulting or genius.
Y/N took a few steps closer, slow and careful, as if sudden movements might get her bitten. She set the donut box on Nancy’s desk, gently, right beside the typewriter. An intentional placement, like she was acknowledging Nancy’s territory.
Nancy didn’t reach for it.
Y/N’s shoulders slumped a little. “Okay,” she said softly. “If you don’t want donuts, that’s… that’s utterly devastating, but I understand.”
Nancy’s eyes flicked up again. “I want donuts.”
Y/N’s relief hit her so hard she almost laughed. “Okay, good. Great. We’re still human.”
Nancy’s mouth twitched as if it might smile, but she stopped it before it could fully happen. “Donuts don’t erase what you did.”
“I know,” Y/N said quickly. “I’m not saying they do. I’m saying they’re… a peace offering. A humble tribute.”
Nancy stared at her for a moment, then finally reached for the box, slow, reluctant, like she didn’t want to reward bad behavior. She opened it and glanced inside.
Nancy’s fingers hovered over it but didn’t take it yet, as if she was still holding onto her anger on principle.
Y/N took another breath and pulled something else from her bag.
Not just any paper, Nancy’s preferred kind. The heavier stock she liked for her typewriter because it fed cleanly and didn’t smear, the kind she guarded like a dragon hoarding treasure.
Y/N set it down beside the donut box.
Nancy’s eyes widened slightly despite herself.
“You…” Nancy started, then stopped.
Y/N nodded quickly, like she was desperate to prove she’d thought about this. “I got the good paper. The kind you like. And I didn’t buy the cheap one. I asked the guy to help me and he looked at me like I was insane, but I did it. For you.”
Nancy stared at the paper, then at Y/N, as if she didn’t know whether to be touched or even more annoyed.
Y/N stepped closer, hands clasped in front of her like a guilty kid. “I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely now. “I shouldn’t have called him. I shouldn’t have shoved the phone at you. I…” She shook her head. “I got carried away.”
Nancy’s jaw worked slightly, like she was trying to keep her feelings organized. “You embarrassed me.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “I know.”
“And you put me on the spot,” Nancy continued, voice quiet but sharp.
“I know,” Y/N said again, softer. “And if you want to yell at me, you can. If you want to punish me with silence for a week, you can. If you want to…” she swallowed, “never let me touch your address book again, I accept my sentence.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re never touching my address book again.”
Y/N nodded immediately. “Absolutely fair.”
Nancy’s gaze drifted back to the donut box. She finally picked up her favorite donut, holding it like she was still deciding whether forgiveness was possible.
Y/N watched her with anxious hope.
The smallest thing happened: her shoulders eased a fraction, tension loosening at the edges.
Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Okay. Okay, good.”
Nancy chewed slowly, eyes still sharp. “I’m still mad.”
“I know,” Y/N said quickly.
Nancy swallowed, then looked at Y/N again. “Jonathan was… nice.”
Y/N blinked, surprised. “He was?”
Nancy rolled her eyes as if she hated admitting it. “Yes. He was. Which makes it worse. Because you could’ve ruined that before it even started.”
Y/N’s chest tightened with guilt again. “I didn’t think…”
“That’s the problem,” Nancy said, cutting in.
Y/N nodded, accepting the hit. “You’re right.”
Nancy took another bite, eyes flicking to the typewriter paper again. “You really bought this?”
“Yes,” Y/N said earnestly. “And I’m telling you right now, I will never weaponize your social life or long distance relationship again.”
Nancy’s lips pressed together, as if she were trying not to smile.
Y/N leaned forward slightly, voice soft, sincere. “Please forgive me….Don’t make me beg on my knees.”
Nancy stared at her for a long moment.
Then, finally, she sighed, long and dramatic, like she was letting the whole world know how difficult it was to live with her.
“You’re lucky,” Nancy said, “that you brought donuts.”
Y/N’s whole body loosened in relief. “So… we’re okay?”
Nancy lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug, still pretending she wasn’t softening. “We’re… improving.”
Y/N smiled, grateful. “I’ll take it.”
Nancy pointed at her with the donut. “But if you ever call someone from my address book again…”
“I won’t,” Y/N promised immediately.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “I mean it.”
“I mean it too,” Y/N said, holding up her hands again. “I swear.”
Nancy studied her for a beat longer, then turned back to her typewriter, rolling the fresh paper in with a practiced motion.
The sound of the keys began again, steady and familiar.
Y/N stood there for a moment, watching the rhythm return, feeling the room settle back into something that felt like home.
Y/N sank into her bed like it was the only safe place left on earth.
The donut box sat half-open on Nancy’s desk, the smell sweet and warm in the room. The new typewriter paper was rolled in cleanly, and the steady clack of keys had returned, comforting, familiar, like the world was trying to pretend it hadn’t been chaotic for the last forty-eight hours.
She told herself she’d rest. She told herself she’d lie down for ten minutes and then get up and do something productive: laundry, homework, anything to make her feel like a normal student again.
Her body did not care about her plans.
The moment her head hit the pillow, exhaustion moved in like a heavy blanket.
Across the room, Nancy’s typing slowed.
