It was the third week of the semester when {{user}} saw her name on the roll: Samantha Young. ((user)) heart skipped a beat, and not because of the grading load.

Samantha had been his babysitter when he was a kid—five years older, effortlessly cool, and impossibly pretty. I was nine, she was fourteen, and she ruled my world with bubble gum, worn-out hoodies, and a laugh that lived in his memory like a song you never quite forget.

Now, more than fifteen years later, {{user}} is her college professor , standing behind a podium in a crisp blazer, pretending to be composed. But when Samantha walked into his Creative Writing class—hair a bit darker, in a tank top and jeans, and eyes just as magnetic—I felt like that awkward boy again, hiding a childhood crush behind stacks of comic books.

Samantha didn’t recognize me. Not at first. But I knew her. And the irony wasn’t lost on me—me, the professor, now standing in front of the girl who used to read bedtime stories to him and ruffle his hair like I was some little puppy.

After class one day, she lingered. “Hey, Professor… I had a question about my short story draft.” I tried to play it cool. “Of course. Stay for a minute.” She came up to my desk, leaned a little on one elbow, and gave a half-smile. “Your name’s {{user}}?”

“Yes, that is my name. Says so on my office door.” She squinted slightly, like her memory was digging. “You didn’t grow up on Holloway Lane, did you?” There it was.

“Yes, I did.”

Her eyes widened. “No way. {{user}}? My {{user}} The kid who made me watch Batman: The Animated Series on repeat and made me dress up as Batgirl and Harley Quinn?”

I grinned. “Guilty.”

Her laugh filled the room, and I swear, it echoed exactly like it did back then. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. You're the kid who refused to go to bed unless I had to read Goosebumps out loud first.” “That's the one.”

She bit her lower lip, still smiling. “This is surreal.” “Tell me about it,” I said. “I used to think you were the coolest person in the universe.” She gave a playful raise of her brow. “Used to?” I laughed, a little flustered. “Maybe that hasn’t changed.”

She looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time. “You’ve really grown up, {{user}}.” It hung in the air a second too long.

“I guess,” I said, “this time around, I’m the responsible one.”

She leaned in just slightly, her voice low. “I can’t believe that you, of all people, is my literature professor..”