The Professors Canvas

~Elena's POV~

The apartment door swings open before my key fully turns.

That's the first red flag.

David never, ever leaves doors unlocked. He treats safety like a full time job, he double-checks stove knobs, he labels leftovers, he arranges his shirts by color, sleeve length and he checks windows twice before bed.

After three years with him, I know his habits as well as the back of my hand, like I've learned quantum mechanics, with precision and absolute certainty.

The second wrong thing is the sound.

A moan, it sounds female. Definitely not from whatever boring documentary he usually watches on Monday afternoons.

My leather bag falls off my shoulder. It hits the hardwood with a sound that should make everything stop, but the moaning keeps going, like I'm not even there.

It sounds louder, too loud, too dramatic, like someone performing instead of feeling.

My heart pounds, not quickly, but heavily.

But my legs move forward anyway.

Every step feels heavy and slow, like walking through thick water.

The door is cracked open. Through that narrow gap, I see skin.

Too much of it. David's pale back thrusting, moving in a way I recognize because I've felt it against my own body.

His hands gripping the sheets. His voice low, mixed with another voice, high, breathy.

Beneath him, her red hair is on my pillow.

The pillow I've slept on every weekend for a year, I stand there watching my boyfriend fuck another woman in the bed we picked out together at IKEA.

It's Rebecca, my lab partner.

The girl who borrowed my notes last week and returned them with a coffee stain then said "thanks babe" like we were friends.

I don't scream. I don't cry, I don't even breathe for a few seconds.

I just stand there, staring at the two people who decided my feelings didn't matter.

Five long seconds.Then I push the door open, it makes an opening sound.

David's head snaps around. His face drains of color.

"Elena fuck...this isn't..."

"Save it." My voice sounds strange, flat. "Rebecca, my thesis notes are on the kitchen counter, go get them for me."

She grabs the sheet, eyes wide. "Elena, I'm so sorry, we didn't mean..."

"The notes. Now!!!."

She runs out, naked, tripping over David's jeans. He's trying to pull on his boxers, words coming out. "Baby, please, let me explain. It was a mistake, the few minutes of whatever this was meant nothing. It meant nothing. I love you..."

"You love me?" I laugh, and it sounds sharp enough to cut. "You love routine, you love order. You love being the golden couple everyone envies.

I shake my head. "You don't love me. You never did."

Rebecca appears with my folder, holding it out like a white flag. Her face is red with shame. I take it and turn to leave.

David runs after me to the front door, reaching out but not daring to touch me.

"Where are you going?" David follows me to the front door. "Elena, we need to talk about this. You can't just walk away."

I look at him, really look at him. His perfectly trimmed hair is messy for the first time in... years, maybe.

His eyes are wide, but it's not heartbreak I see. It's fear of losing control and not losing me. Fear of being the bad guy, fear of ruining the image he built for himself.

I step back. "Watch me." I close the door before he can say anything else.

The bar is called El Refugio. I find it three blocks from David's apartment, down a narrow street I've never noticed before.

Inside, everything feels softer, dark wood, soft lights, jazz playing low. A place made for disappearing.

I slide into a stool and order whiskey. I drink it fast.

Then I order another. My hands are shaking, but the burn helps.

"Rough day?"

The voice is deep, smooth. I turn to my left.

He's older than me, maybe early forties. Dark hair with silver at the ends. Expensive watch, a face that's seen things, done things. Not handsome in David's polished way. Handsome in a way that makes my pulse kick for a stranger.

"You could say that." I drain my glass again.

He signals the bartender, orders two more. "I'm a good listener."

"I don't need a listener. I need to forget."

His expression softens with something that looks like understanding. Real understanding, not the rehearsed sympathy David always gave.

His eyes, deep brown, almost black, staring back at me. The man leans in slightly, not invading, just existing closer.

"I can help with that too," he says.

Normally, I'd think twice, ask questions, and act more responsibly.

