Yes, Ma'am

Annabeth's POV

If someone had told me yesterday that I’d end up half-naked, buzzed on tequila, and tangled in a stranger’s bedsheets before sunrise, I would’ve laughed, adjusted my glasses, and reminded them I don’t even like people touching my coffee mug, let alone my… everything else.

And yet, here I am. The shirt was on the floor, pride was somewhere between the bar, and this very warm, very unfamiliar mattress was blinking at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me.

Great job, Annabeth. Ten out of ten. Excellent decision-making from the woman who once made a colour-coded syllabus for spring break.

There’s a shift beside me, the rustle of sheets and skin, and then a voice, low, husky, and way too calm for this morning disaster.

“You’re staring at the ceiling like it insulted your thesis.”

I stiffen. Oh no. Oh no no no. Voice = hot. Accent = hotter. Voice + memory = immediate internal meltdown.

I look over, big mistake.

She’s propped on one elbow, looking like the literal devil decided to moonlight as a lingerie model. Dark curls spilling over bare shoulders, smug smirk firmly in place.

Smirk that I remember. Vividly. Regretfully. Okay, not regretfully, but I’m trying to be a person with boundaries now. Starting five minutes ago.

“You’re awake,” I say, brilliantly. Someone hand me a medal. Or a shovel.

“That’s what happens after sleep,” she says, her grin widening. “Or in our case, what happened after the fourth shot.”

I want the floor to open up and eat me. Slowly. With dramatic music playing in the background.

“Right.” I sit up, dragging the sheet with me like a modest Victorian heroine who didn’t just make out with this woman against the bathroom mirror three hours ago. “So… last night…”

“You were hot. I was hotter. We danced, we kissed, we left.” She yawns, stretching like a cat who just ruined my academic credibility and slept like a queen. “Don’t worry, Professor, your secrets are safe with me.”

Professor.

I choke. Literally choke. Coughing, flailing, mild wheezing, because I didn’t tell her my job last night. I’m sure of it. I was too busy trying to pretend I wasn’t hopelessly attracted to her jawline.

“You… how do you know I’m a professor?” I ask, suspicious and half-horrified.

She raises an eyebrow. “Because I am one. Maya Patel. Psychology department. You?”

The world stops. Freezes. Implodes. Then explodes again just to be petty.

I feel my soul leave my body and file a formal HR complaint.

“Oh no,” I whisper, blinking.

Maya, apparently Professor Maya Patel, tilts her head. “Oh yes.”

And just like that, my life splits into two timelines.

Timeline A: I go to work Monday morning, pretend this never happened, and die slowly inside every time I see her in the faculty lounge.

Timeline B: I fake my death, move to the Alps, and live off-grid with sheep and shame.

“You didn’t tell me you worked at Haversen,” I manage, voice cracking like the dignity I lost somewhere between shot three and lap dance number one.

“I didn’t. You didn’t ask.” She shrugs, casual as sin. “Besides, it’s not like we broke any rules. Yet.”

Yet.

God help me, I hate how much I like that word on her lips.

If karma had a face, it would be Dr. Maya Patel’s. And if karma had a body, well, let’s just say I’m no longer a woman of God.

I walk into the faculty lounge Monday morning like it’s the battlefield of my social doom. My coffee is lukewarm, my eyes are red, and my professional dignity is hanging by a thread, and even that thread is judging me.

Eva raises an eyebrow from behind her mug. “You look like you either had the best night of your life or got hit by a very attractive truck.”

I don’t answer. Mostly because my vocal cords have unionised and are refusing to participate in today’s mental breakdown.

She narrows her eyes. “Wait… was it that club night? The post-exam thing? You went?”

“I was lured,” I mutter, plopping onto the chair across from her. “By alcohol, glitter, and very bad decisions.”

Eva leans forward, gossip sensors fully activated. “And?”

“And nothing. I danced. I drank. I bonded with a woman over bad music and feminist rage. End of story.”

That would’ve been a great place for the story to end.

If I hadn’t walked into the staff meeting fifteen minutes later and seen her.

Maya Patel.

In a black blazer. Hair in a neat twist. Talking to Dr. Sarah like she didn’t literally undress me with her eyes, and also with her actual hands, less than 48 hours ago.

She sees me. Smiles.

No. Smirks. Like, we have some inside joke.

I am not joking. I am internally combusting.

“Annabeth?” Dr. Sarah says, dragging me out of my tailspin.

“This is Dr. Patel, our new hire for the psychology department.”

“Yes,” I say, smile fixed. “We’ve… met.”

Maya tilts her head. “Briefly.”

Liar. We met horizontally. And vertically. And against the mirror.

My eye twitches.

Dr. Sarah continues, oblivious. “You’ll be sharing a student advisor cohort with her this semester. Orientation planning starts this Friday.”

I nod. Numbly. My brain is buffering.

Friday. Together. Planning. In a room.

Alone.

“Looking forward to working with you,” Maya says, offering her hand like she didn’t already hold every part of me that legally counts as off-limits.

I take it. Professional. Chill. Not affected.

Except her thumb grazes my knuckles.

On purpose.

She’s playing with fire.

I yank my hand back. “Likewise.”

Eva corners me during break like a bloodhound on a scent. “There's a woman, isn’t it?”

I blink. “What?”

She grins like she’s won a bet I didn’t know we were having. “You look like you saw your one-night stand and also your future emotional crisis in the same body.”

“Well, lucky me,” I say dryly. “Turns out they’re hiring both.”

Eva leans in, eyes sparkling. “So… what’s her name?”

“No.”

“Just a hint?”

“No.”

“Does she have a name or is she just filed under ‘Hot Mistake’ in your brain?”

I sigh. “She has a name.”

Eva gasps. “Oh my God, it’s serious.”

“It is not serious,” I hiss. “It’s an unfortunate coincidence, followed by a shared employment contract, followed by a rapidly deteriorating sense of self-control.”

Eva hums like she’s already planning the wedding playlist. “You always did have a thing for unavailable women with jawlines that could cut glass.”

“I also had a thing for peace and stability,” I mutter. “Look how that turned out.”

She sips her coffee smugly. “So, how’s it feel to be the main character in your own academic rom-com?”

“Awful,” I say, deadpan. “Truly, deeply, existentially awful.”

Annabeth's POV

I don’t do confessions.

I do academic lectures, essay critiques, and passive-aggressive faculty emails. But confessions? That’s a level of emotional nudity I generally reserve for wine nights and internal screaming.

But Eva, of course, isn’t letting this go.

She drags me to our favourite hole-in-the-wall café, three blocks from campus. It's the kind of place with peeling wallpaper, sassy baristas, and enough caffeine to fuel a revolution.

“You’re spiralling,” she says the moment we sit. No hi. No, how’s your soul? Just a flat-out diagnosis.

“I’m fine,” I reply, stirring my coffee aggressively. “I’ve moved on. Processed. Transcended. Become a Buddhist or something.”

Eva squints. “You tried to microwave your planner this morning because you couldn’t find your pen.”

“That was a spiritual purge.”

She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Annabeth. Talk. Who is she?”

I sigh. “Maya