Journey Home

I bit back a groan as I tightened the pitiful little towel around my waist, its frayed edges barely clinging to the job of covering me. Rosa’s mocking smirk still lingered in my mind, her words replaying like a cruel echo: “You wear it well. Very... flattering.” Damn it. Of all the people to humiliate me, why did it have to be her?

Keeping my head down, I peeked out into the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. The last thing I needed was another run-in with a colleague or gawking student. I could already hear the whispers stirring across campus about the “naked professor”—a moniker that was rapidly becoming my unwanted legacy.

Quick and quiet, I thought. Just make it home, get some proper clothes, and try to salvage what’s left of my dignity. One foot in front of the other, I slipped out of the building and into the fresh air, sticking to the shadows where possible.

But of course, nothing ever goes smoothly.

“Hey! Is that... Professor Finn?”

I froze. My stomach clenched as I caught sight of a group of students lounging on the grass, their heads swiveling in unison to get a better look at me.

“Oh my god, it is him!”

“No way! What’s he wearing?”

“More like, what isn’t he wearing?”

Laughter erupted from the group as I quickened my pace, clutching the towel with one hand while using the other to fend off the urge to bury my face in it.

“Nice legs, Professor!” one of them hollered, earning a fresh wave of giggles.

I didn’t dare look back. I couldn’t.

The rest of the journey was a blur of near-misses and sidelong glances. A passing student almost tripped over her own feet as she spotted me darting between buildings. A maintenance worker gave me a slow, disbelieving double-take before shaking his head with a wry grin. Whispered conversations followed me like an unwanted soundtrack, my name and the word “towel” inevitably included in every hushed comment.

By the time I reached the familiar pathway to my apartment complex, I was practically vibrating with tension. My knuckles were white where they gripped the towel, my ears burning from the collective humiliation of the day. Almost there, I told myself. Just a few more steps.

But of course, life had one more cruel twist in store for me.

When I finally arrived at my door—thankfully without any new gawkers—I reached for the spare key I always kept under the rock by the welcome mat. My stomach sank as soon as my fingers brushed the empty space. Oh. Right. How could I forget? Months ago, I’d handed the spare key to Piper Denkwalt, my friendly-but-infuriating neighbor, as a favor for when I was leaving for a conference. I hadn’t thought to ask for it back.

Of course, I thought bitterly, because why not add one more layer of humiliation to my day.

With no other options, I shuffled to Piper’s door, each knock on the frame feeling like it chipped away at the last vestiges of my pride.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Piper’s familiar face. Her eyes widened in recognition, then lit up with something that could only be described as devilish glee.

“Well, well, well,” she purred, leaning against the doorframe with a slow, appraising look that felt like a laser beam. “What have we here?”