We are going around in circles. I cannot believe this. "He did not!" I exclaim, eyes wide, chopsticks suspended in mid-air. The takeout noodles I was halfway to devouring suddenly feel like lead.

Niall shrugs, completely unfazed, while popping another dumpling in his mouth like this is just another casual Tuesday revelation.

"He did, actually."

I blink. "Enrolled. In my class?"

"Yep," he confirms, chewing happily. "Now that we're finally taking a break, he said he has time. Psychology's always interested him. Thinks it'll help with song writing or whatever... tapping into emotion and all that."

Beside me, Liz mouths a silent I had no idea, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Are you sure, Niall?" I press, clinging to a shred of hope that this is all some elaborate Irish prank.

"He literally said you were 'a brilliant professor.' And, I quote—'gifted.'" He grins, clearly enjoying the drama. "His words, not mine."

In any other circumstance, being called a gifted professor would've sent me floating three inches off the floor. But right now, it lands like a brick in my gut.

"Oh my God..." I mutter, finally setting the noodles down. I realize I haven't blinked in five minutes.

"What? What's wrong?" Niall looks genuinely perplexed, like he hasn't just lit a match and dropped it into a barrel of emotional TNT.

"Don't do anything stupid," Liz warns, eyes narrowing at me like she can already see the impending disaster forming in my brain.

"I have to notify the dean," I mutter, standing up and reaching for my phone like it's a lifeline. "There's no way. I can't teach that class."

"Why?" Niall asks, furrowing his brow.

"Because I've slept with one of my students!" I hiss.

"And?" he repeats, still not seeing the issue.

"Niall. Shut up." Liz snatches the phone out of my hand like a mother confiscating a bottle of tequila from a tipsy bridesmaid.

"Liz!" I protest.

"What are you even thinking?" she practically yells. "You're going to call the dean and say, 'Hi, I accidentally banged one of my students, please excuse me from teaching Psychology 101'?"

"Well, it is unprofessional—"

"FUCK unprofessional," she barks. "You're going to throw your career out the window over one night?!"

"And one morning," Niall adds helpfully.

"Not. Helping," Liz and I say in unison.

"But Liz—"

"No buts. You're not going to confess to anything, you're not going to self-destruct, and you're certainly not going to hand in your resignation over Harry Styles. For God's sake, you're a psychologist. Psychoanalyze your way through this."

"I don't have the hots for him," I mumble.

"You could have fooled me," Niall mutters.

"And he's not my student!"

"Not yet," Niall singsongs.

"Shut. Up. Niall!" we both shout, and he lifts his hands in mock surrender.

"I feel extremely unappreciated right now," he sulks.

"Niall, so help me God," Liz snaps, "if you don't zip it this instant, I'm not blowing you for a week."

He physically mimes zipping his lips, throwing away the imaginary key, and flopping back onto the couch with exaggerated dramatics.

"As I was saying," Liz continues, totally unfazed, "people are going to talk, Ashley. They'll talk when Harry freaking Styles starts taking classes at our university. But not for the reason you're spiraling about. The dean will throw a damn parade. This is free publicity."

I pause. She's right. Of course she is. It's always like this—logic coming from Liz, emotions coming from me, and Niall occasionally offering commentary like we're a Netflix show.

Still, I pace the room.

"It's unethical, Liz."

"It's manageable. I trust you. You're one of the most grounded, professional women I know."

"Except for the part where I slept with a pop star."

"Details." She waves it off like we're discussing a parking ticket. "The point is, I know you. If he stays in that class, you'll handle it. Like you always do."

"Oh, he's in," Niall mutters from the couch, because of course he is.

"Zip, remember?" Liz glares at him.

"Zipping," he mimes again. "Mmm... mmm... not a peep... mm-hmm."

I collapse into the nearest chair. "Admitting what happened could jeopardize everything."

Liz softens a bit. "I get that. I really do. But you don't have to say anything. Don't go full Shakespearean tragedy on me. This can still be salvaged. Just... act normal."

"You're telling me to be normal around Harry Styles?"

"Yes. Pretend like you didn't see him naked. Multiple times."

"...This is going to be a disaster," I mutter.

"Which is why I'm now taking over the campaign, and you're staying the hell out of anything PR-related," she reminds me.

"And Niall?" I look at him. "Please. Please don't say anything to Harry."

