"Dean?" Dr. Collins calls out, her voice firm yet laced with anticipation. She's asking for his final verdict—the last, decisive point that will determine the winner of the debate. I can barely breathe. The tension in the auditorium is thick, electric. My hands are clenched behind my back, fingers digging into each other. I know I'm supposed to be objective, to treat this as an academic exercise, but let's be honest—I want this. I want it so badly. I love it when my kids win.

The Dean stands slowly, scanning the packed room. Silence falls like a curtain.

"I must say," he begins, "the Sociology majors have carried themselves with grace and professionalism. Their arguments were well-structured, thoroughly researched, and articulated with confidence."

There's a ripple of polite applause from their side. He pauses—long enough to send my heart into a temporary state of cardiac arrest.

He turns slightly toward our group, his expression unreadable.

"However," he continues, his voice rising just enough to reclaim every ear in the room, "the passion, coherence, and sheer force of the Psychology majors—especially in the strategic construction and delivery of their rebuttals—was nothing short of extraordinary."

The air is buzzing now.

"And so," he says, after yet another pause that feels like a year compressed into three seconds, "the final and deciding point... goes to the Psychology team."

The auditorium erupts.

Cheers. Applause. Whistling. Even a few happy screams. My students shoot out of their seats like fireworks. My cheeks ache from how wide I'm smiling. I clap along, loud and proud, trying not to let my heart explode from sheer joy.

I rush to them, caught in a flurry of hugs, kisses, and back pats. I'm so proud. So moved. They did it. We did it. I spot Harry in the crowd, standing just behind the last row of seats. His hair is up in a bun, a few tendrils escaping near his temple. His grin is wide, those signature dimples deepening with satisfaction. He winks at me—and of course, the cocky little thing knows exactly what he's doing.

I look away, pretending I haven't noticed, and dive back into the chaos of my victorious team. I reach Rebecca, who's practically glowing, and pull her in for a tight hug.

"You were amazing," I whisper, and she beams, her excitement palpable. She deserves this.

And Harry... Harry deserves a portion of this win too. He worked with them every step of the way—sourcing research, brainstorming angles, running mock debates. He was relentless in his effort, grounded and focused. You'd never think he was the international superstar with private jets and platinum records. He was just Harry. One of us. One of them.

And yet, despite everything, he refused to be on the official debate team. Said he didn't want his presence to stir unnecessary speculation. "I don't want to taint our win," he told me with that signature smirk. "Because let's face it, with a professor like Mrs. Cameron and students like us... it's a sure thing."

Cheeky bastard. He knows exactly how to walk the line between charm and audacity. I didn't let on at the time, but his words stayed with me. He knew how much this mattered to me. To us.

And here we are. Victorious.

Just then, the Dean's voice cuts through my thoughts.

"So, I officially declare the Psychology team the winners of this year's annual debate!"

Another round of celebration swells through the room. Students are practically bouncing out of their seats. I'm about to fade into the background when suddenly Elizabeth and Monet appear at my sides like mischievous fairy godmothers, each grabbing one of my arms.

"Oh no you don't," Liz grins. "This win's as much yours as it is theirs."

Before I can protest, they push me—gently but firmly—toward the front of the room. I trip forward, stumbling a little, and when I look up, I realize the applause hasn't stopped. In fact, it's for me.

For a brief moment, I freeze. I'm not good at this part. The attention. The spotlight. But I breathe through it, smiling with what little composure I have left and giving them a small, grateful wave.

"Aww, thank you," I manage, and I have to fight to keep my voice steady. I blink rapidly to keep the tears at bay. I didn't expect to feel this emotional, but I do. I really, really do.

I turn to the Sociology team, walk over, and shake hands with each member, offering them warm congratulations.

"You were fantastic," I tell them honestly. "Worthy opponents in every way."

Then I call up Professor Peters, their advisor, and encourage another round of applause for him. The room responds generously, and I catch a glint of appreciation in his otherwise stoic expression. He nods at me—mutual respect exchanged in silence.

As the crowd starts to thin and students begin to pour out of the hall, I hang back, gathering my things into my briefcase. I pause for a second, letting the echo of applause linger in my ears. It's moments like this that make every sleepless night, every self-doubt, every tough day... worth it.

