To say I was dreading the first day of class would be a criminal understatement. I changed my outfit three times—first a blazer that felt too stiff, then a dress that felt too much, and finally I settled on something safe: a plain pair of dark jeans, a crisp white shirt, a tailored vest, and a scarf knotted at my neck like a woman who had it all together. I didn't. I never used to care this much about what I wore to lecture, but then again, I'd never had him sitting among my students before.

Anzee, of course, was giddy about the whole thing. She all but skipped around the kitchen that morning, chattering about how cool it was that Harry Styles was going to be a student in her mum's class. I had to gently remind her—again—that I wouldn't be able to talk about him or anything class-related. Boundaries. Rules. Ethics. She pouted a little but eventually conceded, returning to her cereal and her Pinterest board of outfit ideas inspired by "Harry's airport style."

Walking into the lecture hall—something I had done literally hundreds of times before—suddenly felt like stepping into a trap. There was a tightness in my stomach, a weight that settled just behind my ribs. I'd purposely arrived just a few minutes early to avoid awkward one-on-one encounters, but as fate would have it, awkwardness had booked a front-row seat and was already waiting for me.

I placed my bag on the desk, slipped off my jacket, and started organizing my things, pretending I didn't feel like my heart was trying to beat its way out of my chest. Against my better judgment, I lifted my gaze—and there he was.

Front row.

Green eyes locked on me like a challenge.

Harry.

I quickly looked away, but not before catching the unmistakable curve of a smirk forming on his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing.

I ducked behind the desk, fumbling for my glasses like they might somehow serve as a shield. I laid out my papers, took a breath, and made my way to the front of the desk, leaning slightly against it to keep myself grounded. I crossed one leg over the other, rubbed my hands together—textbook signs of anxiety. If any of them had read their course material already, they'd probably diagnose me on the spot.

"We've gathered quite the group," I began, scanning the auditorium of a hundred students. "One hundred registrations! That's a record for this course."

A few heads nodded, phones clicked off. A couple students straightened in their seats.

"I understand that you all signed an NDA, given that someone in this room happens to be a member of a tiny, virtually unknown music group," I said, injecting some humour in an attempt to address the elephant in the room.

A ripple of laughter moved through the auditorium, and I took that as my cue to walk toward the front row.

"Harry, welcome to our class and to the university. I'm sure your fellow students will treat you with the respect you deserve. And if they don't, well... I'm sure you have excellent legal representation."

More laughter. Even Harry chuckled, his dimples flashing in full force. The tension in my shoulders loosened by a millimetre.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cameron, for accepting me into your class," he replied smoothly, voice warm and respectful. Somehow, he still managed to make my name sound like something forbidden.

"You're welcome, Mr. Styles," I said, keeping things professional, though I avoided meeting his eyes directly. I turned back to the room.

"I want to be very clear: there will be no special treatment for anyone in this class, regardless of status, fame, or the number of Instagram followers they may have. You do the work, you get the credit. You don't, and you face the consequences. That applies to everyone." I let my gaze hover just long enough over Harry to make my point. "However, I also expect that everyone here treats each other with fairness. We're here to learn—not to gawk."

"Mrs. Cameron?" Harry raised a hand politely. I gave him a nod to go ahead.

"I wouldn't want it any other way," he said, glancing around the room. "I'll do the work just like everybody else. And I want to thank you all in advance for letting me have this experience."

I barely had time to appreciate the maturity in his words before someone in the back yelled, "We want free tickets!"

The room erupted again.

I laughed softly and gestured for them to settle down. "Nice try. But let's move on."

I handed a stack of handouts to the girl in the front row—who looked as though she might never wash her hands again—and watched as they were passed back, student by student, the atmosphere slowly shifting back to normal classroom energy.

But as I glanced down at my papers, I could still feel the weight of his gaze. It wasn't distracting. It was magnetic.

This was going to be one hell of a semester.

"On the first page, you'll see how your grade will be determined for the semester."

I scanned the sea of fresh faces in front of me, most of them already half-glazed over, probably doing mental gymnastics to figure out just how little they could do and still pass.

"Fifteen percent of your grade comes from attendance. Then, three assignments, each worth fifteen percent."

Predictably, a few groans echoed around the room.

"No midterm paper," I added, and the mood immediately lightened—cheers even.