Y/N kept her eyes closed, pretending she hadn’t noticed. She didn’t have the energy for another conversation, not even a friendly one.
Y/N groaned softly into her pillow. “If this is about the address book again, I just apologized…”
“It’s not,” Nancy cut in, and her voice sounded different. Less sharp. More careful.
Y/N opened one eye and turned her head slightly.
Nancy had swiveled in her chair to face her, elbows resting on the desk, expression thoughtful in that way that meant she’d been chewing on something. Her mouth pressed into a line, not angry now, but serious.
“It’s my turn,” Nancy said.
Y/N blinked. “Your turn for what?”
Nancy sighed, like the words were annoying to admit. “To apologize.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. That wasn’t something Nancy did easily, not because she was mean, but because she was always so sure of her logic that apologizing felt like admitting defeat.
Nancy rolled her eyes at herself. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m not,” Y/N lied, already sitting up a little.
Nancy’s gaze dropped briefly to the donut box, then back to Y/N. “I’ve been… prying.”
Y/N’s mouth twitched. “That’s one word for it.”
Nancy made a face. “Yes. Prying. Like I’m trying to write a profile on you for the school paper.”
Y/N couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “You kind of were.”
Nancy sighed again. “I know.” She paused, then added, “And I did something petty.”
Y/N’s expression sharpened. “Nancy.”
Nancy held up a hand. “Let me say it. Because you’re going to be insufferable if I don’t.”
Y/N leaned back against her pillow, amused despite herself. “Proceed.”
Nancy’s cheeks colored faintly, rare for her when she was being serious. “Daniel Taylor came by.”
Y/N’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Daniel Taylor?”
“Yes,” Nancy said, and her tone was already annoyed, like she’d been irritated by his existence even before she decided to use him as a weapon. “He asked if you could lend him your notes.”
Y/N stared. “Why would he ask you?”
“Because you weren’t here,” Nancy replied pointedly, and Y/N winced because… fair. Then Nancy continued, “And because he was standing in the doorway doing that pathetic puppy dog thing where he tries to look casual while clearly having a crush.”
Y/N pressed a hand to her forehead. “Oh my God.”
Nancy’s expression was dry. “Yes. Oh my God.”
Y/N sat up more fully now, suspicion sharpening. “Nancy Wheeler, what did you do?”
Nancy exhaled hard. “I gave him the notes.”
Nancy lifted her chin, defensive. “I know.”
“You gave him my notes?” Y/N repeated, voice rising.
Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. And before you start, I’m apologizing.”
“That’s…” Y/N stopped herself, inhaling slowly. “That’s not your decision to make.”
“I know,” Nancy said again, more quietly this time. “And it was petty. I did it because I was still mad at you.”
Y/N stared at her, stunned.
Nancy’s mouth twisted, half guilty, half stubborn. “And because I knew you’d have to go get them back.”
Y/N blinked. “So you… assigned me an errand as revenge.”
Nancy’s eyes flicked away, then back. “Yes.”
Y/N stared for another beat.
Then she let out a breath that turned into a laugh despite herself, tired, incredulous, but real. “Nancy Wheeler.”
Nancy’s shoulders eased slightly, like she’d been braced for a worse reaction. “I’m sorry,” she said, more sincerely now. “I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have used your notes, or Daniel, as collateral damage just because I was mad about Jonathan.”
Y/N watched her for a moment, then nodded once. “Okay.”
“You apologized,” Y/N said, voice softening. “And you admit it was petty. So… okay. I forgive you.”
Nancy’s face shifted, relief flickering through her surprise. “Really?”
Y/N shrugged, tired smile tugging at her mouth. “Yeah. I’m too exhausted to hold a grudge.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Why are you so exhausted?”
Nancy leaned back slightly, suspicious. “You’re acting like you’ve been awake for three days. You just left yesterday.”
“I didn’t sleep much,” Y/N muttered, already reaching for her blanket like she could hide under it and disappear.
Nancy’s voice stayed maddeningly calm. “Why didn’t you sleep much?”
Y/N closed her eyes again. “Because I was out.”
“Out where,” Nancy asked immediately, as if she didn’t already know.
Y/N’s jaw tightened. “Nancy.”
Nancy’s tone turned sweet, dangerous. “I’m just asking. Because you left Saturday dressed like you were going on a date.”
Y/N kept her eyes closed, praying the conversation would die on its own. “I remember. You pried…”
“And you came back Sunday afternoon,” Nancy continued, “in completely different clothes.”
Nancy’s voice softened, quieter now, not teasing, not sharp. Just certain. “You were with him.”
Nancy didn’t need her to.
Nancy waited a beat, then added, gently but relentlessly, “Professor Creel.”
Y/N groaned into her pillow. “Can you not?”
Nancy’s chair creaked as she leaned forward, elbows on her desk again. “I’m not judging you. I’m just…” She stopped, searching for the right word, then landed on it. “I’m worried.”
Y/N cracked one eye open and looked at her. “You were just petty five minutes ago.”
“I can be petty and worried,” Nancy said, unapologetic. “It’s called range.”
Y/N stared at her for a long second, then sighed. “Nancy, please. I’m tired.”
Nancy’s eyebrows lifted. “Exactly. You’re tired because you didn’t sleep.”