"So, Ashley," I hear a familiar voice at my side. It's Dr. Peters—Simon, as he prefers in more casual settings. I hadn't even noticed him approach. I've been so absorbed in packing up, riding the high of our win, and tamping down the residual emotions from the day that I forgot I was still in a crowded room.

"Simon," I acknowledge, keeping my tone neutral but polite.

"Congratulations once again. You won fair and square," he says with a tilt of his head and a subtle smile—one that's just this side of flirtatious.

"Thank you, Simon," I reply, forcing a small smile.

"I really thought choosing that topic would tip the scales in our favour. I was sure we had you this year," he chuckles lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. There's good humour in his tone, but something else too. Something more deliberate.

"You won four years ago," I remind him, smiling as I latch my briefcase shut.

He laughs heartily. "That was ages ago. Practically prehistoric."

"Well, better luck next time then," I say, not really meaning it, and judging by the smirk he gives me, he knows it.

"Ashley," he starts again, his voice softer now. There's a hesitation in the way he says my name.

I glance up at him just as he continues. "How about I treat you to dinner?"

The question floats between us, awkward and unwelcome, catching me off guard.

"Oh... that's really not necessary," I say, trying to sound casual but firm.

"Please, I insist." His eyes search mine, earnest—eager, even.

I open my mouth to fumble for an excuse, when another voice slices in from behind me like a lifeline.

"Ashley."

I turn, startled and so grateful, to find Harry standing there, holding a bouquet of flowers. His hair is up, his cheeks pink from the cold, and despite the rather formal setting, he looks like something out of a dream I probably shouldn't be having.

"Oh! Hi, Harry," I say, suddenly very aware of both men and the bouquet he's holding. "How are you?"

"I'm good. These are for you." He steps forward, offering the flowers with an almost bashful grin. "For doing such a great job. For everything, really."

His gaze flicks toward Simon, then back to me, and I can practically feel the temperature in the room drop five degrees.

I chuckle nervously, adjusting the strap of my briefcase. "How did you know we'd win?"

"I didn't," he replies, dimples on full display. "But I was definitely rooting for you."

I take the flowers, overplaying my composure. "That's so thoughtful. Thank you, Harry. You're such a lovely student." I stress the word student a little more than necessary, and to overcorrect, I give him a stiff, awkward pat on the back like he's just won a spelling bee.

Simon clears his throat.

"Mr. Styles," he says curtly.

"Dr. Peters," Harry returns with a nod, his tone polite but distant. There's tension now, coiling beneath their civility like a rubber band stretched too tight.

"I think it's highly inappropriate to address Professor Cameron by her first name. And bringing flowers?" he adds, almost scoffing. "That's not typically how students behave with faculty, wouldn't you say?"

Harry doesn't flinch.

"With all due respect, Dr. Peters, Ashley and I worked together before I enrolled here. We were colleagues on a professional campaign. In that context, first names were appropriate, and until she says otherwise, I'll continue to use it."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"And if I recall correctly, I mentioned this to you once already. Surely you remember?"

Simon's jaw tightens, but I step in quickly.

"It's fine, Simon," I say calmly. "Harry and I worked closely before he joined the course. It's hard to suddenly switch to formalities when you've already established a working rapport. We're not in the classroom right now."

"Of course," Simon says after a long pause. "My apologies, Mr. Styles."

"No worries, Dr. Peters," Harry replies smoothly, then turns his attention back to me.

"Ashley, the class is heading to the pub to celebrate. Elizabeth and Monet are waiting at your office to give you a ride."

"Oh, really? I guess I can't say no to that now, can I?" I laugh, genuinely delighted at the idea of celebrating.

Then, with some guilt and hesitation, I add, "Simon, would you like to join us?"

I say it out of politeness. I'm praying he declines.

"I... okay, why not?" he says with a shrug. "It would be good to congratulate your students properly. Show them we're all working toward the same goal."

Of course.

"Great," I say, forcing a smile that feels like plastic.

As we part ways, Harry and I walk toward the parking lot together. The air is cool and smells like impending rain.