"However," I continued, pausing for dramatic effect, "forty percent will come from your final exam."

A few shoulders visibly sagged. I hid a smile and looked up, unable to resist scanning the room—and there he was. Front row, pen in hand, scribbling notes like his life depended on it. Focused. Eager. And, dare I say, passionate. I had to look away before my face gave me away entirely, but not before the corners of my mouth betrayed me with a soft smile.

"Also on your handout, you'll find the list of books you'll need to purchase, as well as the titles you'll need to borrow from the library," I said, sliding into a casual perch on the edge of the desk, adjusting my glasses before continuing.

"Now," I added, glancing back up, "look to your left."

There was a collective shuffle of heads turning.

"The person sitting next to you will be your partner for the first assignment of the term," I clarified, watching as a few eyes widened and some unfortunate pairings grimaced.

I picked up the remote and switched on the projector, the first slide glowing onto the board behind me.

"Topic one: Depression. Still one of the most prevalent and misunderstood mental health issues today. Your paper can be broad or highly focused, but either way, you'll need to dig deep and offer insight. Your research might just help someone understand their own experience better."

I paused briefly, the word depression landing a little too close to home.

"Topic two: Addictions. Gambling, alcohol, drugs, shopping, work, social media, exercise—you name it. This one can be explored through many lenses, and it affects more people than you might think."

Click.

"Topic three: Kids and the Media. In the past two decades, what our kids consume visually has changed drastically. And they've become desensitized in ways we've barely begun to comprehend."

Click.

"Topic four: Death and Mourning. As more people live longer lives, how are we evolving in the way we process loss? Is mourning still mourning if someone lives to 104? Or is it celebration?"

Click.

"Final topic: Meditation. Ancient practice, modern benefits. How does it work, and can it genuinely replace medication in some cases?"

I stepped away from the desk to walk among the rows, watching the students start to murmur and shift in their seats.

"These are the topics we'll touch on throughout the term, but those of you assigned to them will need to dive in. Your research will matter. And you won't be alone—I'll be available to help you with sources, guidance, and direction."

A boy at the back raised his hand. "Do we get to pick our topic?"

I smiled. "Not this time."

He slumped down with a dramatic sigh. "Brutal."

"Think of it as fate choosing for you," I offered with a smirk. "If your handout number is 1–20, your topic is Depression. 21–40, Addictions. 41–60, Kids and the Media. 61–80, Death and Mourning. And 81–100, Meditation."

Papers rustled like autumn leaves as everyone checked their numbers.

I resisted the urge to glance in Harry's direction again. I told myself it didn't matter which topic he got. I told myself I wasn't invested. I was lying to myself. Again.

I shifted toward the wall and lowered the lights.

"Now, a quick video made by some of your predecessors. Just a few highlights—or lowlights, depending on perspective—about surviving this class."

The short video played to roaring laughter. Former students appeared on the screen, offering dramatic, exaggerated advice about pop quizzes, caffeine addiction, and deciphering my allegedly "infamous" lecture slides. When it ended, I flipped the lights back on, still feeling the burn of his gaze like sunlight through a magnifying glass on my skin.

I tried not to let it show. I answered questions from eager students—some more enthusiastic than informed—and promised to post notes and schedules online later that day. Slowly, the lecture hall began to empty.

I was gathering my notes, trying to busy myself until the last students left, when I heard someone clear their throat.

I looked up, expecting another question about library hours or due dates.

Instead, I was met with the vision of a goddess.

Long, honey-blonde hair cascaded down her back in loose waves. Her eyes, a crystal shade of blue, sparkled with youth and eagerness. She was all denim and boots and effortless beauty—like someone who walked out of a coming-of-age indie film. A real-life Pinterest board.

"What can I do for you, sweetheart?" I asked, caught off guard by how sweet she looked.

She blinked, startled by the endearment. "Um, it's Rebecca. Rebecca Phillips."

I smiled. "Lovely to meet you, Rebecca. What do you need?"

"I wanted to schedule an appointment," she said, her voice like soft bells. "For me and my partner—for the first assignment."

"Of course," I said, reaching for my planner. "Is Wednesday at eleven okay?"

"That's perfect!" she beamed.

I noted it in my diary. "And who's your partner?"

She gave me a shy smile. "Harry. Harry Styles."

I froze, my pen hovering mid-air.

Of course.