Chapter Text
Shane opens Rate My Professor fully expecting to feel normal about it, which is a lie he often tells himself. But here he is in his office, the door half-closed, the afternoon sun glinting off his perfectly arranged pens. His phone buzzes before he can properly spiral.
Hayden:
you alive
Shane:
Barely. What’s wrong?
Three screenshots arrive in rapid succession.
Hayden:
I hate them
I HATE THEM
Shane taps one open.
⭐⭐☆☆☆
battalion_bat
Nice guy but spends too much time explaining sports like we don’t know them. Sir. We know hockey.
⭐⭐⭐☆☆
value_of_X
Talks about teamwork like he’s trying to recruit us for the Avengers.
⭐⭐☆☆☆
danish_by_the_day
Would be better if he stopped calling us ‘team.’
Shane winces in sympathy. Hayden is a sports science professor, a former athlete, and so earnestly enthusiastic that he probably gives motivational speeches to his houseplants. Students either adore him or treat his sincerity like a personal insult.
Shane:
They’re just loud. You’re good at what you do. Most of them will forget they ever wrote these in a week.
Hayden:
you’re too nice
what’s your rating anyway? still perfect?
Shane hesitates. He’s a seasoned professional. He knows this site is a carnival of exaggerated emotions and misplaced grammatical anger. He knows better.
He does it anyway.
He opens the site, scrolls past the intrusive ads, past the department filter, past the unflattering photos of colleagues who should probably not be allowed near a whiteboard. And then he finds himself.
Shane Hollander
Philosophy
Score: 4.7
That was acceptable. He scrolls further.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
dolly_partons_purse
Clear expectations and fair grading.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
trick_or_treat
He actually cares if you understand the material.
⭐⭐⭐⭐☆
nate_ate
Strict but supportive.
The tight, anxious coil in his chest loosens just a little. He sends a screenshot to Hayden.
Shane:
See? Students are dramatic. You’re doing fine.
Hayden reacts with a heart emoji and immediately starts typing something else, but Shane’s attention has already snagged on a new detail he’d somehow missed before.
A small, cruel number.
Ranked #2 in the department.
Shane blinks.
Second?
That’s… fine. That’s still very good. Objectively excellent, even. But his brain has already latched onto the only question that matters.
Second to who?
He scrolls.
Physics.
Shane’s jaw tightens as he clicks the name.
Ilya Rozanov
Physics
Score: 4.9
He stares at the number, challenging it to a blinking contest. It does not back down.
He scrolls through the reviews, each one a fresh puzzle.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
stuDYING_help
I have no idea what this class is but I’d take it again.
Shane exhales an offended puff of air. That’s not a review; that’s a confession of confusion.
⭐⭐⭐⭐☆
titanic_enthusiast
He stared directly into my soul.
That’s not pedagogy, Shane thinks. That’s just aggressive eye contact. Possibly a health code violation.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
man_bun_supremacy
Would commit academic misconduct for this man.
Shane freezes. He scrolls back up, then down again, as if rereading might somehow insert the word ‘not’ into the sentence. Academic misconduct. For him.
The physics professor who treats faculty meetings like an Olympic debate event. Who leans back in his chair, smirking, and dismantles Shane’s carefully prepared arguments with lazy genius. Who once referred to the Philosophy department budget as “emotionally expensive.”
That man.
Shane leans back in his chair and presses his fingers to his temples. He loves his students. He works tirelessly. He crafts lectures, builds thoughtful syllabi, holds office hours like they’re sacred rituals. He is not flashy, but he is thorough, and that has to count for something.
He scrolls again, against his own better judgment.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
fourzerofour_not_found
Unstructured but unforgettable.
Of course they’d love that.
Hayden:
You still there?
Shane glances once more at the screen, at that smug little 4.9 sitting there like it knows a secret he doesn’t.
Shane:
Yeah. Turns out I’m second best.
Hayden:
SECOND? To who??
Shane doesn’t answer right away. Because the thing is - and this part is completely irrelevant, obviously, and has nothing to do with professional rankings - but Shane has, on occasion, noticed things about Ilya. The way he moves through a hallway as if he owns it. The way his smile sharpens when he knows he’s winning. The way his voice gets serious, like he’s sharing a secret with the entire room.
It’s all entirely beside the point.
Finally, he types his reply, the words feeling heavy with resignation.
Shane:
The physics prof.
Hayden:
Oh no. Him???