"Ashley," he says, suddenly pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

"Hm?" I try to sound casual, as if I haven't spent the last thirty seconds remembering—remembering him, his hands, his breath against my neck, the way he murmured my name like a secret. The way I'd felt under him, alive in a way I hadn't in years.

"You look flushed."

I blink at him. "Oh—just the rush of victory, I guess."

He gives me a small grin. "Well, you wear it well."

It's like someone turned up the sun. For a second, it's not drizzly, grey England anymore—it's golden, glowing Greece in the middle of summer.

"See you in a bit," he says, unlocking his car. From across the lot, I see Rebecca—Rebecca with her glowing skin, her charm, her youth—waving at him. He waves back, and my stomach twists.

Of course. Of course she's there.

My heart sinks, just a little. A silent, sharp reminder that I have no right to daydreams. That reality is what it is: he's a student, I'm his professor. Anything else is fantasy—and fantasies don't build careers, or raise daughters, or keep reputations intact.

"Yeah," I say with an awkward smile, swallowing the knot in my throat. "See you soon."

As I turn away, I wave at Rebecca too, because she deserves it. She's brilliant. And because I am, despite everything, a professional. I tell her again how proud I am of her. I mean it.

But somewhere in the depths of my chest, something stings. Something hollow, wistful, and quietly breaking.

"What the fuck is wrong with your face?"
Elizabeth doesn't even wait until the door shuts behind me before firing off her signature bluntness.

I blink. "Wow. Hello to you too."

"Isn't it amazing how we can curse freely outside the classroom? It's so liberating!" she adds, completely unfazed as she grabs her coat from the back of her chair like she didn't just insult me in one breath and philosophize in the next.

"What's wrong with my face? My mascara ran?" I ask, running a finger under my eye with a touch of panic.

"No," she says, inspecting me like I'm a poorly plated dish. "You just look like shit. And that's odd for someone who just crushed a university-wide debate."

"She's right, you know," Monet pipes in from the side, arms crossed, head tilted.

I sigh, tossing my briefcase on my desk. "I just had an awkward run-in with Peters and Harry. That's all. I'm fine now."

Elizabeth narrows her eyes. "If you say so, love."

There's a pause as she checks her phone. Her expression shifts into something sly and knowing.

"Just a heads-up, though."

My shoulders stiffen. "What now?"

"Harry won't be alone at the pub."

I arch a brow. "Yeah, I figured. I saw Rebecca in the parking lot."

"No, darling." She looks up from her phone, eyes sparkling. "That's not who I meant."

I give her a long look, suspicious now. "Then who?"

"You know, I hope you don't get mobbed tonight," she says, dreamily distracted. "Being around Niall has made me very aware of public spaces."

"Elizabeth. Who?"

"My sweet baklava, my warm tsoureki," she sighs dramatically. "But no, not Niall either."

"Are we going to play twenty questions or...?"

She straightens, pulling on her coat. "OK, let's just say there was someone at the debate today. Someone... interested in seeing Harry in action."

My stomach flips.

"You mean—?"

She nods slowly, smugly. "His mum."

And just like that, the oxygen leaves the room.

"She's joining us at the pub," she adds, all casual.

I close my eyes. "Fuck."

Elizabeth grins wide. "Isn't it glorious, being able to curse like this when we are outside of the lecture room? So fucking liberating."

I lean back against the edge of my desk, dazed. Harry's mother. The woman who raised the boy I slept with. The boy I teach. The boy whose name I still whisper in my head when I'm lying awake at night.

"Maybe you two could chat about his many qualities," Elizabeth teases, elbowing me lightly. "You know... his stamina, his articulation, his... focus."

"Stop," I groan, burying my face in my hands. "Just stop."

She cackles, linking arms with Monet. "Come on. You'll survive. Probably. And if not... well, we'll give you a lovely eulogy."

"Can I request no bagpipes?"

"No promises."

As they head toward the door, I take one last look in the mirror behind my desk. I smooth my hair, fix my scarf, and reapply a fresh coat of lipstick. Because if I'm going to meet his mother, I damn well need to look like a professor, not the woman who's still daydreaming about her son's hands on her body.

"Let's go," I mutter to myself. "May the odds be ever in your favour."