Vee

“Do you already have a topic for your thesis?”

That was the very first thing Professor Rodriguez asked me. Not hi, not welcome to Ashenwood University—just straight to the jugular. A thesis. On my first day. Sir, I barely knew where the bathroom was.

The truth? I didn’t transfer here for the thesis. I transferred because of one man: Thomas Hunt. Legendary director. My idol. The genius behind The Last Duchess. That film wasn’t just good—it was the kind of good that rewires your entire brain. It was also the film where Thomas met Elara, his wife, who was basically Hollywood royalty at the time. They made art and a love story in one. I mean, how could I not fall in love with film after that?

“To be honest, I haven’t really thought about it yet,” I admitted carefully.

Rodriguez gave me a look that could slice through glass. He was my student advisor, which meant he got to judge me for the rest of the year. “Well, you’ll need to decide soon. The other students already have strong proposals. Since this is your senior year, I expect you to think this through. You do have the option of a big project in place of a traditional thesis.”

That got my attention. “A project?”

He nodded, then jotted something down.

“I think…” I hesitated, then blurted, “I’d like to study Thomas Hunt’s The Last Duchess. That film is why I left my business major and switched to film.”

His brows jumped. “Plenty of students have written about that film. Hunt is… let’s just say extraordinarily popular. Are you also a fan of his wife?”

“I’m a fan of Thomas Hunt,” I said quickly. Maybe too quickly. “I’ve seen all his work, but The Last Duchess—that one saved me. It made me want this life.”

He skimmed my file again, then looked up with the faintest smile. “From business to film studies, hmm?”

I shrugged. “Guess I like making bad decisions.”

The meeting dragged another thirty minutes before he finally dismissed me with, “You’ll need to meet Tyler Hill. He was Hunt’s assistant. He’s teaching Hunt’s classes this year. Introduction to Film Studies, three o’clock.”

Tyler Hill. Assistant to my hero. My first step closer.

I nodded quickly and hurried out of his office.

\~\~\~

It was 10:50 a.m.—ten minutes before my class started. History of Cinema in room 4-02. Panic surged through me as I half-ran toward the elevator. But after several seconds, the doors still hadn’t opened. Damn it. I spun around towards the emergency stairs.

Crash!

I collided with someone. My body hit the floor hard. Since when had there been someone standing right behind me? I thought I was alone.

The man was tall, with long hair tied neatly in a man bun. He extended his hand, and without hesitation, I took it. “Thanks,” I muttered hastily, then rushed down the stairs.

By the time I reached class, I was a mess—breathless, hair disheveled. And yes, late. Five minutes late, thanks to that useless elevator. Or maybe thanks to that collision. I didn’t know anymore.

And that was just the beginning.

Today I had three classes: History of Cinema at eleven, Screenwriting at one, and finally Introduction to Film Studies at three.

By the last class, my body was giving up. My head felt heavy, my eyelids begged for rest. Surely it wouldn’t hurt to nap for just a moment… the professor wasn’t here yet anyway—

Suddenly, someone tapped my elbow. Gently at first, then more firmly.

“Hey!” I yelped, jolting upright.

The classroom fell silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward me.

“Sorry to interrupt your nap time, princess.”

The voice was deep, edged with sarcasm.

I turned—and froze.

The tall man with the man bun. His stare was cold, his face sharp, commanding.

God. I’d fallen asleep. On my first day.

“Sit down if you still want to pass this class. Or leave—I don’t care.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. I bowed my head quickly.

“Sorry, Sir,” I mumbled before sliding back into my seat.

I tried to focus on the lecture, but my mind kept wandering. His eyes… why did they feel so familiar?

And then it hit me.

The crash by the elevator earlier. The hand that had pulled me up.

Oh God.

Him. Professor Hill.

“Any questions, Ms?” he asked sharply, his tone cutting through me.

I shook my head quickly. “No, Sir.”

“Then sit straight and keep quiet while I explain. Otherwise, I’ll throw you out.”

Gulp. My throat tightened.

“My apologies, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

“Good.” He continued the lecture as if nothing had happened.