But I'm so tired of pretense, tired of holding back, tired of being predictable, tired of being the girl who always plays safe.

"Should we go to your place or a hotel?" I ask.

His eyes widen a bit in surprise, maybe. "Hotel. Ten minutes from here."

We stay silent in the cab. His hand rests on my thigh, pressing through my jeans. I let him, letting his touch erase thoughts of David.

I lean into him, let his touch fill the broken spaces inside me.

The hotel room is elegant. I don't see much of it.

He kisses me before the door fully closes, and it's nothing like David's careful, scheduled intimacy. This is raw and consuming.

His hands are in my hair, on my waist, pulling me closer like he's starved for touch, pulling my shirt over my head.

I reach for his belt, needing something solid to hold on to.

I need him closer, harder, and I need to feel something other than the pain inside me.

I don't hesitate and grab it directly on the head.

We don't make it to the bed the first time.

Later, tangled in sheets that smell nice and like him, he drags a finger down my back. His breath warms my shoulder.

"What's your name?" he asks.

I face the ceiling. "Does it matter?"

"No." He kisses my shoulder. "I suppose it doesn't."

I leave at dawn while he's still asleep. No note. No number. No names.

Just a stranger who helped me forget for one night.

On Monday morning, I'm five minutes late to Renaissance Art, the elective I'm only taking because David said it would "round out my CV."

I quietly sit in the back row, avoiding everyone's eyes. My whole body feels tired, and my heart feels empty.

The professor is writing on the board with strong, sure strokes, his back turned.

"Professor Mateo Sandoval" a student called. He turns around, about to answer the student and our eyes meet.

My breath stops. I can't believe my eyes.

Because standing in front of the class is the man who kissed me like he owned the night, the man I left in a hotel bed this morning...is my professor, the new visiting professor.

And he looks just as shocked as I feel.

Then his expression changes, it hardens. Like recognition is the last thing he wanted.

And I know... my life is about to get even more complicated.

~Elena's POV~

I'm out of my seat before he finishes roll call or before he even gets to my name.

My bag gets stuck on the chair and when I pull it, papers spill like startled birds.

I don't care. I need to get out of this room, away from those dark eyes that have seen every inch of me.

My heart is beating fast while I move to the door.

"Miss Vega."

His voice stops me at the door, smooth, controlled. Not the same voice that moaned into my skin or the breath that shook when he was between my thighs.

I freeze at the door but don't turn. "I need to drop this class."

His answer is measured, cool-professor-like. "Office hours are posted on the syllabus. We can discuss schedule conflicts then."

It's not a suggestion and we both know it.

The next two hours are torture. I sit through Thermodynamics seeing nothing but a blurry whiteboard.

All I can picture is his mouth at my neck, his hands gripping my hips, his body-God.

I press my knees together under the desk, a warm feeling spreads in my stomach.

What is wrong with me?

Every time I blink, I see the hotel room. The dim lights. His face when he said my name...my first name, right before I came.

If anyone finds out, I'm so screwed.

By the time I reach his office, I've thought through every excuse I could possibly give. Each one sounds stupid, childish or like I'm admitting everything out loud.

I knock once. "Come in." His voice again, controlled, neutral.

I push the door open. He sits behind his desk with reading glasses sitting low on his nose. He looks nothing like the man who pinned me against a hotel wall with a hunger that felt like fire.

Now he looks... put together, calm. Like none of this touches him. This version wears an iron shirt and academic authority like armor.

I close the door quietly. "I'm dropping your class."

He doesn't even look up at first. "Sit down, Elena."

"You know my name now."

My name sounds different in his mouth now. Not soft like that night, it now sharper, cleaner. Like he's wiping something away with each syllable.

"I looked at the roster after you ran out of my classroom." He removes his glasses and sets them aside like they're fragile.

He nods toward the empty chair. "Sit."

I stay standing. I need the distance. Even if distance feels impossible.