He holds up three fingers like he's swearing allegiance. "Scout's honor. I'm a vault."

Liz snorts. "A very talkative vault."

"I have layers," he mutters.

I gather my things. "I need to go. Review some notes. And cry into a pillow, probably."

"Come to my office tomorrow," Liz calls after me. "We'll finalize the campaign hand-off. And maybe bring cupcakes. For morale."

"Cupcakes for morale," I echo flatly, stepping into the hallway.

Outside, the cold wind cuts across my cheeks like a slap. It's biting, harsh, unforgiving. Much like my life choices lately.

What the hell am I going to do?

The semester starts in less than a week. And unless the universe rewrites itself, Harry Styles will be sitting front row in my lecture hall. Pen in hand. Probably smirking.

And me?

I can do this.

God help me.

****

It's been a while since I last heard any actual news about him. Not that I was ever truly free of his shadow—Anzee made sure of that. As did the entire universe, apparently.

Liz had taken over the project like the professional powerhouse she is, and though I was tempted many times to ask for updates about Harry, I bit my tongue. Repeatedly. Bit it until it practically bruised. The only thing she ever let slip was that they were having an absolute blast—her words. And that she and Niall were living in their own little bubble of bliss.

Well, she may have let more than that slip about Niall, actually. But for everyone's sake—including mine—I'm going to leave that out for now.

What I will say is that Liz was glowing. Niall had apparently become her feta cheese, her tsoureki, and her vegetarian moussaka. Don't ask. I didn't. The references to Greek cuisine were frequent and absurd, but the sentiment was clear—Niall was her person. My joyful, excitable, hybrid-car-driving, sweet friend. And I was happy for her. I really was.

But then the pictures surfaced.

Harry and the model.

Of course, she was gorgeous. Long limbs, glossy hair, a waist so tiny I wanted to feed her carbs on principle. They were photographed laughing together, his hand on the small of her back, the kind of pose that screams comfortable familiarity. And I... I was gutted.

Not that I had any right to be.

Still, I told myself it didn't mean anything. That it wasn't my business. That I had walked away, and this was exactly the sort of natural consequence that comes with that decision. But watching the headlines swirl and seeing his face next to hers—it hit me harder than I'd expected.

Anzee was sick for nearly a week, and while I hovered around her like the world's most attentive mother, she assumed my melancholy was maternal worry. In truth, I was quietly spiraling.

When she wasn't sleeping, she was ranting about the fandom's reaction to the photos. Apparently, it was chaos. Half the fans were thrilled that Harry was finally seeing someone, while the other half were digitally building voodoo dolls in the model's likeness and sharpening pins like tiny plastic daggers of heartbreak.

I said nothing. I nodded, I hummed, I wrapped her in blankets and brought her herbal teas—but mostly I stayed quiet because I didn't trust my voice. The green monster inside me wasn't just whispering—it was roaring. And while I didn't want to admit that I was jealous, I didn't want him happy with her. I didn't want him kissing her the way he'd kissed me. I didn't want her seeing that private smile he saved for when he was amused and curious and undone all at once.

I didn't want her in the space I had once occupied, no matter how briefly.

And yet, there it was. The reality. Maybe it was a one-time thing, after all. Maybe he'd moved on the moment I stepped out of that office and said I'd have Elizabeth contact him.

I couldn't compare to someone like her—not physically, not publicly, not in terms of what made sense on paper. And maybe that was for the best. Maybe this was the universe giving me the out I so desperately claimed to want. Maybe now I could put all of it behind me: the stolen moments, the glances, the heat of his skin against mine, the way he made me feel like I was still alive and wanted and seen.

Maybe now, with someone else in the picture, I'd be able to move on. Maybe I could get through the next semester without wondering if he'd show up for the first class.

Maybe he wouldn't show up at all.

Just... maybe.

*******

I was in the middle of prepping my lectures when Monet gently knocked on my office door, ushering Anzette in behind her. My daughter, bundled in her oversized hoodie and toting her backpack like a proper academic-in-training, wanted to visit the university library to gather material for a project due after the Christmas holidays. She needed to borrow books under my faculty card, a privilege she used with more reverence than some of my grad students.

