Chapter 37
Gage
God, she was sexy. So goddamn sexy that my brain malfunctioned every time my eyes landed on her. Bree had that whole sexy librarian thing going on as she stood at the blackboard, shuffling through her papers like she owned the damn place.
She hadn’t even needed to ask me twice if I wanted to sit in on her creative writing class-l
would’ve followed her anywhere. But it wasn’t just me. The entire room was packed. Guys and girls
alike filled every seat, notebooks cracked open, pencils poised, laptops and tablets glowing as
they waited for her to start. Everyone was ready for her, and I couldn’t blame them. Who the hell
wouldn’t be?
Bree had changed so much in the last few weeks. Not who she was-her heart, her fire, her
stubbornness were still the same-but the way she carried herself. The way she smiled now, wide
and unguarded. The way she dressed in clothes that showed her off instead of hiding her away. And every shift, every little piece of growth, only made her hotter. Watching her glow with that kind of confidence was so damn intoxicating I swear I walked around with a constant semi.
And today? Today she’d gone full teacher mode, and I was about to lose it. She wore a flowy skirt
that brushed her calves, patterned with wild flowers in colors so bright it made her skin glow. Her
silky button-down was sleeveless, the lace along her shoulders softening her look in a way that
made me want to drag her out of here and ruin that sweetness in the best way possible. Her hair
was twisted up with a clip, exposing the long curve of her neck that had me clenching my jaw just
to keep from staring like a starving man. She looked like every teacher fantasy I’d ever had-only
better, because she was mine.
“Alright,” she said, her voice carrying through the room as she looked up at us. Her eyes flicked to mine instantly, like she couldn’t help herself, and I gave her a smile I knew she needed. She’d been nervous about this, prepping her notes for days, obsessing over how to make it perfect. And to
me? She already was.
“Today’s topic is creative writing,” she continued, turning to the blackboard. Her handwriting curled across the surface in these elegant loops, like even her letters carried personality.
She’d told me once that her dream was to teach. To give knowledge, to help shape the future, to
help kids like her find their place in the world. And god, that had floored me. That kind of
selflessness, that kind of drive-it only made her more magnetic. More impossible not to want.
“What is the difference between just writing and creative writing?” she asked rhetorically, pivoting back toward the room. Her eyes swept the crowd, holding them without effort. “Writing is communication. Information. It’s the purest, simplest form of getting words from here-” she tapped her temple lightly, “-to here.” She gestured toward the class. “But creative writing? That’s
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different. Creative writing is supposed to make you feel something. It’s supposed to make you think, to question, to wonder. It’s messy. It’s abstract. It’s about using the right words in the right way, shaping them into something beautiful-or something devastating.”
Jesus Christ, she was hot.
Watching her in her element, watching her light up with passion as she explained something she loved-it was enough to drive me insane. My pulse was hammering, my legs restless under the
desk. After four weeks of kissing Bree, of touching her but never pushing, I was hanging on by a thread. Sure, there had been some wandering hands, some heated make-out sessions that left me ready to combust. But it was all PG-13. All above clothing. And I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t cross a line she wasn’t ready for. Which meant my c**k and my hand were both getting real damn tired of
their daily routine.
“Good writing makes you feel something,” Bree continued, pacing in front of the desk, her energy spilling into the room. “But great writing makes you feel exposed. And that’s what I want from you
today.”
She moved back to the blackboard, picked up her marker again, and underneath the title she wrote
one single word.
Love.
The marker squeaked against the surface, and my whole body locked tight.
I’d known for a while now that I loved her. That I wanted her forever. That I wanted every day of my
life tangled up with hers. But we hadn’t said it. Not out loud. Not yet. And even though I was damn sure she felt it too, there was still that gnawing weight of what if hanging in the back of my mind.
“Love can be so many different things,” she said, her voice steady, her eyes sweeping over the
students who were scribbling furiously to keep up. “That’s why so much of creative writing circles back to it. Novels, poetry, lyrics-it always comes back to love. Whether it’s devastating, the kind that cracks your chest open and leaves you bleeding. Or whether it’s perfect-the kind that makes your pulse race, the kind that makes the smallest flutter of a butterfly’s wing feel like an earthquake in your stomach.”