All I could do was stare at my notebook, mortified.

Day one, and everything was already a disaster.

Perfect first day, Vee. Just perfect.

\~\~\~

Tyler

I had just returned from Thomas’s mansion when I came back to the university to teach Introduction to Film Studies.

This class was supposed to be taught by Thomas himself. But with his health deteriorating, I stepped in.

I am Tyler Hill—Thomas Hunt’s protege, fresh off finishing my Master’s degree only a few months ago. That’s how people see me, anyway.

But Thomas always said, “Don’t listen to the world. Listen to yourself.” His words have stayed with me. Let them whisper behind my back—I don’t care.

This small university survives on Thomas’s reputation alone. Even as his health declined, they clung to him. It was Thomas who decided I should replace him this year, so he could finally focus on treatment.

My thoughts drifted back to earlier that morning. A girl had crashed into me by the elevator, so hard she fell to the floor.

“Ow.”

I had offered her my hand, and she’d taken it quickly, only managing a rushed, “Thanks,” before running off.

What a mess.

Clearly, she was late for class. I sighed, then stepped into the elevator that finally opened.

The rest of the day, I buried myself in editing Thomas’s unfinished script. By the time I looked up, the clock read 2:50.

I entered the classroom. Some students were already seated. I organized my notes, set up the presentation—trying to steady myself.

The first day shouldn’t be difficult, right?

“Good afternoon. Before we begin, let me introduce myself. I’m Tyler Hill. I’ll be covering Professor Hunt’s classes during his absence. And just because I’m a substitute doesn’t mean you can do as you please. I spent the last seven years studying Film under Professor Hunt’s direct supervision. So if you think you can slack off in my class, there’s the door—and don’t even think about coming back. Now, let’s begin—”

But then I saw her.

One student immediately caught my attention. A girl, head resting on her arms, fast asleep.

Daring enough to nap in my very first class.

I walked over. Her long black hair spilled across the desk, framing her face like a curtain.

I couldn’t find the words to describe it—but the sight was… beautiful.

I touched her arm lightly, trying to wake her.

She jolted upright, gasping, then stood awkwardly from her seat.

And that was when I saw her more clearly.

Hazel eyes, still heavy with sleep. A face flushed with embarrassment. Disheveled, imperfect—and yet my heart skipped a beat.

I couldn’t show it, not here. Around fifteen other students were watching.

But there was something about her.

The way she bowed shyly, the way her apology sounded like the weight of the world pressed on her shoulders. It was precisely that imperfection that drew me in.

I wanted to know who she was.

Why she looked so tired on her first day.

And why one glance from her was enough to shake the walls I thought I’d built.

I kept my face stern. No weakness. This was my first lecture—I had to stand firm. But deep down, I knew something had shifted the moment those eyes met mine.

She sat back down, murmuring an apology. I resumed teaching, doing everything I could not to look at her again.

Her eyes were dangerous.

Fifteen minutes passed without issue. Then suddenly, I felt her stare. She was looking straight at me, wide-eyed—as if she had just realized something.

And I realized it too.

The girl in my class was the same girl who had crashed into me earlier by the elevator.

I froze. The world seemed to shrink, leaving only her startled gaze locked on mine.

Was this coincidence too neat to believe?

Or was fate already at work?

I clenched my jaw, pretending to focus on my lecture. But inside, my heart had already betrayed me.

I didn’t know her name yet.

But one thing was certain—

this was not going to be the last time we met.

\~\~\~

Vee

“So, your name is Victoria Sinclair.” Professor Hill’s baritone voice was low but firm as the class ended. His piercing gaze made my stomach tighten with nerves.

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry if I disrupted your class today. I only arrived in Ashenwood this morning and… the schedule was overwhelming. I haven’t had a chance to rest yet.” I tried to smile, though my face burned hot.

As if to betray me further, my stomach growled—loudly. My cheeks flushed crimson. Professor Hill exhaled, his eyes lingering on me longer than they should have.

“When was the last time you ate?” His tone was flat, yet there was the faintest trace of concern beneath it.

