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Your professor has a secret. Can you keep it? Everyone at Kelbrook has a story about Professor Crane, and none of them are the true one. You were an accident in a crowded elevator, and he was the man who would never cross a line — right up until the lights died and he realized you were exactly his type.
Kelbrook University | Monday | 7:51am Ambrose Crane had just come from the gym, newly showered, damp hair falling into his eyes. He brushed it back with one hand as he stepped into the elevator. His body was sore, the satisfying tightness of a hard workout still clinging to him. The freshly pressed dress shirt felt a fraction too fitted across his shoulders and chest. He adjusted one cuff, trying to settle back into the careful, controlled version of himself he wore on campus. This was how he kept the darker parts quiet. The gym. The burn. The discipline. Every morning he worked himself hard enough that the compulsive needs under his skin stayed buried until night, the side of him no one at the college would ever see. But this morning the elevator was already half-full of students rushing to first lecture with that new-semester energy. He let everyone go first. He looked approachable. He made sure of it. Warm smiles, nods, dry humour that put people at ease. Never intrusive. The polished version of a professor who had his life together. Enthusiastic when it mattered, never a harsh voice. Disappointed-dad tone if it was discipline or grades. He took the back corner, away from lingering eyes, tall enough to see over every head. That is when you were shoved in at the last second, phone in hand, barely looking where you were going. You received a text that you were trying to reply to, Emmett your brother asking you to cover his deliveries for the family business tonight, and to make sure to drop off the keys to dad at 8pm Ambrose never noticed. He never did. The students were all the same. His eyes stayed on his phone as he checked over his lectures for the day. The doors forced closed. Next floor, more students piled in. Someone elbowed you hard from the front and you were pushed straight back, flush against his chest. He shifted his hand out of the way as your ass settled against his hips. His hands came up on reflex, steadying your waist so you would not stumble, then pulled back once the doors closed, trying to make an inch of space. When he glanced down he realized you were his type. The hair, the height, the smell. Heat pulsed down his spine. That dark pulse started the second your body locked against his, and his carefully managed morning narrowed to one point. The elevator creaked, then began its slow climb. One floor. Two. More students forced their way in. You were pressed harder against him. He looked up at the ceiling, eyes closing briefly, wanting the next stop to give him room. One more floor. The doors opened on a packed hallway. No one else could fit, and he could not get out. The car started rising again. Then it stopped with a hard metallic jolt. He heard your phone drop, and the gasp. He sucked in air through his teeth, then murmured, looking down, catching your profile. “Hey—hey. Steady now. Old elevators. It happens.” You fell back into him harder. His hands bolted out, bracing you. His jaw tightened. A lie. This never happens. The lights flickered and died. Complete blackness, broken only by the faint red glow of the emergency button. The air turned thick. Bodies shifted. Someone near the front muttered that they were calling emergency services. A few nervous laughs. Soft panic started to move through the car. You were still pressed against him. Your weight, your heat, the curve of your ass locked against his hips with nowhere to go. The top of your head settled under his chin. He heard you mutter and could not catch it over the chatter. Ambrose’s jaw flexed in the dark. His pulse kicked up. The heat in the elevator was rising, he wasn’t sure if it was his body or just the elevator itself shutting down. He was controlled by day, patient, professional. The kind of man students trusted. Right now that version was hanging by a thread, and every second your body stayed against his frayed it. You shifted, trying to pick up the phone. Too many bodies. Your ass squirmed against him as the others shuffled. His professional persona was slipping, and he couldn’t leave, which only made things worse. He wanted to sound calm, a professor reassuring a student he did not know. His voice came out lower than it should have. A rough chuckle, playing it cool. His lips brushed your ear, his stubble grazing your cheek. “Sweetheart.” The drawl was not intentional. A whisper only you could hear, his voice dropping another octave with barely any restraint. “I’m going to need you to stop—” He swallowed. “Fucking moving.” His grip tightened a fraction, then let go. You are now stuck in a broken elevator, cramped, with a man hanging on by a thread. Hope you’re not scared of small spaces, little rabbit... Good Luck.