I sat there, half hard and half undone, knowing damn well she wasn’t just teaching right now. She
was speaking to every single person in the room. Including me.
Her blue eyes locked with mine, and it was like she could see straight through me. The words I’d been biting back for weeks sat right at the tip of my tongue, burning to be set free.
“So today’s task is to write a love letter,” she said, her smile warm and inviting. “But not the kind that’s sweet and safe. Not the ‘will you go out with me—yes, no, maybe’ kind.” The room chuckled, but her tone shifted, grounding them again. “I want it messy. Honest. Write it to someone you’ve loved, someone you’ve lost, someone you wish you had the courage to love. It doesn’t have to be
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< Chapter 37
romantic. It just has to be real.”
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The class practically vibrated with excitement. Everyone seemed hooked by the idea, leaning in like they already knew this was going to cut deeper than anything they’d written before. A messy love letter wasn’t surface-level-it demanded blood on the page.
“You could write it to someone who’ll never read it,” Bree continued, her marker flying across the
board as notes filled the black surface. “Or maybe you write a breakup letter to yourself-for not
loving yourself enough, for not trusting yourself enough.”
Her hand kept moving, fast and certain, words tumbling out of her like she was made for this. She
wasn’t just giving them a task-she was showing them how to bare their souls. And Christ,
watching her take command like that… I was done for.
“I want you to include these things in your letter,” she said, underlining the word Prompt with a
clean, firm stroke. “Explain what their voice sounded like. Did it make you feel safe-or did it ruin
you? What’s one image, one song, one movie, one poem that makes you think of them every time?
What’s the one thing you never told them? Put it in the letter.”
The room was silent, captivated. Even the air seemed to tighten around her, like every single
person here was hanging on her every word. And then she delivered the line that gutted me:
“If your hands aren’t shaking by the time you’re done, you didn’t go deep enough. It needs to bleed
off the page. Make me feel the love. Make me feel the devotion. Sometimes love letters don’t
change the other person-they change you. And that’s the true power of writing.”
Goddamn, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. My chest ached with pride, with want, with something so
sharp it felt like love clawing its way out of me.
She took questions, and I watched her own the room like she’d been doing this for years. It didn’t matter if someone asked something small about word choice or dug into the bigger meaning of their writing-she answered every one of them with respect and clarity. She didn’t belittle, didn’t
dismiss. She elevated them. Made them want to do better.
When she told us to start writing, I grabbed the paper in front of me, tightened my grip on the
pencil, and let the dam break. Words poured out, my heart spilling all over the page faster than I
could control.
Bree Morgan, I love you.
It was the first line. The only line that mattered. From there, I kept writing, trying to capture everything I felt for her, everything I wanted to tell her but couldn’t yet. Some sentences I slashed
out, hating the way they looked, hating that they weren’t enough. Others I circled, underlined, starred-because they were raw, they were right, they were exactly how I felt.
And all the while, Bree moved around the room, stopping when students called her over. Some let
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< Chapter 37
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her read their work, asking for feedback, and she gave it gently but firmly. She never made them feel small, only asked if the words they’d chosen were really what they meant. She pushed them deeper, like she’d said she would.
By the end of class, she gave us the option to hand them in for feedback, or keep them. Some could be mailed, some burned, some saved. And while I knew one day I’d put mine in her hands, let her read every single line I’d written about her, I wasn’t ready yet. Not tonight.
So I stayed back, waiting until the room emptied out. My eyes never left her. And when we were finally alone, she looked back at me with that same light in her gaze-satisfaction, happiness,
pride.
**
I stood, crossed the room, and without a single word I lifted her onto the desk she stood in front of. Then I kissed her like I’d been holding back for weeks. Devouring her, worshiping her, praising her with every press of my lips and tongue.
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Because she wasn’t just the best, smartest, sexiest teacher I’d ever seen-she was mine.