I thought for a moment. “I don’t know… maybe last night, before my flight.”

Without another word, he picked up his jacket and strode toward the door. His tall frame and measured steps sounded steady against the wooden floor. For a second, I just stood there, frozen.

“It’s already six o’clock,” he said at last, his voice deep. “You’re not from Ashenwood, and you haven’t eaten all day.” He glanced back at me, his eyes sharp yet warm. “Come with me. At the very least, you need food.”

My throat tightened. Was this really the same Professor Hill who had been so cold and intimidating earlier? Shouldn’t he be fed up with clueless transfer student like me by now?

But then, my stomach growled again—louder this time. My body betrayed me once more.

“Let’s go,” he said simply.

I ducked my head, trying to hide my embarrassed smile, and hurried after him. “Alright, Sir.”

\~\~\~

Tyler

What are you doing, Tyler? She’s a student. And you’re her professor. Well—technically only a substitute; Thomas should be teaching this class. But still, for now she’s your student. And you… you brought her to Laura’s Kitchen.

The only place in Ashenwood where I usually spent quiet evenings with dinner. My comfort place. What was I thinking?

“Thank you for bringing me here, Sir.”

She sat across from me. Her face still carried traces of exhaustion, her hair slightly disheveled from travel. Yet her hazel eyes glowed with life, bright against her weariness.

“Order anything you like,” I said evenly. “But nothing excessive. Only what you can finish. Wasting food isn’t good.”

I turned my eyes back to the menu—one I’d read countless times before. Same choices, same pages. But tonight, it felt different.

From behind the counter, Laura shot me a sly smile, her eyes narrowing with mischief. She approached our table, voice cheerful.

“Good evening. Have you decided what you’ll have?”

“Tagliatelle al Ragù for me,” I answered quickly, “and Carbonara for her.”

She frowned, one brow raised.

“Didn’t you just say I could order anything I wanted? Why are you ordering for me?”

I gave her a sidelong look, holding back a smile. “You seemed uncertain. So I decided for you.”

She sighed, then glanced at the menu. “Fine. But I want a Caprese Salad, Garlic Bread, and… what’s the best dessert here, Sir?”

“Tiramisu. To share,” I replied firmly. “You won’t finish one portion alone. It’s too big.”

“Alright then.”

There was a spark of triumph in her eyes, as though she’d just won something.

Laura scribbled down the order, her mouth twitching with suppressed laughter. “Alright, let me repeat: one Tagliatelle al Ragù, one Carbonara, Caprese Salad, Garlic Bread, and one Tiramisu to share. Drinks?”

“Just sparkling water.”

“Perfect. It’ll be right out.” She turned away, but not before shooting me another teasing glance. I could swear she even winked.

Of course. To her, this probably looked like… a date.

\~\~\~

Vee

Ten minutes had passed since the waiter took our order, and not a single word had been spoken. Professor Hill was absorbed in his book, glasses sliding slightly down his nose. Meanwhile, I was busy pretending everything in the restaurant was fascinating—the dark wooden beams, the hanging lamps, even the salt shaker. Anything to distract me from the awkward silence.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to say something.

“Professor Hill, do you—”

“Tyler.” His voice cut in, firm, without looking up.

I blinked.

“No need for formalities when we’re not on campus,” he added, his tone softer this time.

“So… Tyler.” My tongue felt stiff. It sounded strange to call him by his first name. “How long were you Professor Hunt’s assistant?”

“Seven years.” He half-closed his book, eyes still skimming the page. “From the start of my undergrad until I finished my Master’s.”

I nodded quickly. “You know, I’m a huge fan of Thomas Hunt. I’ve seen all his films. Some of them I’ve watched multiple times… especially The Last Duchess.”

This time, his eyes lifted—straight into mine. The weight of his stare made me want to sink into my seat. “And? Do you expect me to introduce you to him? Do you know how many people claim to be Thomas Hunt’s fans? Hundreds even thousands.”

I forced a small smile. “But I truly came to this town—to Ashenwood University—just to learn directly from him.”