Anzee had always loved the library. She liked the quiet hum, the scent of ink and old paper, the thrill of stumbling upon something no algorithm had handed to her. It was one of the few places we both cherished equally—her for discovery, me for the nostalgia.

"Okay, stay here, sweetie. Take a seat by the desk and I'll talk to Mrs. Wilkinson, she can help you find what you need," I said, slipping off my coat and draping it over a wooden chair.

I'd just taken two steps toward the front desk when I heard it—that voice. That deep, warm, unmistakably him voice.

"Hello, Ashley."

Electricity shot through me like I'd touched a live wire. I froze, turned—and there he was.

"Hi... my God, you startled me," I said, a nervous laugh catching in my throat as I took him in. Dark jeans, a deep charcoal shirt, a wool scarf slung with enviable casualness, and a long coat that somehow made him look even taller. It should be illegal to look this good in the university library.

He stepped forward to give me a quick hug, followed by a chaste kiss on the cheek that still managed to make my pulse spike. His scent—clean, warm, faintly spicy—wrapped around me like a secret I wasn't supposed to remember.

"You look great," I managed, hoping my smile didn't look as flustered as I felt. My internal thermostat was somewhere near a Mediterranean heatwave.

"Thank you. You too," he replied smoothly, his eyes drifting behind me. And that's when I remembered: Anzee.

"Oh! Where are my manners?" I turned to find her frozen, mouth slightly open, staring at Harry as though he'd just stepped out of a dream—and in her case, he basically had.

"Anzee, this is Harry. Harry Styles," I said, even though she was already fully aware of who he was. She'd probably recited his entire discography in her sleep once or twice.

"Hi, Harry," she said, her voice soft and star-struck.

"I've heard a lot about you, Anzette," he said, flashing that impossibly charming smile. "Your mom says you're the brightest kid in your school."

I hadn't. Liar. Smooth, silver-tongued liar.

"Yes. I get straight As. I'm here for a school project," she replied, chin lifting slightly with pride. God help me, she was already half in love.

"Really? Using a university library for a school project? That's impressive," he said, clearly enjoying himself as Anzee flushed a deep, mortified red.

"Mr. Styles, your library card is ready," came a voice from behind him. Professor Simon Peters appeared with the poise of someone who knew exactly how to interrupt something interesting.

Simon was one of our more respected faculty members—brilliant, accomplished, and slightly terrifying in his dry, intellectual way. I'd collaborated with him before. He was excellent at his job. And absolutely terrible at reading the room.

"Oh, Ashley! What a surprise," he said, extending his hand.

"Hi, Simon."

"I don't believe you've met Mr. Styles," he added, gesturing to Harry with a practiced air.

"As a matter of fact, I have," I replied, somehow keeping my voice even. In more ways than one, I wanted to add, but thankfully didn't.

"We worked together on the anti-bullying campaign Ashley was leading," Harry supplied helpfully.

"Ah, you did," Simon said, tone flat. His eyes flicked between the two of us, suspicion blooming like a slow fog. I kept my posture steady, my expression unreadable.

"And since Ashley will be one of your professors," Simon added after a beat, "I'd suggest you refer to her by her surname."

His tone had taken on a slightly disapproving edge, and I felt my jaw tighten.

Harry, however, didn't miss a beat. "I fully intend to, sir—in the classroom," he replied smoothly. Then, with just the faintest edge, added, "But outside of class, Ashley and I can speak however we see fit."

I inhaled sharply, eyes flicking to Simon, who didn't look impressed. Time to save the moment.

"Harry was instrumental in the success of the campaign. We've spent a lot of time collaborating—it would be silly to act like strangers," I said, injecting just enough warmth to sound professional but firm.

Before Simon could respond with another academic dagger, Anzee—bless her—held up my phone like a lifeline.

"Mom, Liz is on the phone," she called out, utterly unaware of the powder keg she'd just defused.

"Right! I've got to take this. See you around," I said, turning on my heel and marching off like my life depended on it.

As I spoke to Liz and helped Anzette track down her books, I tried to shake off the tension that had gathered around my shoulders. I wasn't sure if I was annoyed, flustered, or both.

And then my phone buzzed.

Harry:
So... you've got another admirer, huh? xx

I stared at the screen, a reluctant smile creeping across my face. Of course he'd text. Of course he'd notice Simon's tone. And of course, he'd make it impossible for me to stop thinking about him.