Y/N’s face heated immediately. “Stop.”
Nancy’s eyes glittered with realization, and Y/N knew, knew she was about to become unbearable again.
“Oh,” Nancy whispered, like a reporter catching the scent of a story. “Oh my God.”
Y/N threw her pillow over her face.
Nancy’s voice rose with horrified delight. “You didn’t sleep because you were getting it o—“
“LA-LA-LA,” Y/N muffled loudly into the pillow, desperate.
Nancy laughed, the sound bright and wicked. “That’s why you’re exhausted.”
Y/N groaned. “Nancy, I will actually strangle you.”
Nancy’s laughter softened into something warmer. “Okay, okay.” She held up her hands again as if physically backing off. “I’ll stop.”
Y/N didn’t move the pillow. “Thank you.”
Nancy’s voice returned to her normal tone, but it still carried curiosity like a loaded weapon. “Just… be careful. Seriously.”
Y/N lowered the pillow just enough to look at her. “I am.”
Nancy studied her face for a beat, then nodded. “Okay.”
Y/N exhaled, relief loosening her shoulders again. She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up.
“I’m going to sleep,” she announced firmly.
Nancy’s typewriter keys clicked once, then stopped.
“Last question,” Nancy said.
Y/N’s eye twitched. “No.”
Nancy ignored her. “Are you going to tell me if something goes wrong?”
The teasing had gone. The nosiness, too. What was left was Nancy’s version of care: direct, unpolished, annoyingly sincere.
Y/N’s throat tightened. She nodded once, barely visible in the low light. “Yes.”
Nancy’s shoulders eased again. “Good.”
The typewriter started up once more, steady and familiar.
Y/N let her eyes close fully this time, letting the sound of Nancy’s keys lull her toward sleep.
And for the first time since Saturday night, the room felt safe enough to rest in, even with Nancy Wheeler in it, armed with questions and a reporter’s instinct, watching the story unfold whether Y/N wanted her to or not.
Monday morning hit different.
Y/N moved through Emerson like she had a secret stitched into her skin, lighter steps, a private warmth under the cold Boston air, the kind of mood that made everything look sharper and brighter. Her first classes felt easier than they should’ve, she answered questions without second-guessing herself, smiled at people she normally only nodded to, even laughed once in the hallway when someone nearly collided with a stack of books.
All of it threaded back to one thing: his class.
It was ridiculous, she told herself. She was a student. He was a professor. She should’ve been thinking about readings, deadlines, her grade. Instead, she kept catching herself checking the time, imagining his voice, that quiet look he gave her when he thought no one was watching.
By the time she headed toward the English building, the excitement had turned into something taut, anticipation stretched tight enough to hurt. She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, smoothed her hair once in a window’s reflection, and told herself to act normal.
She rounded the corner and stopped.
Henry Creel stood near the staff lounge doors, coffee in hand, body angled toward a woman Y/N didn’t recognize at first.
The woman laughed at something he said, warm, easy, familiar. She looked put-together in that effortless academic way: wool coat draped over one arm, scarf at her neck, a folder tucked under her elbow. Dark hair, confident posture, the kind of person who belonged in faculty hallways without needing to prove it.
Henry’s expression was mild, soft professor charm, composed and polite.
But he was engaged. Focused. Present with her.
Y/N’s stomach dropped so fast it felt like missing a step on the stairs.
Her first instinct was to turn around. Her second was to walk straight up and prove she didn’t care.
She chose the second, because pride moved faster than fear.
As she approached, she arranged her face into something bright and pleasant: sweet, friendly, completely fake. Her heart wasn’t keeping up with the performance.
“Professor Creel,” she said, voice carefully light.
Henry turned at the sound of her voice.
For the briefest second, something flickered in his eyes, recognition that didn’t belong in a hallway. Then it was gone, replaced by the same calm neutrality he used in lecture.
The woman looked from Henry to Y/N with polite curiosity, her smile friendly. “Hello.”
Y/N smiled wider, the kind of smile that looked perfect and felt like a blade between her teeth. “Hi.”
Henry shifted slightly, the movement subtle but telling, creating just enough distance to reset the scene into something appropriate.
“This is Patty Newbie,” he said, gesturing toward the woman. “A colleague.”
The word landed like cold water.
Patty extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Y/N shook it, grip steady even though her nerves were sparking. “Nice to meet you too.”
Patty’s eyes flicked over Y/N with quick, harmless assessment: student, confident, pretty, possibly trouble. Her smile didn’t change.
Henry took a sip of his coffee as if he hadn’t just introduced the person who was currently twisting Y/N’s insides into knots.
Patty turned to Henry. “So I’ll see you at noon?”
Then, like it was a normal detail, like it meant nothing, he added, “I’ll be going to lunch with Patty today.”
Y/N’s smile stayed in place.
Patty nodded, cheerful. “We’re catching up. I’m trying to convince him to come to a department thing later this week, but he’s…” she glanced at Henry with amused exasperation, “difficult.”
Henry’s mouth twitched faintly. “Selective.”
Patty laughed again. “Selective.”