"This is inappropriate. You're my professor. What happened was a mistake..."

"Agreed." His interruption was quick and cold.

He stands, moves around the desk. His steps are steady, quiet, controlled. Too controlled. Like if he shows even a little softness, something will break open between us.

He stops a little too close. "It was a mistake. It won't happen again. You'll stay in my class, complete the coursework, and we'll both pretend Friday night didn't exist."

"That's it? That's your solution?"

Now he moves closer, too close now. I can smell his cologne. "Do you have a better one?" he asks, with a low voice. "Should I report myself, lose my job or maybe you want me to give you special treatment so no one suspects why you're suddenly getting perfect grades?"

"I'm not asking for..."

"I know what you're asking for." His voice softens. "You want out because you're scared. Because when you look at me, you remember how you tasted on my tongue."

I feel hot even with the air conditioner. I feel it everywhere, my neck, stomach, between my legs.

"Don't..."

"Don't what? I shouldn't acknowledge that I know exactly how you sound when you come, or remind you that your nails were in my back while you did?"

He's inches away now, his chest rises and falls faster now, he's fighting something, the same thing I am.

"We're adults, Elena and we fucked, it was good but it's over now."

My voice shakes. "Then why are you standing so close?"

He stops moving completely. I'm not."

"You are." I don't step back.

I refuse to back away. "And if it's over, why do you look like you want to bend me over your desk?"

The space between us snaps like a wire pulled too tight.

His hand is on my hip before I can breathe. His grip is firm, dragging me forward until my body hits his. He's hard, everywhere.

"Because I do," he says against my mouth.

"I've been hard since you walked into my classroom. I spent two hours lecturing about Caravaggio while imagining ripping that little sweater off you."

My heart beats so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. I should tell him to stop, pull away, my brain screams it.

Instead, I grab his shirt and kiss him.

Everything erupts, his mouth devours mine, he lifts me to his desk not bothered by the scattered papers.

His hand slides under my skirt, fingers finding wetness through my underwear. With the same certainty they had that night, like he remembers every part of me.

"Fuck," he breathes against my mouth. "You're soaked."

"I hate you."

"Good." His fingers push aside the thin fabric, sliding into me. "Hate me while I make you come again."

I bite down on his shoulder to reduce the sound of my moan. His thumb rubs my clit, circling with devastating motions.

The room blurs. My nails dig into his shoulders. The pressure builds fast, almost frightening. His thumb moves slow, cruelly precise.

I try to push his hand away, but my body betrays me.

The same hands that sketch renaissance angels are taking me apart in his university office.

I'm close, too close. I grab his wrist. "Stop. We can't..."

"We are." He adds another finger, curling them perfectly. "Come for me, Elena."

The climax hits hard, fast, shaking through every limb. I gasp into his shoulder, trembling.

When I can breathe again, he's watching me with something dark and look in his eyes. He brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting it.

"We're done here," I manage to get off the desk. My legs barely strong enough to hold me standing. "This never happens again." His expression changes suddenly.

"Agreed." I'm fixing my skirt when the door handle turns.

We both freeze.

"Professor Sandoval?" A male voice. Familiar, very familiar.

David pushes the door open, finding me and Mateo too close, the air thick with what we just did.

He looks surprised. "Elena? What are you doing here?"​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

My heart skipped.

~Elena's POV~

"I asked you a question." David steps fully into the office, his eyes jumping between Mateo and me. "What are you doing here?"

My mouth opens but nothing comes out.

Mateo moves first, putting calculated distance between us. "Miss Vega had questions about dropping my course, so I was advising her to reconsider." His voice is perfectly neutral and professional. "Is there something I can help you with, Mr...?"

"Chen. David Chen. I'm Elena's boyfriend."

"Ex-boyfriend," I found my voice, shaking but firm. My heart is still racing, "And I'm handling my own schedule, David. You need to leave."

"We need to talk..."

"No. We don't." I grab my bag, pushing past him into the hallway. "Stop following me."

