In Ivan Turgenev’s Fathers and Sons, there’s a scene where Bazarov realized his strict nihilist philosophies and assumptions about the values of provincial life might be erroneous. His entire worldview was challenged, and he was forced to accept that his radical ideas and how he had wielded the sword of his charisma may have irrevocably hurt those who trusted him.

And then—spoiler alert—he contracts blood poisoning and dies.

It’s a terrible moment.

However, I was sure that this moment, right now in my life, rivaled his moment. At least to me it did.

As my fellow classmates departed, I felt my will to live go with them.

Sorry. That was melodramatic. Let me clarify: I didn’t want to die, I wanted to be unconscious. I wished for a blood illness, albeit a temporary one. I’d even settle for a good old-fashioned fainting spell.

If only I had an autopsy to perform—like Bazarov, in Fathers and Sons—it certainly would have been an excellent excuse to flee.

Sorry. Can’t stay. I have a cadaver in my car.

Instead, after I finished packing my bag, I sat still as a statue. I folded my hands on my lap and waited, staring at the top of my desk. My mortification plus the anticipation of what was to come fashioned a figurative blood illness within me, overheating my skin and making me shiver.

Professor Kroft was motionless as well, except he wasn’t sitting. He was leaning against the long table at the front of the room, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’d removed his jacket during the two-hour lecture, which left him in a charcoal-gray vest, white dress shirt, and gray bowtie. He’d also rolled up his shirtsleeves, presumably so he could write on the dry-erase board with ease.

The last of my classmates’ footsteps echoed through the nearly empty lecture hall, trailing away until the door closed with a resounding click. My brain reminded me that the doors were locked.

No one could get in.

We were utterly alone and wouldn’t be interrupted.

Neither of us made a sound, not at first, although I’m sure my bracing facial expression and averted gaze spoke volumes.

I wanted to leave. The urge to flee was strong. Like the dark side of the Force, it called to me, promised me cookies. The only thing keeping me in my seat was the fact that he was a professor. A tenured professor. My instincts and upbringing demanded I stay and accept the reprimand.

“Come here.” His voice echoed in the hall and I started at the command, my eyes lifting from the top of my desk to clash with his.

His gaze was . . . I don’t even know how to describe it. Not exactly probing, but not precisely attentive either. He scrutinized me and yet looked bored.

God, let this be over quickly. You cancelled both Still Star-Crossed and Arrested Development. Haven’t I suffered enough?

Recognizing that the time was now, I stood and slung my backpack over my shoulder. I then traversed the stairs leading to the front of the hall, where Professor Leather Pants waited, halting just after the bottom step. With the weight of his gaze following each of my movements, I’m shocked I didn’t tumble down the steps, ass over ankles.

My heart thrummed between my ears and in my throat. One thing was for certain: I would not be the first to speak. Mostly because I didn’t know what to say. Therefore, rather than exacerbate the situation with inarticulate apologies, I decided silence was the best course of action.

He unfolded his arms and scratched the back of his neck, his stare narrowing until the glacial blue of his irises were small slits. My attention snagged on his forearm. I suspected the baring of his forearms earlier had been an attempt at torture. His forearms were magnificent. And so were his hands. Not that I was staring at them.

Nope. Not staring. Just looking. Yep.

“Anna,” he said, making me blink his face back into focus.

“Yes?” I squeaked. Again, I was startled. This time by the use of my first name.

He studied me for a protracted moment before stating, “You’ve read Onegin.”

I nodded and said, “Yes,” even though he hadn’t asked me a question.

“Which of the others on the class syllabus have you already read?”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, confused. He didn’t sound angry. That was good, right?

“Uh, let’s see,” I fiddled with the strap of my bag, “Maybe it would be better for me to list which of the books on the syllabus I haven’t read.”

One side of his mouth hitched upward. “Fine.”

“Okay, so, um. I haven’t read Nikolai Chernyshevsky’s What Is to Be Done? Or Maxim Gorky’s Mother.” I tried not to butcher the name Chernyshevsky, but it was ultimately impossible. I had no idea which syllable deserved the emphasis.

He waited for me to continue with my list, his eyebrows lifting by millimeters when I remained silent.

“That’s it?”

I nodded.

“Those are the only two you haven’t read?”

I nodded again.

He seemed to be gritting his teeth while his gaze flickered down and then up my body. “Did you know it was me?”

My lips parted while my eyebrows danced on my forehead; I didn’t understand his question. “Pardon?”

Professor Kroft pushed away from the table, stuffing his fine fingers into his pants pockets, and strolled forward, his gaze searching.

“In February. Did you know who I was?”

I tried to take a step back only for my heel to connect with the stair behind me. “Uh, no. No, I had no idea. I thought you were just a biker dude, or something.” My thwarted retreat might have been responsible for the unrehearsed, blunt honesty of my words.

He slowed his advance, both sides of his mouth curving upward for a split second before he erased the almost smile from his face.

“But you figured it out eventually?”

I shook my head again, bracing my feet apart to stand my ground. “No. I had no idea you were a professor. Not until today.”

“Then why are you in this class?” he demanded quietly, three feet separating us; the size of his frame made his proximity feel imposing.

“Because I like tragic stories.” More unrehearsed and clumsy honesty.