Y/N’s chest tightened with something sharp and hot. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t fair. It was jealous in the ugliest, most human way, because Henry looked normal with her. Easy. Like there wasn’t a secret version of him that only Y/N had seen.
Y/N tilted her head, still smiling. “Well. I’ll let you two… catch up.”
Henry gave her a small nod, professional. “Class starts soon.”
“Yes,” Y/N said softly, then turned and walked past him to step in the classroom.
Her nails dug into her notebook through her bag. She kept her pace steady. She kept her shoulders relaxed.
She refused to look back.
The classroom felt colder than usual when she stepped in.
Empty rows, chalk dust, the smell of old books. She chose a seat near the middle, close enough to be seen, far enough to pretend she wasn’t choosing closeness. She set her bag down carefully and opened her notebook as if she planned to take perfect notes.
Her heart was not cooperating.
A minute later, the door opened.
He paused when he saw her, because she was the first one there, and the room suddenly felt too quiet to breathe in.
He shut the door behind him without locking it, then crossed to his desk. He set down his coffee. He didn’t look at her immediately.
When he finally did, his gaze held hers with controlled calm.
Y/N smiled, bright and false. “Good morning.”
Henry’s jaw tightened slightly. He glanced toward the hallway through the small window in the door, habit, caution, then back to her.
His voice lowered. “Come here.”
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just firm enough that it wasn’t really a request.
Y/N stood, chair scraping softly, and walked toward his desk. Her smile stayed on her face like paint.
She stopped a few feet away. “Yes?”
Henry’s eyes held hers. Close up, the professor mask was still there. But she could see the strain beneath it, the carefulness, the way he chose every word like it mattered.
“I enjoy your company,” he said quietly.
Y/N’s chest flickered with warmth, brief, stupid hope.
Then he continued, calm and precise: “But we are not in a relationship.”
The warmth died instantly.
Y/N’s smile didn’t move, but her eyes sharpened. “Excuse me?”
Henry didn’t flinch. “And whatever this is,” he added, voice steady, “it cannot be public.”
It wasn’t cruelly said. It was true. It was practical. It was the kind of boundary that should’ve been obvious from the beginning.
And it still hit her like a slap.
Y/N’s throat tightened. For a second, she didn’t know what to do with the sting, so she did the only thing she knew how to do when she felt cornered.
She turned it into anger.
Her smile widened a fraction, brittle. “You’re telling me that,” she said softly, “like you didn’t invite me to your home.”
Henry’s eyes darkened slightly. “Y/N—”
“You cooked dinner,” she continued, voice still controlled but pulsing underneath it. “You let me stay the night.”
Henry’s gaze flicked to the door again, checking time, checking risk, then back to her. His voice stayed low. “Stop.”
Y/N leaned in just slightly, refusing to back down. Her eyes were bright with jealousy and hurt and the need to make him feel it too.
“You say we’re not in a relationship,” she said, each word precise, “like you didn’t—” Her jaw clenched, and then she said it, sharp and deliberate because she wanted it to sting. “—fuck me multiple times.”
Not shocked, he wasn’t that naïve, but the bluntness cut through the careful tone he’d been maintaining. His expression tightened, controlled restraint snapping into place.
“Watch your mouth,” he said quietly.
Y/N’s laugh was small and bitter. “Why? It’s fine behind closed doors, right?”
Henry’s gaze held hers, steady and unyielding now. “This is exactly what I mean.”
Y/N’s chest rose and fell once, her anger loud enough to cover how much it hurt.
Henry softened his tone by a fraction, not gentler, just less sharp. “I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “Because you need to understand it.”
Did he recognize her jealousy and was ashamed or…did he suddenly want someone who was more his age? Someone like…Patty Newbie?
Y/N stared at him, her smile frozen. She wanted to fight. She wanted to demand more. She wanted to ask who Patty really was and why Henry looked so normal with her and why that made Y/N feel like she was standing on the outside of something.
Instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat so hard it almost hurt.
Her face smoothed into something calm.
Henry’s eyes didn’t leave her face. “Y/N—”
She didn’t let him continue.
She turned away before he could see anything messier than jealousy, before he could see the hurt underneath the anger, the fear underneath the want.
She walked back to her desk with measured steps, sat down neatly, and opened her notebook like she hadn’t just been cut open by a sentence delivered in a professor’s voice.
The classroom began to fill with students, noise returning in waves, chairs scraping, books opening, people talking.
Henry moved to the front of the room, gathering his materials, becoming the man everyone expected him to be.
Her handwriting didn’t come.
Her smile stayed on her mouth for a few seconds longer than it should have, tight and perfect and empty, until the lecture began and she forced herself to act like she hadn’t felt anything at all.
Class ended the way it always did: chairs scraping, notebooks snapping shut, the room filling with that restless energy of students already halfway to their next building. Henry stood at the front collecting papers and erasing the board with slow, methodical strokes, his voice still lingering in the air like the last line of a paragraph.
Y/N barely heard the chatter around her.
Her “okay” from earlier still tasted bitter in her mouth, like she’d swallowed glass and called it water. She packed her things with extra care, too neat, too controlled, because if she let herself move naturally, she might do something reckless in the middle of the room.
Then she saw Daniel Taylor.