Shane locks his phone, sets it face-down on the desk as if to trap the problem inside, and stares blankly at the wall, wondering if “unforgettable” is really better than “fair.”
~
The faculty lounge smells like burnt coffee and a lingering cloud of passive aggression. Shane knows this because he’s been standing in it for approximately thirty seconds. He focuses intently on the counter, pouring hot water, deliberately not looking toward the corner where the physics faculty congregate. They cluster like well-funded vultures around a carcass of grant money.
He does not need to look to know Ilya Rozanov is there. He feels it. There’s a prickle of awareness at the back of his neck, as if the very room is tilting in that direction. Shane tightens his grip on his mug and turns around.
Ilya is leaning against a table, his jacket slung over one shoulder with a carelessness that probably took ten minutes to perfect. His hair is doing that artful thing where it looks like he just rolled out of bed, which means he absolutely spent time on it. When his eyes slide across the room and land on Shane, the easy smile shifts.
“Well,” Ilya says, peeling himself off the table and ambling over as if he owns the linoleum. “If it isn’t my favorite philosopher.”
Shane pastes on a polite, tight smile. It’s the same one he uses for university donors who ask if his department teaches “real world skills.”
“Congratulations on your… popularity,” Shane says, the word tasting faintly of lemon and spite.
Ilya’s eyebrows lift. “Ah,” he says. “You saw.”
Shane takes a deliberate sip of his tea. It’s scalding. He welcomes the clarifying pain. “I don’t understand how,” he says, keeping his voice perfectly even.
Ilya tilts his head, studying him with open amusement. “I’m unforgettable.”
“You’re unstructured.”
“And yet,” Ilya says, taking a step closer, Shane’s brain supplies distantly, close enough that Shane can smell the dark roast on his breath and something expensive, like cedar or poor life decisions - “five stars.”
Shane’s jaw tightens. He is a grown man, a respected professor with a meticulously color-coded syllabus. He does not need to feel this primal, irrational urge to knock a theoretical physicist down several pegs simply because a bunch of undergraduates have decided to lose their collective minds over him.
And yet.
“By the end of the month,” Shane says, his voice firm and clear, slicing through Ilya’s little bubble, “whoever has the higher score wins.”
Ilya blinks. Then a grin spreads across his face. “Oh?” he purrs. “And what does the loser do?”
Shane hesitates. This was supposed to be symbolic. A metaphorical gauntlet thrown. A point about substance over style. He hadn’t actually thought past the satisfying fantasy of not being second.
“I don’t know,” Shane admits, feeling the high ground crumbling beneath him.
Ilya hums. His gaze flicks, briefly but unmistakably, to Shane’s mouth, then back to his eyes. It’s a look that says he knows exactly what he’s doing and is enjoying every microsecond of it. “Dinner,” Ilya declares. “My choice. The winner’s treat.”
“That’s not - ” Shane starts, a protest forming about propriety and not fraternizing with the enemy.
“Deal.”
Before Shane can fully assemble his objections, Ilya extends his hand.
Shane stares at it. He takes it.
Ilya’s grip is warm and confident. Their hands fit together in a way that Shane’s brain notes with excessive detail. He tells himself to let go.
Ilya doesn’t.
The contact lingers too long. Long enough for Shane to feel the steady pulse at Ilya’s wrist beneath his thumb. Long enough for Ilya’s own thumb to press a counterpoint against the back of Shane’s hand. It feels less like a handshake and more like a sentence being underlined.
When they finally separate, Shane’s fingers feel oddly cold.
Ilya’s smile softens, just at the edges, into something that feels dangerously like genuine delight. “Guess we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”
Shane straightens, smoothing down his sleeve as if he could iron out the entire interaction. “Strictly for professional oversight,” he states, sounding, even to himself, like a very tense librarian.
“Of course,” Ilya agrees. “Supervision.”
They part ways, Shane retreating to the far end of the lounge with what tattered dignity he can muster.
~
Peer review is a normal, encouraged part of faculty development. Observing a colleague’s teaching methods fosters interdisciplinary understanding and pedagogical growth. It is not, under any circumstances, a thinly-veiled excuse to sit in the back row of Ilya Rozanov’s lecture hall with a notebook and a deepening scowl, pretending not to notice how irritatingly compelling the man looks while pacing.
The lecture hall is already half-full when Shane slips in, choosing a seat near the aisle. Students glance up, then do unmistakable double-takes. A ripple of whispers follows.