“Oh, really?” His sarcasm was sharp, but strangely, it only made my heart beat faster. “Must’ve been hard, leaving the big city just to chase after your ‘idol.’ Where are you from?”

“Cali. Near the Capital. About a four-hour drive. It’s sunny, close to the beach… You should visit sometime. It might brighten your mood.”

Tyler shut his book with a soft thump. This time, he folded his arms across the table, fixing me with a steady gaze.

“You think I’ve never been to Cali?”

I swallowed. “I don’t know… maybe?”

“I went once. And in my opinion… overrated. Too hot. Too loud. I prefer Ashenwood. I’ve lived here all my life.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Good. I’ve always wanted to get as far away from Cali as possible. I don’t want to deal with people there anymore…”

Oops. I couldn’t believe I’d just blurted that out. Oversharing. I scrambled to change the subject—

But he spoke first. “I wonder… how does a cheerful girl from Cali find the courage to leave it all behind just to meet her idol? There must be another reason, isn’t there?”

My breath caught. Panic flickered. Words stuck in my throat. How was I supposed to answer—

Thankfully, the waiter returned just in time, setting down steaming plates with a friendly smile. “Enjoy your meal.”

Wait—did she just wink at Tyler?

\~\~\~

I dropped my eyes to the food—Carbonara glistening with cream sauce, garlic bread still warm from the oven. My stomach growled again.

“Go ahead,” Tyler said curtly.

I nodded and reached for my fork. As I tried to twirl the pasta, a piece of garlic bread nearly slipped from the basket. Reflexively, I reached out—just as Tyler’s hand moved toward the same piece.

Our fingers brushed. Warm. Unexpected.

I jerked my hand back. “Sorry! I—”

He glanced at me briefly, jaw tightening. Then, calmly, he placed a piece of garlic bread on my plate. His voice was cool.

“Focus on your fork. Don’t let dinner fall apart because of your clumsiness.”

I winced, then chuckled softly. “Alright, Sir—uh, I mean, Tyler.”

He exhaled, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. Almost… a smile.

I tried to lighten the mood. “You know, I once tried cooking carbonara myself. It turned out… inedible. The sauce clumped, the pasta was mushy, and my brother said it tasted like baby food.”

Tyler set down his fork, eyes locked on me. “And?”

I grinned sheepishly. “And since then, I’ve vowed never to torture anyone with my cooking experiments again. Even the microwave gets nervous when I touch it.”

Silence.

Then—something surprising. A low, muffled sound escaped him. A laugh. Short, restrained… but real.

I stared, mouth slightly open. “Was that… a laugh? Oh my God, you can laugh!”

He covered his mouth with his hand, shaking his head. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. That was just… reflex.”

But I saw it—the warmth flickering in his eyes.

For the first time that night, the awkwardness began to fade.

Dinner passed in a strange, delicate rhythm. Tyler remained calm, composed, but once or twice I caught glimpses of something softer beneath the surface. And each time I managed to coax even the slightest smile from him, it felt like a small victory.

When Laura returned, she carried a plate of tiramisu, its cream smooth, cocoa powder dusted perfectly on top. “For sharing,” she said with a knowing tone, before leaving us alone again.

I stared at the dessert for a moment, then glanced at Tyler. “Are you sure this is enough for two?”

“Trust me. You couldn’t finish it alone.”

He took a spoonful, sliding the plate toward me. “Try it.”

I reached with my spoon, but the tip clinked against his. The brief touch of metal startled me into stillness. Our eyes met—and for the first time tonight, he wasn’t looking at me as a professor. His gaze was deeper. Different.

I hurried to take a bite, masking my nerves. Sweet cream and the bitter edge of coffee melted on my tongue. “It’s delicious,” I whispered.

Tyler finally tasted his own. He nodded once. “Not bad.” But the glint in his eyes told me he was watching my reaction more than savoring the dessert.

We ate slowly, trading bites, our spoons occasionally brushing again. Each time, my heart raced faster. Around us, the restaurant emptied, leaving only faint jazz music in the air.

And then I realized something.

