Chapter 4

I woke before the sun, the room still heavy with shadows. The soft folds of early morning light filtered weakly through the blinds, painting the walls with thin stripes of pale gold. Everything around me was quiet except for the faint steady rhythm of my own breathing—and the almost imperceptible sound coming from the guest room down the hall.

Alexia.

I hadn't expected her to stay. In fact, I'd insisted she take the guest room. She'd protested once, but then agreed, and I respected her need for distance. We both knew that last night was a mistake. A line crossed that shouldn't have been. And yet, there she was, in the other room, still here, still in my space.

I lay still for a moment, trying to settle the storm raging inside me. But sleep was long gone.

I rose quietly from the bed, careful not to wake the empty sheets beside me. The apartment was still and still felt too small, even though I was alone in my room. I moved down the hall toward the guest room, drawn like a moth to a fragile flame.

Outside her door, I paused.

I didn't want to intrude. I wasn't some voyeur, watching her without permission. But I needed to see her, just once, even if it was only from a distance. It was a need I couldn't explain—something new, something raw and entirely uncharted.

Peeking in just enough to catch a glimpse, I let my gaze rest on her.

She was curled beneath the white sheets, her body softened and softened and softened by sleep. The pale linen clung to her in places, revealing the gentle curves I knew too well but was still discovering. Her hair was a wild halo, a tangle of dark waves that spilled over the pillow and onto the mattress like a storm at sea.

Some strands clung to the curve of her cheek, soft as a whisper. Others tangled around her collarbone, catching the weak light and glinting faintly with copper highlights I hadn't noticed before. Her skin was pale, almost glowing in the dimness, and her lips rested slightly parted, soft and vulnerable.

She looked... fragile. Not like the woman I'd met at the bar, fierce and untouchable. Not like the student who challenged me every time I tried to push her away. This was a different version of her—one I wanted to protect, and yet it made my heart beat faster in a way that was almost unbearable.

Watching her sleep was like watching a secret I wasn't supposed to know. I wanted to reach out, to brush those stray locks from her face, to hold her close and make the world go quiet. But I didn't. Instead, I just stood there—silent, reverent, and painfully aware of the dangerous pull she had on me.

I closed the door softly behind me and stepped back, trying to shake the heat that pooled in my chest.

This wasn't some fleeting crush. It wasn't the usual irritation I felt toward people who tried to get under my skin. Alexia was different. She irritated me in ways I couldn't explain—sharp, stubborn, impossible to ignore. But beneath that, there was something else. Something electric and unsettling that made every part of me tense.

We were supposed to be enemies. Teacher and student. Bound by rules, by lines we couldn't cross. But no one had ever matched me like this. No one had ever made my heart race like she did.

I was supposed to hate her. To push her away. But I couldn't.

—

The gym was my escape—the place where I tried to drown the restlessness clawing at my insides.

I threw myself into the routine, lifting, pressing, running until my muscles burned and my mind quieted. But even there, I couldn't forget her.

I could still see the flash of defiance in her eyes.

Hear the sharpness in her voice.

Feel the way her body had pressed close against mine, teasing and tempting, but never crossing the line.

I hated how much I wanted her. And hated how little control I had.

—

Back in the apartment, the smell of coffee filled the air. I stood by the stove, flipping a few slices of bread in the toaster, the mundane routine a balm against the chaos inside me.

She appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair still wild and damp from sleep, eyes heavy but bright. There was something vulnerable in the way she stretched, the faint crease of sleep still lingering on her brow.

"Morning," she murmured, voice husky.

"Morning," I replied, trying to keep my tone even, but feeling the undercurrent of tension buzzing between us.

We ate in silence, the clink of plates and silverware punctuating the quiet.

Every glance was loaded with meaning—unsaid words and dangerous promises.

When she stood to leave, I wanted to stop her—to beg her to stay just a little longer—but I didn't.

She smiled softly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear.

"I'll see you at school. Later."

I nodded, heart pounding as she slipped out the door, the apartment suddenly too empty.

—

She insisted on leaving separately, not wanting us to appear together. I understood completely.

Her leaving was like a small fracture in the careful balance I was trying to hold.

My phone buzzed—the screen lighting up with her name.

A message.

"Thanks for breakfast. Take care today."

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, the urge to reply overwhelming.

To tell her she was all I could think about.

But I resisted.

Because some lines, no matter how badly you want to cross them, are meant to hold.

I stood by the window later, watching the city blur under the rain.

The quiet in the apartment felt like a challenge.

Like a question I wasn't ready to answer.

And in that silence, I realized that this—whatever it was between us—was far from over.