“Is that Professor Hollander?”
“Why is he here?”
“This is about to be so weird.”
Shane ignores them. He opens his notebook to a fresh page, pen poised with purpose. He writes Peer Observation: Physics 204 at the top, as if the heading could tether him to sanity.
It does not.
Ilya enters exactly three minutes late, his coat slung over one shoulder, a travel mug in hand. He stops dead the moment he spots Shane in the back.
For half a second, something like delight flashes across his face.
Oh, no.
“Well,” Ilya announces to the room at large, setting his coffee down with a soft thud. “This is exciting.”
The ambient student chatter dies instantly. Postures straighten.
“We have a guest today,” Ilya continues, turning just enough to let his eyes land squarely on Shane. “Please behave.”
A wave of nervous laughter bubbles through the room.
Ilya’s eyes don’t waver as he adds, his tone casual to the point of danger, “Try not to distract me.”
A hot, prickling flush climbs the back of Shane’s neck. “I’m here strictly in a professional capacity,” he states. It is the voice of a man who is not flustered.
“Of course,” Ilya replies, his lips quirking. “Take notes.”
He winks.
Several students audibly gasp. Someone stifles a giggle.
Shane looks down and writes something aggressively in his notebook.
The lecture begins. Or at least, what passes for one in Ilya’s universe. He doesn’t stand at the podium; he paces. He gestures broadly, asks rhetorical questions he doesn’t wait to have answered, and abandons complex equations halfway through to make wild, sprawling metaphors that Shane is about 80% sure are scientifically unsound but somehow… mesmerizing. Ilya keeps glancing toward the back row, as if checking a gauge, as if this whole spectacle is a private performance staged for a critic.
“At its core,” Ilya declares, chalk dusting his fingers, “physics is about relationships.”
Shane rolls his eyes.
“Everything influences everything else,” Ilya continues, pausing with theatrical timing. “Even observers.”
His eyes flicks, pointedly, to Shane.
A student in the front row tentatively raises her hand. “Is that, like… on the exam?”
Ilya’s smile is beatific. “Life is the exam.”
Shane writes down, with disapproving strokes: Unclear learning objectives. Philosophically vague. Potentially irresponsible.
Ten minutes later, Ilya casually calls on him.
“Professor Hollander,” he says, as if just noticing him. “Thoughts?”
The room falls into a silence so complete Shane can hear the hum of the overhead projector.
Shane looks up slowly. “On?”
“Energy transfer,” Ilya says smoothly, leaning against his desk. “Since you’re observing.”
This is a transparent trap. Shane knows it’s a trap. But he will not be baited into looking foolish.
“In my field,” Shane replies, his tone even and dry, “we prefer to define our terms before we attempt to use them.”
A ripple of delighted laughter runs through the students.
Ilya’s grin widens. “And in mine, we enjoy a little mystery.”
They hold eye contact for a beat that stretches three seconds too long.
The rest of the lecture continues in this vein - a volley of side comments, deliberate glances, Ilya posing questions he clearly doesn’t need answered, and Shane responding when necessary. The students are utterly rapt. Phones are half-hidden under desks, thumbs flying across screens.
When the lecture finally ends, spontaneous applause breaks out.
Later that evening, alone in his study and against every shred of his better judgment, Shane opens Rate My Professor. New reviews have already appeared, flooding Ilya’s page.
⭐⭐⭐⭐☆
quantum_babe_99
He didn’t even finish the derivation but WHO CARES.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
pls_let_them_co-teach
Guest appearance from the hot philosophy prof literally changed my brain chemistry.
⭐⭐⭐☆☆
physics_wrecked_me
The tension in that room was more educational than the lecture
⭐⭐☆☆☆
caffeinated_neutrino
Didn’t learn much physics today but learned a LOT about aggressive eye contact.
Shane stares at the screen, the words blurring slightly. His phone buzzes on the desk.
Ilya:
So? Notes?
Shane:
Your pacing is erratic.
Your learning objectives are unclear.
Your students are… distractible.
Ilya:
And yet.
Shane has the distinct feeling that he is not winning. He is, in fact, becoming part of the show.
~
Ilya Rozonov is sitting in the front row of Shane’s class.
He is upright, attentive, a notebook open before him, pen held with a readiness that suggests he’s about to sketch a portrait rather than take notes. When their eyes meet, Ilya’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, as if this is the climax of a plan he’s been savoring all week.