He was two rows over, standing and sliding his binder into his bag. He hesitated like he always did, eyes flicking in her direction before he looked away too quickly. Daniel had been staring at her all semester: soft, obvious, not very good at hiding it. Normally it was just background noise. Something she’d clock and ignore.
And she hated that thought as soon as it appeared.
Daniel slung his bag over his shoulder and started toward the door. Y/N watched him go. She could feel Henry’s presence at the front of the room, the way his attention always seemed to follow movement even when he pretended it didn’t.
She stood before she could reconsider it.
“Hey,” Nancy murmured as Y/N slid her chair back.
Y/N forced a light tone she didn’t feel. “I’ll catch you later.”
Nancy’s eyes narrowed in immediate suspicion, but the room was crowded and loud, and Y/N didn’t give her time to ask. She stepped into the aisle and headed toward the door, keeping her pace casual, like she just happened to be leaving at the same time as Daniel.
At the front of the room, Henry’s chalk paused mid-board.
He watched Daniel’s head turn slightly as if he’d sensed Y/N behind him. Henry’s gaze sharpened, quiet, controlled, and suddenly too focused for a man who “wasn’t in a relationship.”
She followed Daniel into the hallway.
The noise changed immediately: echoing footsteps, lockers, voices bouncing off the corridor walls. The air was cooler here. Less intimate than the classroom, but still close enough that secrets could press in.
He turned, startled, and his face lit up so fast it was almost embarrassing.
“Y/N…hey,” he said, trying to sound casual and failing. “What’s up?”
Y/N stepped closer, stopping at a polite distance. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral, as if this was purely practical, purely normal.
“You still have my notes,” she said.
Daniel blinked, then immediately looked guilty. “Oh…yeah. Sorry. I was going to give them back—”
“Now works,” Y/N cut in lightly.
He fumbled with his bag, unzipping pockets, pulling out a slightly bent stack of pages. Her handwriting stared up at her again: margins, underlines, the careful structure she used when she was trying to keep her mind from drifting.
Daniel held them out with both hands like he was returning something sacred. “Here.”
Y/N took them, flipping quickly through the pages to make sure nothing was missing. “Thanks.”
Daniel scratched the back of his neck, lingering like he didn’t want the moment to end. “They really helped, by the way.”
Y/N gave him a half smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Good.”
Daniel shifted his weight, nerves visible in the way he couldn’t decide what to do with his hands. His gaze flicked over her face, then down and back up again like he was trying not to stare and failing.
“So…” he started, then stopped, then tried again. “So, uh… you’re really good in there.”
Y/N arched an eyebrow. “In class?”
Daniel flushed. “Y-Yeah. Like, you actually challenge him. Most people just sit there and write whatever he says.”
Y/N’s throat tightened at the mention of him, but she didn’t let it show. She tucked the notes into her notebook with deliberate calm.
“You’re not going to start asking me about him, are you?” she asked, voice light.
Daniel blinked quickly. “No. No, I just meant—” He swallowed. “I just think you’re… smart.”
Something in Y/N’s chest flickered. Not attraction, something softer, almost sad. Daniel’s sincerity was so uncomplicated it felt like a different language.
He took a breath, braver now that he’d started. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to…” He stopped, then forced it out. “Go out with me?”
For a second, she almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because the timing was absurd. Because she could still hear Henry’s voice in her head: We are not in a relationship.
Because she’d smiled and said okay like it hadn’t hurt.
Daniel looked at her with open hope, the kind that made saying no feel cruel.
And somewhere behind Y/N’s ribs, jealousy and pride twisted together, sharp enough to make her reckless.
Her gaze drifted past Daniel’s shoulder, back toward the classroom door down the hall. She couldn’t see Henry from here, but she could picture him perfectly: composed, unreadable, watching more than he admitted.
She let the pettiness win.
“Tomorrow,” she heard herself say. “We can go tomorrow.”
Daniel’s face changed instantly: surprise, then a grin that was too genuine to be fake. “Really?”
Y/N nodded once, as if she’d made the decision for herself and not for the ghost of a man watching from a doorway.
“Yeah,” she said, even, controlled. “Tomorrow.”
Daniel’s relief was palpable. “Okay…yeah. Yeah, great. I mean…great.” He laughed nervously, then tried to recover dignity. “I’ll pick you up? Or, we can meet…whatever you want.”
“We’ll figure it out. We can talk before class tomorrow,” Y/N said, tucking the notes tighter against her chest.
Daniel nodded quickly. “Okay. Cool. I’ll—uh—I’ll see you.”
He started walking with her for a few steps, still smiling like he couldn’t help it, like he was afraid if he stopped smiling she might change her mind.
Y/N kept her pace steady, her expression calm.
But inside, something churned.
Because she wasn’t just saying yes to Daniel.
She was saying yes to the feeling of being seen by someone who didn’t make her feel like a secret.
She was saying yes because she was angry.
And because she wanted Henry to notice.
When Daniel finally peeled off down another corridor, waving once over his shoulder like a golden retriever who’d just been praised, Y/N slowed and turned back toward the classroom.
Students were trickling out.
Henry stood at the front, gathering his things, perfectly composed, perfectly professional.
