Chapter 3

I should've checked the weather.

But I hadn't. And now I was soaked—standing under the flimsy shelter outside the university library, cradling a stack of books against my chest like they could shield me from the storm tearing across the sky.

Rain poured in sheets, fast and furious, bouncing off the pavement and slicing sideways through the air. My hair clung to my cheeks in wet strands, my clothes heavy with water. Even my socks were soaked, squelching inside my sneakers with every hesitant step. The downpour blurred the world into grays and silvers. People were gone. The last stragglers had vanished into buses and cars.

And I was still here, clutching overpriced textbooks and regretting every decision I'd made since leaving the house without an umbrella.

Then I heard it.

The low, smooth hum of an engine pulling up just beyond the curb. Not loud. Confident. Controlled. A car that didn't need to announce itself to be noticed.

I looked up.

A sleek black vehicle with tinted windows rolled to a stop in front of me. The kind of car that belonged in magazines, not student parking. The passenger window slid down silently.

And there he was.

Professor Dante Maddox.

I froze. The rain fell harder, somehow, though I didn't feel it anymore.

His eyes met mine through the storm. Calm. Unshaken. That impossible shade of steel-gray I hadn't been able to stop thinking about since the night we met—before we knew who the other really was.

"Get in," he said.

Just that. Quiet. Unbothered. Like this was just a casual, normal offer to someone he wasn't supposed to be thinking about.

My fingers tightened around the edges of my books. "I'm okay," I lied.

"You're soaked."

"So are you."

His gaze flicked over me, unreadable. "Don't argue. You're shaking."

I hated how quickly I obeyed.

I slid into the car, and the door shut with a soft thud. Warmth wrapped around me instantly—the smell of leather and something deeper. Subtle cologne. Clean soap. Him. The interior was quiet, elegant, expensive without being flashy. Jazz played low on the speakers. Of course it did.

I held my breath as he pulled away from the curb.

His hands on the wheel were steady. Controlled. Everything about him screamed restraint, like he'd spent years mastering every flicker of emotion that dared to surface. But I saw the way his jaw tightened slightly as we passed under the blur of city lights.

"You shouldn't be walking alone in this weather," he said after a long beat.

"I didn't plan to get stuck," I murmured, hugging my books closer.

"I was on my way back from a meeting," he offered. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"I didn't expect to see you ever again." It came out too quiet. Honest.

His knuckles flexed slightly on the steering wheel. "Likewise."

Silence stretched between us like a wire pulled tight. The kind of silence that crackled. That hummed.

"I wasn't looking for you that night," I said softly.

"I know."

"And if I had known..." I stopped.

"So would I," he said, not missing a beat. "But I didn't. And we didn't."

And yet, we did.

I stared out the window. "You're driving in the wrong direction."

"I know."

I turned toward him slowly, eyes narrowing. "Where are you taking me?"

He glanced at me. "Somewhere you can dry off. Safely. You don't have to stay long."

My heart thundered once in my chest. I didn't say no.

—

His apartment was the opposite of what I imagined. Minimalist, yes. But warm in a way that surprised me. Tall windows overlooked the city. A single fireplace burned low in the corner, casting golden light across black marble floors and dark wood shelving. Art lined the walls—abstract pieces that made you feel something without knowing why.

He handed me a towel and one of his sweatshirts without a word. I disappeared into the guest bathroom to change.

It smelled like him.

And when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, flushed and damp, wearing his clothes, I didn't recognize the girl staring back.

When I returned, he was standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands wrapped around a mug.

"Tea or something stronger?" he asked without looking at me.

I walked toward him slowly. "Do you make a habit of inviting students over during rainstorms?"

He didn't flinch. "No."

"And yet..."

"You're not just a student," he said quietly.

My breath caught. "That's a dangerous sentence."

"True doesn't mean safe."

He handed me a mug—warm between my palms. Our fingers brushed. Just once.

Lightning flashed outside.

I took a sip. Jasmine and honey. Soft and rich.

We stood in the glow of the fireplace, barely a foot apart.

"You're wearing my clothes," he said, a hint of something darker in his voice.

I glanced down. "You gave them to me."

"I didn't expect them to look like that on you."

I looked up.

He was staring at me like I was a problem he didn't know how to solve. Like he didn't want to stop solving it, either.

I stepped back. Just a little. Enough to breathe.

"We can't do this," I whispered.

"I know."

"We're being reckless."

"Still know."

"But you're looking at me like—"

"I'm trying not to."

The air sparked between us. I could hear the fire, the rain, the slow jazz playing like it was narrating our tension.

"I'm not going to make a mistake here," I said quietly.

"I'm trusting you not to," he said, voice thick.

Another silence.

"I keep thinking about that night," I admitted, almost ashamed. "Not just what happened, but how easy it was to talk to you. Like I already knew you."

"You were... real," he murmured. "I don't meet real people very often."

"I wasn't trying to be anything."

"You didn't have to. You already were."

The ache hit low in my stomach.

I turned, walked toward the window. Rain painted the glass with streaks. The city shimmered beyond it, glowing and distant. He joined me a moment later, stopping just close enough to make my skin hum with awareness.

"You're the kind of person who complicates things, aren't you?" I asked softly.

"I was about to ask you the same thing."

I smiled, but it didn't reach my eyes. "What happens now?"

"Now," he said, stepping just a little closer, voice deep and quiet, "you'll sleep in this room."

I met his gaze. For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Then he reached past me—slow, controlled—and opened the door.

I hesitated. "What if I don't want this to stay in the room?"

His lips twitched, like he was holding back something fierce. "Then you'll sleep on the couch"

I knew—this wasn't over.

Not by a long shot

It was just... paused.

Barely.