Shane does not acknowledge him. He marches to the podium, sets his materials down, and begins.
“Today,” Shane says, “we’re discussing narrative frameworks and the indispensable role of structure in shaping meaning.”
Ilya nods. He writes something down.
Shane refuses to look at him again. He focuses on a point on the back wall, on the earnest face of a sophomore in the third row. Anywhere else.
Five minutes in, a hand rises from the front. It is not a tentative student’s hand. It is held with casual certainty.
Shane has no choice. “Yes,” he says, the word clipped. “Professor Rozanov.”
Ilya’s smile is intimate. Entirely inappropriate for a lecture hall at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday. “Asking for a friend,” he begins, leaning back in his chair as if settling in for a long conversation. “Hypothetically - what if structure is just a form of control?”
A ripple of sound moves through the class like a wave.
Shane folds his hands together on the podium. “That is a reductive interpretation, and not relevant to today’s topic.”
Ilya hums. “I don’t know. I find the tension between chaos and order… fascinating.”
He holds Shane’s gaze as he says it, his eyes sharp and curious, as if he’s studying far more than the lecture’s thesis.
Shane turns pointedly back to the board, picking up a piece of chalk. “Structure,” he continues, underlining the word with a firm stroke, “is a tool. It creates a container, which in turn allows for greater freedom, not restriction.”
“Like boundaries,” Ilya offers. “Everyone knows boundaries make things more… interesting.”
A student coughs. Someone whispers, “Oh my god.”
Shane does not turn around. “Please,” he says, his voice tighter now, “allow me to finish the point.”
“Of course,” Ilya replies. “My apologies. I like listening to you.”
Shane’s pen, which he didn’t even realize he was still holding, slips in his sweaty palm.
He presses on. He gestures wider than usual, stepping out from behind the podium’s protective shield. He makes deliberate eye contact with other students. He attempts, perhaps foolishly, to be engaging.
“At its simplest,” Shane says, grasping for a relatable analogy, “structure is like… well, it’s like trying to assemble furniture without the instructions.”
An echoing, awkward silence blankets the room.
Ilya laughs.
It’s not a polite chuckle. It’s a full-bodied, unreserved laugh that seems to rise from his chest and fill every corner of the hall. A few startled students join in nervously.
Shane closes his eyes for a half-second, seeking strength from the universe, or perhaps just a sudden structural failure in the floor beneath Ilya’s chair.
“Excellent analogy,” Ilya says, once his laughter subsides into a bright, amused grin. He even claps his hands together once.
“Thank you,” Shane replies, the words strangled. “That will be all.”
The rest of the lecture passes in a blur of heightened self-consciousness. When it ends, students don’t rush for the door. They linger, packing bags with glacial slowness, their eyes darting blatantly between the two professors.
Ilya takes his sweet time, finally sauntering up to the podium as Shane shoves his notes into his briefcase.
“You were very good,” Ilya says, his voice low enough that only Shane can hear.
“This?” Shane asks, refusing to look up.
“Focused,” Ilya clarifies. “Trying. I like it.”
Shane straightens, finally meeting his eyes. “If you’re here solely to disrupt - ”
“I’m here to admire,” Ilya interrupts. “And to supervise. Fair is fair, no?”
That night, alone with his poor life choices, Shane checks Rate My Professor. He knows he should not. It is an act of self-sabotage.
He does it anyway.
⭐⭐⭐⭐☆
lit_major_feral
Why was the physics prof in our narrative theory class and why was his presence literally HOTTER than the actual lecture theme.
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
ok_stop_flirting
The guest participation was SPICY.
⭐⭐⭐☆☆
tenured_thirst
The eye contact between them was a narrative in itself.
⭐⭐☆☆☆
philosophy_wasnt_ready
Why did Prof. Hollander look so flustered the entire time. I need a 5000-word peer-reviewed essay to explain.
His phone buzzes on the desk.
Ilya:
That was brave. The furniture analogy.
Shane stares at the words. Before he can decide on a response - or, more wisely, lock his phone in a drawer - another message arrives.
Ilya:
You look good when you’re nervous. All that lovely focus.
Shane does not reply. He doesn't trust his own fingers to form a coherent sentence.
Instead, his thumb moves with a will of its own. He taps the screen, capturing the evidence: two consecutive screenshots of the messages, saved for a reason he cannot and will not examine.