Chapter 35

Avery’s POV

The university felt charged, humming with electric anticipation I could not explain. Each step down the marble corridor echoed with purpose, as though the building knew a moment of truth was near.

Because I knew. Today was her day. Tiffany Rose.

Professor Rose to the oblivious world, she was becoming something else to me—something essential, something I could not define without that flutter of nerves beneath my ribs. The gifts were tucked into my bag.

The perfume, a blend of sandalwood and citrus, lingered in my memory like an unshakable spell. The limited-edition watch, a piece of immaculate engineering, screamed of understated sophistication—timeless, much like the woman who inspired the purchase.

I planned every detail with the precision I reserved for corporate takeovers, even though my chest thrummed with human energy. I reached her office door. I knocked once and waited for the command.

“Come in,” her voice called, smooth and steady.

I pushed the door open and stepped inside. She sat behind her mahogany desk, the afternoon sun a silent accomplice in the window.

Her glasses perched low on her nose as she scribbled notes across an academic page, the picture of focused intent. Something about her appearance stopped me.

No makeup. Not today.

Her face, bare and natural, was striking in a way that layers of cosmetic armor could never achieve. Her skin glowed in the stream of sunlight, and her eyes—those dark eyes—seemed brighter, unmasked.

It felt as though I watched a different version of her, a raw glimpse: less the composed Professor Rose, and more the woman named Tiffany beneath the facade. The observation slipped from my lips.

“You’re not wearing makeup today,” I said, my voice low, the words half-observation, half-intimacy.

Her pen froze, leaving a dash of ink on the paper. She lifted her head, her eyes finding mine, and there it was—that sharp, assessing gaze that cut through layers of pretense in seconds.

“You noticed something you should not, Avery,” she said, her voice controlled, carrying the sting of a warning.

I smirked, stepping closer. “Impossible. I notice everything about you, Professor.”

For a fleeting moment, I saw a flicker in her expression—a spark of surprise, followed by a hint of suppressed amusement. It vanished, replaced by her elegant composure.

“Anyway,” I continued, softening my tone, leaning into the formality before the argument could escalate. “Happy birthday, Professor.”

Her lips parted. That momentary shock lingered in her dark eyes, a shadow of vulnerability, even though she tried to mask it.

I did not give her time to construct her defenses. I pulled the wrapped box from my bag and set it on the center of her desk with a thud.

Her eyebrows arched, suspicion clouding her face like a storm.

“Before you start lecturing me on the student-professor fuss about gift-giving,” I said, lifting a hand in mock defense, “please just keep it. Consider it… an act of kindness. Or better yet—” I leaned forward, lowering my voice into a mischievous register, “—make me happy.”

I clasped my hands together in an exaggerated, childish gesture. “Pretty please.”

Her jaw dropped. She covered her face with one hand, a muffled, laugh escaping her. “Do you know how much of a drama queen you are, Von Carter?” she asked, her voice laced with exasperation.

I straightened, grinning, pleased with the effect. “Yes. Somebody told me once. Can’t remember who though, she’s too busy trying to keep a professional distance…”

Her laughter softened into a long, quiet sigh. She shook her head, but her gaze lingered on me longer than necessary, her expression conflicted. “Seriously, Avery. You didn’t have to get me anything. Not for me.”

“Of course I did,” I said without a sliver of hesitation, leaning my elbows back against the edge of her desk. My tone was firm, declarative. “You’re my favorite person in the world, Professor. If anyone deserves a gift today, it’s you.”

Something in her eyes faltered at my sincerity. The conflict deepened. Her lips pressed together, as though holding back words she was not ready to say aloud.

Finally, she gestured at the package.

“Open it,” I encouraged. “I dare you.”

She hesitated, a flicker of resistance giving way to curiosity, before she pulled at the gold-foiled wrapping paper. The moment the black and gold perfume box came into view, her eyes went wide.

“What the fuck—”

She caught herself mid-curse, snapping her lips shut with an audible click. “No, wrong choice of word,” she muttered, scolding herself for the lapse in decorum. She looked back up at me, her disbelief absolute. “What the hell, Avery?”