But his eyes were on the doorway.
He hadn’t heard what was said. There was too much noise, too much distance.
He’d seen her follow Daniel out.
He’d seen them standing close.
He’d seen Daniel’s face light up.
He’d seen Y/N walk away with him.
And when Y/N met Henry’s gaze for the briefest second through the open door, she saw it, just a flicker beneath the calm.
Jealousy, clean and sharp, carefully caged.
Y/N’s mouth curved into something small and controlled, almost a smile, almost a dare.
Then she turned and walked away down the hall with her notes back in her hands, her pulse racing, half satisfaction, half regret, already wondering which of them would break first.
Tuesday, Y/N walked into Henry Creel’s class like she belonged there the way she always had: chin lifted, notebook tucked under her arm, expression calm enough to pass for indifference.
But she didn’t feel calm.
Not with yesterday still sitting in her chest like a dare, not with Daniel Taylor’s grin burned into her memory, not with the way Henry had watched her leave the room with him without saying a word.
She took her usual seat. Sat straight. Opened her notebook. Clicked her pen.
And said absolutely nothing.
Henry began lecture like he always did: measured voice, sleeves rolled, chalk in hand. He moved between the board and the desk with that soft, intellectual composure that made half the class think he was gentle. His words flowed easily, theme, authorial intent, subtext, his handwriting neat and severe against the blackboard.
She didn’t challenge him once.
It was wrong. It felt wrong.
He asked a question to the room, something designed to pull an argument out of her, something he’d normally bait her with because he liked how she fought.
Students offered timid answers. Henry corrected them patiently. He kept glancing her way, small, quick checks that pretended to be nothing.
Heads turned. A couple of students smirked, expecting her to speak up like she always did.
Y/N didn’t look at her classmates. She kept her gaze on her notebook for a beat longer than necessary, then lifted her eyes to him.
Henry waited, calm as stone.
Y/N gave him a small shake of her head.
The room went still for half a second, like everyone felt the shift even if they didn’t understand it.
Henry’s expression didn’t change. Not outwardly.
But something tightened behind his eyes.
“Alright,” he said evenly, and moved on as if she hadn’t just broken their usual rhythm in front of everyone.
He lectured through it. He stayed professional. He stayed controlled.
And she watched him adapt, watched him keep the room in his hands while his attention kept drifting back to her like a needle trying to find a groove.
When the hour ended, chairs scraped, students rose, laughter returned. Henry dismissed them with the same calm authority as always.
Y/N began packing slowly, deliberately, because she knew what would come next.
“Y/N,” Henry said, voice still neutral. “Stay a moment.”
She didn’t look up right away. She clicked her pen closed. Slid it into her bag. Lifted her gaze to his with practiced calm.
The classroom was nearly empty now, only a few students lingering by the door. His voice lowered just slightly. “Why not?”
Y/N stood. “Because I have a date.”
It landed exactly where she wanted it to.
Henry’s hand tightened around the stack of papers he was holding, so tightly the edges bent faintly. His knuckles whitened.
Jealousy flashed there, hot, contained, furious. Possession sharpened into something dangerous for a heartbeat before he forced it back behind the professor mask.
Y/N felt her pulse jump with sick satisfaction.
“Is that so?” Henry said softly.
“Yes,” she replied, too sweet. “It is.”
Y/N tilted her head, innocent. “Daniel Taylor.”
Henry’s jaw flexed once. His gaze darkened further, something primal cutting through the calm as if the word Daniel scraped against something raw.
Y/N could’ve stopped. She could’ve walked away right then, taken her little victory and left him standing at the front of his classroom with his neat stack of papers and his carefully constructed distance.
His voice remained level, but there was strain beneath it. “You’re leaving my classroom to go out with a boy who can’t write a coherent argument without borrowing your notes?”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “That’s mean.”
Henry’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “It’s accurate.”
Y/N’s satisfaction turned sharp. “You’re jealous.”
It was in the way he stood too still. In the way his fingers stayed locked around the papers as if they were the only thing keeping him anchored.
Y/N stepped closer, just one step, because she wanted him to feel it.
“You don’t get to act like this,” she said quietly.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “And why is that?”
Y/N’s voice dropped, almost conversational. “Because you told me yourself.”
Y/N gave him the exact words back like a slap dressed in lipstick. “We’re not in a relationship.”
Henry’s breath changed, small, controlled, but different.
“Yes,” he said, and the calm in the word sounded like a warning. “That’s what I said.”
“So,” Y/N continued, sweet and sharp at once, “you don’t get to—”
“I don’t get to care,” Henry cut in softly.
The interruption stopped her. Not because it was loud, because it was honest.
Y/N’s throat tightened. She didn’t let it show.
“That’s right. You don’t get to own me,” she corrected, steadier than she felt.
Henry’s eyes burned. “I don’t.”
“Good,” Y/N said lightly. “Then I’ll see you Thursday.”
She turned as if to leave.
Henry’s voice stopped her, low and controlled, stripped of classroom softness. “No.”
Henry took one slow step toward her. The professor persona was still technically on him, button-down, chalk dust on his fingers, voice carefully restrained, but something underneath it had risen up and taken the wheel.
