Chapter 2

He moved first.

Quiet. Controlled. Like each step he took had already been calculated in his head, measured for distance, danger, and regret. And yet, every inch he closed between us unraveled me in slow motion.

I didn't breathe. Not when he came around the desk. Not when the space between us grew thin enough to feel like a held breath. The kind you don't realize you're holding until your chest starts to burn.

"I was hoping I was wrong," he said, voice low and tight.

I knew that voice. From last night—when it had been softer, freer. When it had brushed my skin like something intimate, something reckless. A voice I'd never forget, no matter how badly I needed to.

"You weren't," I said, and the words scratched my throat on the way out.

His jaw tensed. That same muscle ticked in frustration—or restraint. It was hard to tell. Everything about him was precision wrapped in temptation. I wondered if he always looked this put together when his entire world tilted beneath him.

"You shouldn't be here," he muttered, gaze flicking over me like a line he didn't want to draw.

"Neither should you."

That made him pause—just long enough to smirk. Not a kind one. It was crooked and sharp, with the dangerous confidence of someone who'd already imagined the worst-case scenario and wanted it anyway.

He stepped closer.

I stayed rooted to the floor. I think I held my breath again. My fingers dug into the strap of my bag, as if it could keep me upright—keep me sane.

Last night came rushing back in fragments.

The bar. The way he'd leaned against the counter, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a whisky glass in one hand. I remembered how he laughed. Deep and genuine and a little surprised by me. He'd asked questions like he wanted to know me—not just what I studied, but how I thought, how I saw the world. I remembered his hand brushing mine as he passed me my drink. The weight of his stare. The way my skin buzzed when he touched me—like I'd been waiting for it.

And then later—when his mouth met mine outside the bar, desperate and breathless. How we'd pulled each other into the dark, not caring about names or futures or the universe spinning wildly around us. Just two people trying to feel something that wasn't empty.

And now, here he was.

Standing in front of the classroom I had no idea I'd signed up for. Looking at me like I was both the mistake and the memory he couldn't stop replaying.

"Last night..." he said, then stopped.

His eyes traveled down, lingering in a way that made the heat crawl up my neck. My whole body was hyper-aware of him—his height, his scent, the way his hands rested on the edge of the desk now like he needed something to hold him back.

"I wouldn't have—if I'd known."

"Same," I whispered.

It was a lie. A necessary one. But a lie all the same.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and I knew he saw right through me.

I should've stopped there. I should've turned around and left. Found another elective. Taken some boring ethics seminar and pretended this never happened.

But I didn't move.

Neither did he.

"You said you were a grad student," he said, quieter now. "You didn't mention undergrad."

"I didn't lie."

"You didn't clarify."

"Neither did you."

His smirk came back—this time darker, more intimate. "You were too busy moaning my name to ask for credentials."

My stomach flipped violently. My grip on my bag tightened.

"So were you," I murmured.

The moment snapped.

Like a current surged through the space between us and left it buzzing.

His whole body tensed—just a fraction. His fingers curled on the desk. His eyes didn't waver from mine. And I... I couldn't look away if I tried.

I felt like I was standing on the edge of something dangerous. Something that looked like freedom and fire and failure all at once.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked.

The words were low. Deep. Coiled with warning. Not a threat. Not even a test.

Just... honest.

I should've said yes. I should've walked out and filed this away as a beautiful mistake. But the truth was, part of me wanted to stay in this room forever. To keep this moment on a loop. To not care that he was my professor and I was his student and this—whatever this was—was already a disaster waiting to happen.

Instead, I asked, "Do you?"

He blinked, once. Like I'd hit a nerve.

"No," he said. Quiet. Raw.

And then, just like that, he stepped back.

The loss of his presence hit me like cold air rushing in through an open door. My whole body mourned the space he left.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair—same gesture he did last night when I'd said something that made him laugh. Like he didn't know what to do with me. Like part of him didn't want to.

"That's exactly why we need to keep our distance," he muttered, more to himself than me.

I nodded. I had to. Even though my chest ached. Even though it felt like something that had barely begun was already ending.

"Fine," I said.

I turned toward the door. Every step away from him felt like a betrayal to the version of me that had let go for just one night.

"Wait," he said.

I froze.

I turned back slowly, pulse pounding in my ears.

He stood there, hands at his sides now, gaze pinned to mine. No smirk. No mask. Just that look—that fierce, aching look.

"I don't regret it," he said. "And that's the problem."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

I didn't either.

But I couldn't say that. Not here. Not when everything was already cracking under the weight of what we couldn't have.

So I nodded. Once. And walked out the door.

The hallway was cooler, quieter. The kind of silence that felt like consequence.

But even as I moved away, even as the distance stretched between us, I could still feel him—like a shadow just behind me. Not following. Just... there.

Lingering like a touch I wasn't supposed to miss.