Academic Seduction [profxstudent][wlw]

Friday;

I was parked on Asha's bed, scrolling through my phone while she was in the shower. The steam slipping out from under the door made her whole room smell like her coconut shampoo. My bag was propped against the door with the dress inside—the one she made me choose over FaceTime earlier. She'd gone through my entire closet like a personal stylist on a mission to make me look "dangerously hot," her words, not mine. We landed on the sluttiest dress I own, and she seemed way too proud of herself about it.

The day itself had been painfully uneventful. Morning lectures dragged on like a death sentence. My time in Sinclair's office wasn't much better. She barely spoke to me unless it was to dump another stack of work on my desk. No sarcastic comments, no backhanded compliments, no glare when I chewed on my pen—just paper, paper, and more paper. Which, if I'm being honest, was almost worse than her usual mood. The only slightly positive thing was realizing the test she gave us earlier in the week had been way easier than I expected. Probably because I actually studied for once. And, fine, because she'd helped me with a few of the trickier topics. Small wins.

The bathroom door clicked open, and Asha stepped out wrapped in a towel, her damp hair sticking to her shoulders. She pointed toward the doorway with her chin. "Your turn. There's extra towels in the cabinet under the sink."

I pushed myself off the bed, smiling. "Noted." On my way past, she gave me a quick once-over like she was already imagining how the dress was going to look, which somehow made me feel both flattered and mildly judged.

I slipped into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. The mirror was still fogged over, and the air was warm enough to make my skin prickle. I crouched down, found the extra towels, and tossed one over the rack before turning on the shower.

After my shower, I stepped out feeling fresh and warm, the scent of Asha's shampoo still hanging in the steam. I wrapped the towel snug around me and twisted another one over my hair. My skin felt warm and a little pink from the hot water, and I could already hear Asha's blow dryer humming faintly over the music she had playing in the background.

When I walked back into the room, she was perched in front of the dressing table, already dressed in a tiny black skirt and a top that would definitely have her collecting compliments before we even got inside the party. She was leaning forward, drying her hair with one hand while scrolling on her phone with the other.

"You take forever," she said, catching my reflection in the mirror. "I was about to go without you."

"Sure you were," I replied, grabbing my bag and pulling out the infamous dress. "And miss the chance to be seen next to me? Please."

She smirked but didn't argue. I shimmied into the dress, feeling it hug every inch of me in a way that was both empowering and mildly terrifying. Asha tossed me a bottle of body spray. "You need this. You're welcome."

We spent the next half hour in a kind of chaotic routine—passing makeup brushes back and forth, stealing each other's lipstick shades, arguing over whether my eyeliner needed to be "sharper." Asha won that argument by taking the liner from my hand and doing it herself while muttering about me having "steady hands for everything except makeup."

By the time we were done, the room smelled like perfume and hairspray, and our reflection in the mirror was enough to make us both pause and grin. We looked good. Not just good—dangerously good.

Asha grabbed her keys, and we headed to her car. The second we were inside, she cranked the volume on her playlist and the bass thumped so hard I could feel it in my ribs. We sang along to every song, off-key but unapologetic, windows down so half the street got to hear our concert. Every red light turned into a mini performance, complete with dramatic hand gestures and shameless stares at drivers next to us.