The walls around Tyler—those cold, impenetrable walls—were beginning to crack.

And me? I was already slipping through them, falling deeper than I intended.

\~\~\~

Vee

Four days have passed since Professor Hill—well, Tyler—took me to dinner at Laura’s Kitchen. I haven’t seen him since, not even on campus. It doesn’t help that my schedule is only one class a day, except on Mondays, so the chances of running into him are next to none.

But every time I think about that night—the brush of our spoons, the way he looked at me, that almost-smile—my face heats up before I can stop it. Who knew one serving of tiramisu could linger like that?

“Hey, Vee! Done with classes today?”

Chloe leaned against my doorway, her blonde hair falling in effortless waves. Chloe Davenport—my dorm mate and a Sophomore in Film Studies. On my first day in Ashenwood, she was the one who hauled my heavy suitcases up to the room. She looks girly, but don’t be fooled—she’s athletic and a bit of a tomboy.

“My class is at one o’clock. Directing Fundamentals, taught by…” I fished out the schedule tucked into my notebook. “Thomas Hunt? Wait—seriously? Does that mean I’ll see Tyler Hill again?”

I could barely believe it. I’d just been thinking about him minutes ago, and now… I had to face him again. After four days without a single word.

Chloe plopped herself on the edge of my bed, grinning like she’d been waiting all day to gossip. “You know, people are jealous of you. At least half the campus wishes they could take Thomas Hunt’s class. But… honestly? Thomas is terrifying. Always grumpy, always mocking anything modern, clinging to his traditional methods. Most students avoid him like the plague.”

“And now Tyler’s taking over,” I muttered.

“Exactly.” She leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “The famous assistant. Technically he’s just a substitute, so he should be called Mr. Hill. But nope—everyone calls him professor anyway. Like his presence alone demands a bigger title.”

I rolled my eyes. “Tyler’s no different. Strict, sarcastic, allergic to smiling.”

Almost never smiles, I corrected silently. Except that one night. That almost-secret smile that still made my stomach flip whenever I remembered it.

“Yesss, but come on,” Chloe pressed, wagging her brows like a cartoon villain. “Broad shoulders. Sharp jawline. That hair—black, tied back all neat. Can you imagine if he let it down?” She fanned herself dramatically, then covered her face with both hands. “People call him Professor Dreamy, you know.”

I nearly choked. “Professor Dreamy? That’s what you’re going with?”

She peeked at me between her fingers, giggling. “Don’t even pretend you don’t see it. Relax, not my type.” She flicked her hand. “I already have a boyfriend.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Jason Clarke, the Football Guy? Defense for the Eagles, lives two hours from here?” My tone was pure mockery.

Chloe burst out laughing and swatted my shoulder.

“Anyway,” she said, standing, “how about we go out tonight? There’s a popular club nearby—The Tavern. We can hang out, and you can… maybe find a boyfriend?”

I made a face. “I’m not sure about the boyfriend part, but hanging out? That sounds better than spending Friday night in this tiny room.”

“Perfect. I also want to introduce you to my crew. We call ourselves The Reels.”

“The Reels?” I echoed, curious.

“Yep. My best friends since freshman year. Sophie, Ethan, and Liam. They’re great—you’ll fit right in.”

I smiled. “Okay, deal. See you there.”

The clock read 12:40. I grabbed my bag and hurried out. Only one thought in my head now: Don’t be late to Tyler’s class.

“Good luck, Vee!” Chloe called after me, her voice echoing down the hall.

I held my breath. Please let me be ready.

\~\~\~

Tyler

Directing isn’t my passion—It’s Thomas’s. And yet here I am, teaching it. But I know I shouldn't complain because If not for Thomas, I might’ve dropped out of Ashenwood, vanished somewhere, doing work that wouldn’t even want someone like me.

Directing Fundamentals is heavy on practice. I hate that part—too much uncertainty, too many people to move into place. I hope today ends quickly.

My steps felt heavy as I entered the studio. The spotlights hung low, their heat on my skin like a warning. Practice cameras lined one wall; cables snaked across the floor like traps. Folding chairs stood in a loose circle, inviting and judgmental all at once.

