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You sent a photograph to the wrong Alaric. Your ex is Alaric Whitmore. Your professor is Alaric Wrayburn, and he has already opened it. He is thirty-eight, careful, and entirely capable of pretending it never happened. He has decided not to.
The evening had begun comfortably at your house, drinks scattered across the coffee table and the lamps making the whole room feel familiar. Corinne Petrakis had claimed one side of the couch, Teddy Vaughan was on the floor stealing snacks, and Priya Sanna was curled in an armchair, already laughing at something Corinne had said. The four of you had been friends long enough that an evening together required almost no planning. After talking, drinking, and eventually running out of anything interesting to discuss, Corinne suggested truth or dare. What had started as a harmless game became increasingly chaotic as everyone got more competitive, refusing to let anyone escape a challenge once they had accepted it. By the time the bottle stopped in front of you, all three immediately turned their attention toward you. “Truth or dare?” You chose dare. Corinne’s expression became suspicious at once, a mischievous smile spreading across her face before she even announced the challenge. “I dare you to send your ex a really provocative picture.” Your expression changed instantly. Absolutely not. You refused without hesitation, shaking your head while Corinne laughed and Priya immediately joined her in insisting that you couldn’t back out. Teddy pointed out that everyone had completed every dare they had been given throughout the night, meaning you had no excuse to suddenly become the exception. You kept protesting, insisting there was no way you were sending your ex something like that, but your friends were relentless until, after several minutes of teasing, bargaining, and increasingly dramatic complaints, you finally sighed in defeat. “Fine. One picture.” The room erupted in celebration. You grabbed your phone and disappeared into the bathroom while your friends waited outside, laughing and throwing comments through the door. Once you were alone you stared at yourself in the mirror and wondered how exactly you had allowed three supposedly good friends to talk you into this. Eventually, however, you took the photograph, deliberately making it far more suggestive than anything you would normally send. Looking at it afterwards made your face heat immediately, but you had agreed to the dare and everyone was waiting. You returned to the living room with your phone in hand. “There,” you announced, trying to sound confident despite your embarrassment. “I’m doing it.” Corinne leaned forward excitedly while Teddy and Priya watched from across the room. You opened your messages and found the contact you believed was your ex, Alaric Whitmore, before opening the conversation without giving the name much thought. There was one small detail you had completely forgotten in the rush of nerves. Your ex and your university professor shared the same first name. Alaric Whitmore was your ex. Alaric Wrayburn was your professor. The coincidence had felt like some ridiculous joke from the universe, especially because Alaric Wrayburn had personally given his professional number to his students so they could contact him with academic questions. Unfortunately both contacts were saved in your phone, and the similar names made the mistake painfully easy to make. Under normal circumstances you would have noticed the difference immediately, but with your friends watching and your nerves getting the better of you, you barely looked at the name before opening the conversation. Your finger hovered over the screen for half a second before you finally pressed send. The photograph appeared in the conversation, followed almost immediately by the confirmation that it had been delivered. “There!” Corinne exclaimed, throwing her hands up. Teddy laughed and teased you about how long it had taken, while Priya congratulated you for finally having the courage to go through with it. Their voices blended together as they celebrated, completely unaware that the photograph had gone to the wrong person. You were still looking at your screen when something suddenly felt wrong. Your eyes drifted toward the top of the conversation, initially without any real concern, until the profile picture registered in your mind. You leaned closer and read the name beneath it. Alaric Wrayburn. Your stomach dropped. You checked the contact information to make absolutely certain, and the realisation settled over you with horrible clarity. Not Alaric Whitmore. Your professor. The same professor whose professional number you had saved for university questions, who could very well be holding his phone at that exact moment, looking at the photograph you had just sent him. Your face went hot, and the words slipped out of you before you could stop them. “Oh my God.” Across the city, Alaric Wrayburn was completely unaware that his quiet evening was about to become considerably more complicated. He was lying against the headboard of his bed, dressed casually after a long day, with a book open in his hands and a warm bedside lamp casting soft shadows across his features. His professional phone sat on the nightstand beside him. When it vibrated he glanced toward it, assuming it was another academic question, closed the book around one finger to hold his place, and picked it up. He unlocked it. Then stopped. The photograph filled his screen. For several seconds he did not move. His expression remained almost completely neutral as his eyes stayed fixed on the image, his mind slowly processing what he was seeing and, more importantly, who had sent it. He knew immediately that it had been sent by accident. His first instinct was to close the message and inform you that you had contacted the wrong person. Instead his gaze lingered. Longer than it should have. Much longer. He lowered the book onto the bed beside him, his thumb resting against the edge of his phone. He knew exactly what the professional response should be, and he sat with that knowledge for a long, uncomfortable minute before he set the phone down, picked up his reading glasses, and did not open the book again. Then he typed four lines, deleted three, and sent the fourth. Your phone lit up in your hand with a single message from the wrong Alaric: “You have sent this to the wrong man. Come to my office tomorrow at four, and bring the phone. I would rather hear the explanation from you than invent one.”