“No?” Y/N echoed, amused. “What do you mean, no?”
Henry’s gaze held hers, unblinking. “You’re not going on a date with Daniel.”
The words should’ve sounded absurd.
Not coming from him like that, quiet certainty edged with something possessive he usually kept hidden behind literature and reason.
She let out a small, incredulous laugh. “Henry.”
His name, in this empty classroom, hit differently.
Henry’s eyes flicked to the door, ensuring they were truly alone, then back to her. “Don’t.”
Y/N’s smile widened in challenge. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
Henry took another step closer. “I can tell you what I will tolerate.”
“And I can tell you for the millionth time,” Y/N replied, voice light as sugar, “that you don’t own me.”
Henry’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped, brief, involuntary, to the line of her legs, then returned to her face like it had never happened.
Y/N walked back toward his desk instead of toward the door, sliding into his rolling chair with casual, deliberate audacity. She leaned back as if she owned the space, fingers resting lightly on the armrests.
“If you’re not in a relationship with me,” she said, sweetly thoughtful, “then it shouldn’t bother you, right?”
Henry didn’t move. He watched her like she was a problem he wanted to solve the wrong way.
Y/N pretended to muse aloud, tilting her head. “I wonder what Daniel’s favorite color is.”
Henry’s eyes darkened further.
“Maybe,” Y/N continued, deliberately, “I’ll wear something skimpy in his favorite color. Just for him.—”
His voice was still quiet, but it had an edge now—steel under velvet.
Y/N’s smile stayed in place. “Or what, Professor?”
Henry started walking toward her.
Each step closed the space like a sentence being tightened.
Y/N’s breath caught despite herself.
She pushed back with her feet, rolling the chair a few inches away—playful, taunting, still pretending she was in control.
Not fast, but with a deliberate, predatory stalk that was far more frightening. He closed the distance between them, his shadow falling over her.
She rolled the chair back with her foot, a playful retreat, but he was faster. Before she could roll away again, his hands shot out, gripping the wooden armrests on either side of her, caging her in. The chair was stopped dead.
He loomed over her, his body blocking out the light from the window. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating from him, see the furious pulse beating in his throat. He leaned down, his face inches from hers, his voice a low, possessive rumble that sent a shiver of pure desire down her spine.
“We may not be in a relationship,” he murmured, his eyes burning into hers, “but you are mine.”
She opened her mouth to argue, to throw another jab, but the words caught in her throat.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, joyous drumbeat of triumph and arousal.
She was trapped, claimed, and she had never wanted anything more.
She should have been scared.
A rational person would have been.
But Y/N wasn't rational when it came to Henry Creel. She was exhilarated, a live wire humming with a current only he could conduct. She opened her mouth to deliver another witty, slicing retort, but the words dissolved on her tongue as he moved.
He didn't answer with words. He moved. Not with the slow, deliberate grace of a professor, but with the blinding speed of a predator.
One hand shot out, grabbing her by the upper arm, his fingers digging into her flesh with bruising force. He yanked her from the chair, a gasp torn from her lips as he spun her. Her back slammed against the cold, hard plaster of the wall, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.
He was on her in an instant, a cage of muscle and rage. His palms slammed flat against the wall on either side of her head, the sound echoing like a final judgment.
He kicked her feet apart with his own, his leg pressing forward, the hard muscle of his thigh wedging itself between hers, forcing her open. The rough denim of his jeans ground against the seam of her own, sending a jolt of friction straight to her clit.
"You think this is funny?" he snarled, his face so close to hers she could see his eyes that were ice-blue, washed with gray, the color sharp enough to cut.
His breath was hot against her lips, smelling of coffee and something ancient and predatory. "You think you can flash that pretty little smile at some insignificant boy and let him touch what's mine?"
"Yours?" she managed to choke out, her voice a breathy taunt. "You said we weren't—"
He slammed his hips forward, pinning her more completely against the wall, cutting off her words. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the rigid line of his erection pressing against her hip through his trousers.
"I decide what you are. I decide what this is. And I'm telling you now," he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a low, menacing promise, "every inch of this body belongs to me. This mouth," he ghosted a thumb over her lower lip, "these tits," he dragged his gaze down to her heaving chest, "and this tight, wet little cunt. All mine."
His free hand moved with brutal efficiency. He didn't bother unbuttoning her shorts; he simply gripped the waistband and ripped.
The button popped off, skittering across the floor, and the zipper tore. He shoved his hand down, past the lace of her panties, his fingers finding her slick folds.
A guttural sound of triumph rumbled in his chest. "Look at this. Soaking. So eager for me." He dragged a finger through her wetness, circling her clit once, twice, a teasing, maddening pressure that made her whole body clench. "This isn't for Daniel, is it? He wouldn't know what to do with a cunt this hungry. He'd be scared of you."
He plunged two fingers inside her without warning, a thick, invasive stretch that made her cry out.
The sound of her own arousal filled the room, wet and obscene, as he thrust his fingers deeper, curling them to hit that sensitive spot that made her vision blur.
He pumped his hand, a hard, punishing rhythm, his thumb working her clit in relentless circles. She was helpless, pinned against the wall, her body betraying her, her hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more.