And there she was.

Victoria. Dark hair curtaining one cheek, sitting in the very back as if hoping the dimness would swallow her whole. Teaching a practical class is headache enough—now I had to pretend her presence didn’t unsettle me.

I’d done a decent job avoiding her these past few days. Every time I caught a silhouette with that hair in the hallway, I changed direction. I can’t falter.

“Front row, Sinclair,” I said, voice crisp, from the front of the room. “If you want to learn directing, you don’t hide in the back.”

Heads turned. She looked up—startled for a fraction—then rose and moved forward. My heart tried to quicken but I forced it to obey.

“Alright,” I cut through the murmurs. “Directing isn’t just telling people what to do. It’s reading the text, interpreting emotion, and igniting life in an actor’s body. We’ll go straight to practice.”

A ripple of nerves moved through the chairs. This course could make even the most confident students could shatter, unsure, and exposed.

“Pair up. One director, one actor. Five minutes to prepare. Show me a short scene.”

I scanned the roster. “Walsh with Marlowe. Blake with Jensen. Sinclair with…” A pause too long is weakness; I held it just enough. “Carter.”

I caught a flicker of panic in her eyes—there and gone. She turned, found Carter. He stood, hand raised, the easy posture of someone used to performing. Good. At least her partner wouldn’t crumble first.

I walked the room as they prepared. Whispers traded, pages rustled, a tripod clicked into place. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Victoria roll her script, then smooth it flat again—a tell of someone trying to steady herself. Carter pointed to two or three lines; they met each other’s gaze. Victoria nodded—too fast.

“Time’s up,” I said. “Walsh’s group first.”

One pair, then another, with notes in between—my familiar rhythm. “Show action, not explanation.” “Motivation, not volume.” “Hold the pause; let the audience breathe.”

“Sinclair—Carter.”

They stepped forward. Carter angled his body slightly, one hand in his pocket. Victoria stood two paces away, shoulders tight. I don’t like tight shoulders. Tight shoulders are lies.

“Begin,” I said.

The scene rolled. Carter’s first line was decent: steady, not overdone. The problem was Victoria; her voice was right, but her eyes were trying to be correct. No danger. No secret.

“Stop,” I cut in. All eyes swung my way. “Sinclair, what do you want from him?”

She looked at me. “Conflict—”

“Not a textbook answer,” I said evenly. “What do you want—right now?”

She drew a breath. “I want him to confess.”

“How will you force it?”

A beat of silence. I hate fearful silence. Then she stepped half a pace closer to Carter—not enough. “Half again,” I said.

She obeyed. Those hazel eyes lifted. Something moved there—small, risky. Carter responded; his shoulders shifted, chin lowered. Good. Pressure found its mark.

“Continue,” I said.

The dialogue tightened. Victoria held her last syllable, letting the air stretch. Carter took the bait, dropped his voice. The room grew quiet in the best way—the kind of quiet that means attention.

“Cut,” I said on the right beat. “Not bad. But you’re still safe, Sinclair. I don’t want safe. I want honest. Your face is already talking; let your voice lead it.”

She nodded. A slight change in the line of her jaw. I turned before I read too much.

The rest of class flowed. Notes, a quick demonstration, a short laugh when an improv went off the rails. When the bell nearly rang, I closed my notebook.

“Assignment for the week: choose a two-page scene. Directors—prep blocking and motivation. Actors—bring a brief backstory. We perform Friday. Class dismissed.”

Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Feet shuffled. I stopped myself from searching for her in the crowd.

“Sinclair,” I called, neutral.

She turned. “Yes, Sir—” She looked startled for a second

I pretended not to notice.

“Don’t play it safe,” I said. “Follow your instinct and see what happens.”

For a split second, those eyes challenged me. “Alright.”

She left, catching up to Carter at the door. The air in my chest didn’t feel as tight as before—and I didn’t like that realization.

Directing still isn’t my passion. But today… class wasn’t as exhausting as I expected.

And that’s exactly the problem.

\~\~\~