Stepbrother Shouldn't Know How Cherry Taste

Cheryl's POV: I hated this city, and I especially hated the rain, which always seemed to catch me off guard. I left the hospital this morning, waited forever at the red lights, and then had to sprint across campus to make it to class, arriving just in time. I paused for a second and bent over, trying to catch my breath. When I looked up, I saw that the normally quiet art studio was surrounded by a crowd. Muttering a quick "Excuse me", I pushed through the group of overly eager girls, finally making my way into the studio. The moment I stepped inside, everyone turned to look at me. Their eyes scanned me up and down, lingering on my wet shoes and soaked clothes. "Oh, wow! Look at that! The slut still has the energy to show up after a night of fun?" I heard a few snickers from behind me, mostly from the guys in the back row—those same guys who always made sure their voices were loud enough for everyone to hear. I gritted my teeth and tried to ignore them, walking straight to my easel. Without warning, a chair was kicked out from behind me, and I stumbled, falling awkwardly to the floor. "Had a good time last night, huh? Still weak in the knees?" Dylan walked over to me, grabbing my collar and yanking me backwards. "Look at you, wearing something so see-through. Who exactly are you trying to seduce?" "Let go, or I'll make you," I said, glaring at him. His disgusting face made my stomach churn. "Oh no, I'm being threatened!" he spread his arms out in mock surrender, stepping back with a sarcastic laugh. "I'm shaking in my boots!" Just then, a bucket of brush cleaner tipped over, splashing all over me. Now, already freezing, I was drenched all over again. I clenched my fists, trying to control my anger. Dylan was about to get closer when suddenly, the crowd outside the studio began to stir, their murmurs turning into screams. "You're in luck, b***h," he said, giving me the middle finger. I looked towards the door, and a tall man stepped into the room. "Sir, are you here to teach us gym class today?" one of the girls joked. They all ogled him, their eyes following his broad, athletic build. Despite his casual clothes, it was clear he had a strong physique. He smiled, his tone smooth as he responded, "Well, if that's what you want, though I'd argue painting takes a lot of strength too." Laughter rippled through the class. He walked towards the front, his gaze briefly catching mine. When our eyes met, a jolt of recognition hit me like a lightning strike. ***** He introduced himself, explaining that he was the new instructor, stepping in for Professor Pattinson, who was out sick. He covered class rules, grading policies, and what to expect from the semester, but none of it really registered with me. My phone buzzed again, and for the seventh time, he looked at me. "Didn't I just say," he snapped, tapping the desk impatiently, "turn your phone to silent?" "Sorry," I murmured, my face flushed. He tilted his chin and nodded towards me, signaling for me to answer the call. Under everyone's watchful eyes, I whispered, "Mom?" I hung up quickly, but the silence in the room felt so thick that everyone could hear a pin drop. He gave me a disapproving look, and those amber eyes of his seemed to pierce straight through me, making me feel like prey being watched by a predator. I didn't like it—not at all. Even though he hadn't said anything, his expression told me all I needed to know. My hand shook slightly as I held my phone, and I buried my head deeper, too afraid to look at him. But of course, he didn't leave me alone. He walked over to the still-life table, picking up a cherry. "Cheryl Buchanan? That's you, right?" he said my name aloud, as though savoring the sound. "I heard that you always... pick up your mom's call, no matter where you are or what you're doing." He placed the cherry back down, his voice soft but pointed. "She must be the most important person in your life, huh?" The class watched, some with amusement, others with pity. They probably thought he was just giving me a hard time, but I knew better. We were both thinking the same thing— Rainy days. Cherries. The cramped, suffocating attic. The kiss that had once sealed my fate when I answered my mom's call. That warm, breathless kiss... lingered in my ear. Well, great. Now he was my teacher. ***** This was by far the most torturous class I'd ever sat through. I kept my head down, mindlessly swiping paint across the canvas, until the class finally ended. As always, he was the center of attention. The girls, whether they were supposed to be in the class or not, had gathered around him, begging for his number. He turned around and wrote a string of digits on the board. The muscles in his arms flexed as he rolled up his sleeves, and I noticed how the girls followed his every movement with their eyes. "Here you go," he said nonchalantly. "Just a friendly reminder—don't sell my number. If you're really desperate, just come to me directly, and I'll give you a discount." The girls laughed, delighted. At lunch, the rain still hadn't stopped, and the sky looked so dark, it felt like nightfall had come early. I returned from cleaning my brushes and saw a curly-haired girl standing way too close to him at the front of the room. There was barely any space between them, and though I couldn't hear their conversation, the way her eyes sparkled, I could tell she was having a good time. She leaned in and kissed his cheek. Then, she scribbled her number in lipstick on a sketchpad, sliding it into his hand. As she turned to leave, she looked back at him so many times she ran straight into my water bucket. "Sorry..." I realized it was Zoe—she wasn't even in the art department, but she was well-known around campus. At that moment, I wasn't sure if I should apologize for seeing them or for making her mess up her clothes. She rolled her eyes, shrugged, and walked away. The sound of her high heels clicking on the floor slowly faded, only to be replaced by the slow, deliberate footsteps of someone approaching me. Each step felt like it was crushing my chest, making it harder to breathe. I should run. I knew I should. But my feet felt frozen, rooted to the ground. With a sudden snap, the lights went out. A strong hand yanked me into the pitch-black studio.