“Tragic stories?”

“Yes.”

He frowned, like he was thinking, or trying to remember. “In your email you said you were a romantic.”

“I am.”

“But you like tragic stories.”

I nodded.

He scowled. “That makes no sense.”

“It does. The most romantic stories always have tragic elements.”

“Like what?”

“War and Peace.”

It might have been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn he swayed toward me. But then he said, “That’s ludicrous. War and Peace isn’t romantic.”

I didn’t like his tone—it was dismissive—like he thought I was an idiot.

I stiffened my spine and lifted my chin. “It is.”

He shifted a step closer, shaking his head, taunting me. “It’s Tolstoy’s naturalist reflection on inequality and the inevitable disappointment of life. It’s about the stark pragmatism required to navigate a reality ripe with injustice. It’s about settling. War and Peace is brilliant because of the very fact that it’s an anti-romance.”

What?

Oh, HELL no.

Those were fighting words.

“Then why does it make me feel so much?” I blurted fervently, clutching my chest, clearly forgetting to whom I was speaking. “Why then does Pierre’s love for Natasha—”

“Natasha is a faithless twit and Pierre is vapid and brainless. She didn’t belong with Pierre, she belonged with Andrei, but she was blind and selfish and she ruined him.”

My mouth fell open, wide with outrage. Sacrilege!

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

He shrugged, unconcerned, but his eyes seemed to brighten as they examined me. He smirked, looking more like some biker dude in that moment than like a PhD professor in Russian Literature.

“Like Andrei, everybody who is worthwhile or interesting dies before their time. That’s how real life works.”

“I would argue that the canvas of death and tragedy provides depth to the growth of the characters and underlying romanticism.”

“Then you’re delusional. And a masochist.”

“Then you’re a sociopath,” I volleyed back, shoving my face in his because he was pissing me off, “incapable of feeling empathy or passion.”

His eyes narrowed menacingly as they flared, flickering to my mouth and chasing my anger with something equally hot and confusing.

“You think so?” he rasped on a whisper; it sounded like a challenge. Or a dare. Or both.

“It’s a definite possibility.” My words arrived breathless because my heart was beating erratically.

His body swayed toward mine again and this time it wasn’t my imagination.

What is happening? What is going on?

We shared a breath. And then two breaths. Our eyes clashed. His darkened. The muscle at his jaw ticked. My stomach did a somersault and the back of my throat burned with anticipation.

I felt a tug, a pull, a force, again gravity—like before when we first met—urging me to touch him, to place a hand on his magnificent forearm, to incline my chin just two inches.

Do it!

I can’t.

Why not?

He’s my professor.

And?

And he’s still not my kind of nice.

How do you know?

Just look at his forearms!

. . . sigh.

I was the first to blink.

I lowered my face and turned, breaking the tense moment. My curls fell forward, obscuring me, and I leaned away. Confusion, and something akin to fear, tasted bitter in my mouth. Uncertain what to do next, I improvised.

“Anyway,” I endeavored to say, but it sounded garbled and shaky, my heart beating as though I’d run ten miles. I cleared my throat and tried again, “Anyway, I, um,” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder, “I’m leaving.”

Still confused, still caught in his gravitational field, I loitered for a moment, my eyes on the floor. He was torturously close. Some perverse impulse had me glancing up just as I turned for the stairs. His eyes were still trained on me—now hooded, but no less intense.

My thundering heart twisted and jumped to my throat. I tore my gaze away.

Jeez. This guy.

I’d made it halfway to the door when he called after me, “Are you going to drop the class?”

I halted, tugging my bag higher on my shoulder, and gave him my profile. I couldn’t look at him, not yet. I blamed the bowtie. It should have decreased his attractiveness, but instead it was the equivalent of his wearing leather pants.

No one looks good in leather pants.

No one looks good in a bowtie.

But he did.

Frazzled, I admitted, “I don’t want to drop the class. I like . . . the subject.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, succinct, like everything was settled. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

I rolled my lips between my teeth, still undecided, and eventually asked the most relevant question bouncing around my brain, “Are you going to pick on me? If I stay?”

It took him a beat to respond. When he did, his tone sounded steady and flat. “Not any more or less than my other students.”

I nodded, but confusion distracted me. I was sluggish. What precisely had just happened between us? Had we been about to kiss? Had he wanted to kiss me? Had I imagined that? Had I wanted to kiss him?

I meant, yes. I wanted to kiss him, theoretically. But in reality, the kissing of Professor Kroft would be anchored in complications and drama.

He’s your professor. You don’t kiss your professor. It isn’t a thing. In fact, it’s an anti-thing.

“Anna.”

I shook myself, realizing I’d been lost untangling my bewilderment instead of moving.

I sprinted up the stairs, calling over my shoulder, “Yes. Sorry. I’m leaving. See you later,” and bolted out the door, running to my car.

I didn’t stop running until my rusted Civic came into view. And then I stopped, berating myself for running, because now I had one of those god-awful stitches in my side. I was not a runner. I could power walk like a boss, but I never ran. Never.

However, considering the fact that I’d just run away from Luca Kroft—for a second time—clearly I made an exception for misanthropic men, who looked outstanding in leather pants and bowties.