I bit back the laughter, savoring her unraveling composure.

“You got this perfume?” she demanded, lifting the bottle from its nest. “Imported? Do you know how rare and expensive this specific blend is?”

“I know,” I said, leaning back. “That’s why I got it. It suits you.”

She blinked at me, her brain struggling to process the extravagance, then moved to the second box. The moment she ripped open the final layer of paper and the silver casing of the limited-edition watch was revealed, her reaction doubled.

Her jaw dropped, the second wave of astonishment hitting her harder than the first.

“A watch? Not just any watch—this is… this is a limited edition. It was a special release three years ago.” She shot a wide-eyed glance back at me, her composure gone. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? How did you even find this?”

I laughed, a sound of pleasure at her confusion. “I hope you like it, Professor.”

Her gaze softened, the focus flickering between the watch, the perfume, and my face. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, carrying something gentler, devoid of sarcasm or severity.

“Of course I do. I love it. But really, Avery… you didn’t have to, darling.”

The word—the intimate, careless, unguarded endearment—hit me like a jolt of electricity. It was too soft, too genuine, too close.

My hand flew to my chest, pressing over my heart as I let out a theatrical gasp.

Her brow furrowed, concern replacing the warmth. “What happened? Did the price tag finally make you hyperventilate?”

I leaned closer, my expression shifting back to my wicked smirk. “Whenever you say that word, Professor,” I said, my voice low and teasing, “I feel a mini heart attack.”

Her face split into a wide, full, and genuine laugh. The sound rang out, filling the office with an unexpected, glorious warmth.

She rose from her chair, movements fluid, closing the distance between the desk and my position. She leaned down so close her dark, floral breath tickled my ear.

“Drama,” she whispered, the single word a quiet, final judgment.

The word, spoken so intimately, made my skin prickle. A strange, powerful sense of déjà vu washed over me, wrapping around me like the comfort of a dream.

Then, without any further warning, she pulled me into a hug. I froze at first, shocked into immobility.

This was not the brief, formal pat of a mentor; this was a complete, firm, warm embrace. Her arms were steady, strong, and her warmth enveloped me.

This was not a hug given to anyone; it carried weight, comfort, and the fragile burden of something unsaid.

“I really didn’t like it when you stopped talking to me,” she admitted, her voice muffled against my shoulder, the admission stripped of professional stiffness.

My throat tightened at the sincerity of the confession. I pulled back just enough to look her squarely in the eyes, my own voice low but firm, a promise. “It’s never going to happen again. Ever.”

For a timeless moment, her eyes searched mine, looking for the irrevocable truth of my vow. Then she smiled, a slow, gentle curve of the lips that reached and warmed her eyes.

“Okay,” she said, her voice sounding lighter, more accepting. She straightened, smoothing her blouse and jacket as though the physical act could retreat her back into her professional professor-self. “Now get back to work. You have three dozen papers to grade, Avery.”

I chuckled, lifting my hands in surrender, feeling the slide back into the student role. “Yes, Professor. Your wish is my command.”

But as I reached for the stack of papers she pointed to, I could not resist. I had one more detail to cement. “By the way… as promised, you’re coming with me today. No excuses, no papers, no grading. You’re coming.”

She looked up, narrowing her eyes, the professional facade cracking. “Where exactly? I have a faculty meeting at five.”

I grinned, my voice dropping into its most playful register. “Surprise.”

Her lips curved into a wry, exasperated smile. “I hate surprises, Avery.”

She paused, the dark intensity of her gaze softening in a way that made my heart stumble and race beneath my shirt.

“But,” she said, her voice a whisper, “I don’t hate them when they come from you.”

For once, it was my turn to be speechless. The world outside the office—the university, the students, the endless Von Carter obligations—vanished.

In that profound, shared moment, I knew—the gifts had done their part in breaking the ice. What truly mattered, what eclipsed the value of the perfume and watch, was this: her trust, her willingness to show a flicker of vulnerability, and the undeniable way her eyes lingered on me as though I was more than just a student.

More than just a Von Carter.