"Henry…” she breathed, her head falling back against the wall.
"No," he commanded, his voice sharp. "Look at me. I want you to see who's doing this to you. Who you belong to."
She forced her eyes open, meeting his fiery gaze as he worked her, his thumb circling her clit with relentless, maddening precision.
"Tell me," he commanded, his voice a dark growl. "Tell me who makes you this wet."
"…Never," she gasped, the word torn from her throat.
He laughed, a cold, cruel sound. He pulled his hand away, leaving her panting and feeling empty and aching.
He brought his glistening fingers to his own lips, his eyes locked on hers as he tasted her.
A shudder of pure lust wracked her body.
He fumbled with his own belt, the metallic clank harsh in the quiet room. He unzipped his fly, freeing his cock. It was thick, heavy, and angrily erect, the head already beading with moisture.
He hooked his hands under her thighs, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms circling his neck for balance as he pinned her to the wall with his body.
He guided himself to her entrance, not pushing in, just resting the hot, blunt head against her slick, swollen lips. The anticipation was a form of torture.
"Last chance," he whispered, his voice a ragged, possessive thing. "Say it. Say you're mine and I’ll make you forget everyone else but me when we’re done.”
She met his gaze, her own eyes glazed with a defiant, lustful haze. "Go to hell."
He rewarded her with a single, brutal thrust. He sheathed himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke, a searing, magnificent stretch that filled her completely.
She buried her face in his shoulder to muffle her loud moans rippling from her throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
He didn't give her time to adjust.
He began to fuck her against the wall, a hard, deep, punishing rhythm that shook her to her very foundation.
The sound of their bodies slapping together, skin on skin, was raw and primal.
The plaster scraped against her back with every thrust, a dull, delicious pain that only heightened the pleasure.
"This is what you wanted," he snarled, his teeth bared as he pistoned into her. "You wanted to see me jealous? You wanted to see me angry? Well, now you're feeling it. Now you're taking it.”
He angled his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside her with every punishing thrust. "This is my cunt. I'm going to fill it, I'm going to ruin it for anyone else. You'll never be able to be with someone else without thinking of me splitting you open like this…”
His words were as intoxicating as his actions. The possession, the rage, the raw, unfiltered dominance, it was everything she had craved.
She could feel the pressure building, a tight coil in her belly, ready to snap.
"Tell me," he gritted out, his rhythm becoming erratic, his control finally splintering. "Tell me you're mine."
The dam broke. The fight, the game, the defiance, it all shattered under the force of his need.
"Yours," she whined, her nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm yours, Henry…Oh my God…I'm yours—"
Her climax was a violent, convulsing thing, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vise. Her vision went white, her body arching against his as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her.
The feel of her coming undone around him was his undoing. With a low guttural groan that was more animal than man, he buried himself inside her one last time.
His cock pulsed, flooding her with his hot, thick release, a final, undeniable act of possession.
He held her there, his body pinning hers to the wall, both of them trembling and slick with sweat. For a long time, the only sound was their ragged, desperate gasps for air. He slowly, gently, lowered her to the floor.
Her legs were so weak they nearly buckled, and he had to steady her with an arm around her waist.
He held her close, his body still trembling with the aftershocks of his rage and release. He pressed his lips against the shell of her ear, his voice a raw, intimate whisper that was a stark contrast to the brutal snarls from moments before.
"Patty Newby is a colleague," he murmured, the words a confession and a reassurance. "A friend. Nothing more. I had lunch with her to talk about departmental politics" He pulled back just enough to look at her, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. "You have nothing to worry about. There is no one else. There's only you. Even if we have to be a secret, even if we have to burn for it... it's only you."
The sincerity in his voice, the raw vulnerability in the aftermath of his possession, was more disarming than his anger.
It was the truth, laid bare between them in the wreckage of their encounter. She felt the last vestiges of her defiant anger melt away, replaced by a deep, aching tenderness.
She leaned her head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. "I…I won't be going on that date with Daniel," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper.
A low, triumphant hum vibrated in his chest. He tilted her chin up with his index finger underneath, his eyes softening as they searched hers. He captured her lips in a kiss that was the polar opposite of their previous moment. It was slow, deep, and impossibly gentle. A kiss of claiming, but also of cherishing.
"My clever, brilliant girl," he praised her against her ear. "You always know exactly what to do."
He helped her straighten her clothes, his touch careful and reverent. He knelt, picking up the button he had ripped from her shorts and looking at it for a moment before tucking it into his own pocket.
In the quiet of the classroom, with the afternoon sun slanting through the windows, he took care of her.
And in that moment, she knew with absolute certainty that she was his, not just in the throes of passion, but in the quiet aftermath, too.
a/n: thank you all so much for the love ive gotten on this series. it means the world, i just wrote it out of the horniness i felt for this 😭🤣. i do read inboxes but…idk i guess i feel awkward cuz im not sure how to respond, like some of them leave me surprised/turned on but surprised but like I don’t respond even when my best friend sends asks. but you guys asked part four to include drama and jealous henry for it so i deliver. if you guys have more ideas, please comment, ask, etc., i can add people to a tag list if you’d comment
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