He holds my arm. "Following you? Elena, I came to speak with Professor Sandoval about auditing his seminar. I had no idea you'd be here."

I pulled my arm off his hand. "Audit somewhere else."

I don't look back nor check if Mateo is watching. I just walk, faster, until I'm outside gasping for air that tastes like freedom and nothing like sex and mistakes.

The email arrives on Thursday morning.

FUNDING NOTIFICATION: Research Grant - DENIED

I read it three times to be sure and I call the department head.

"I'm sorry, Elena." Dr. Morrison sounds genuinely sorry. "The committee felt your project lacked sufficient basic information. You can reapply next quarter."

"Next quarter? Dr. Morrison, I need this funding now. My rent is due in two weeks, and I've already bought materials..."

"Perhaps you should have submitted a stronger application."

The line goes dead.

I sit in my empty apartment, the studio I can afford only because of that grant,

What do I do now? I do the math.

Thesis materials: 800 euros.

Rent: 900 euros.

Bank account: 237 euros.

I'm fucked.

My phone rings. It's an Unknown number calling.

We need to talk. My studio. Address attached. Come tonight. MS

A sane person would delete it, block him, but not me.

Instead, I'm standing outside an old building in El Raval at eight PM, the address leading me up three flights of stairs to a door marked only with a number.

I knock.

Mateo opens it immediately, like he was waiting. "Come in."

The studio is large, brick walls, huge windows, artwork stacked everywhere.

In the center: a raised stool, spotlights, a stool.

"What is this?" My voice trembled, even to me.

He closes the door behind me. "An offer."

"I'm not interested in..."

"Your grant was denied." He leans against a work table covered in charcoal and brushes. "David Chen submitted a formal complaint to the funding committee, he claimed your research was compromised by personal issues, lack of focus and emotional instability following your breakup."

The words hit like a slap. "He did what?"

"He sabotaged you Elena, professionally and completely." Mateo crosses his arms. "But I can help."

"Why would you help me?"

"Because I need something." He points to the stool. "I'm publishing a paper on anatomical accuracy in figure drawing. I need a model, someone intelligent enough to understand the work, who can hold still for hours and that I can trust to be discreet."

Understanding hits cold and sharp. "You want me to... pose nude?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"Four sessions 1,000 euros each." He names the figure like he's talking about something casual. "Cash enough to cover your rent and materials until you can reapply."

Four thousand euros. My brain buzzed, my stomach twisting. Two months of breathing room.

"This is insane, you're my professor..."

"In one elective class. Your degree is in physics. I have no influence over your actual program." He moves closer, his expression unreadable. "This is art, Elena. Academic, professional, nothing more."

"Professional." I laugh. "Like Tuesday was professional?"

"Tuesday was a mistake but this is business." His eyes hold mine. "I won't touch you, you'll pose while I draw, this is a clean transaction, we'll keep it professional."

"And if someone finds out?"

"They won't. This studio isn't connected to the university. No one knows I rent it."

He brings out his phone, types something and shows me the screen. A contract, simply written. "Read it, take your time."

I read the terms: Four sessions, three hours each. Full nudity required. Payment upon completion of each session. Confidentiality clause. No physical contact.

My hands shake. I don't know what to say.

"I need an answer, Elena."

I think about David's stupid face, about Rebecca's moans in my bed and the eviction notice I'll get in two weeks if I don't find money.

"When's the first session?"

"Tomorrow night. Nine PM."

I sign the contract on his phone before I can overthink it and change my mind.

"Good." He saves the document, then focuses on me. "Strip, we start now."

"What? No, you said tomorrow..."

"I said the first session is tomorrow. This is a test run, free" His voice lowered. "I need to see if you can actually do this."

"I just signed your contract..."

"Then prove you can handle it." He picks up a piece of charcoal, nods toward the stool. "Clothes off, Elena. Let's see what I'm paying for."​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​