Chapter 5

The library was nearly empty, save for a few students scattered across the rows of tables, their faces buried in textbooks and notes. I had stayed behind after class—not because I had more work to do, but because I couldn't shake the feeling that Alexandra needed help. I'd seen the way she'd struggled in my lectures lately. The hesitation in her answers, the way she'd fidget when I called on her. It wasn't that she was unintelligent—far from it. She was sharp, fiercely independent. But this subject, mine, had become a mountain she was trying to climb and losing grip on.

So, I'd offered to tutor her. Something off the books. Just the two of us, away from the scrutinizing eyes of the classroom.

Now, sitting here across from her, watching her study in this quiet corner of the library, I realized I wasn't just tutoring her academically. I was tutoring myself—to keep my emotions in check, to hold the line between professionalism and something far more dangerous.

Alexandra's hair fell in messy waves around her shoulders, the way it always did when she was concentrating too hard, unconsciously brushing her face. The soft clicking of her pen against paper was the only sound besides the occasional rustle of a page. But she wasn't as focused as she looked. I could see it—the tension in her brow, the way her eyes darted to me when she thought I wasn't looking, the tiny tremble of her fingers when she stopped writing.

Her gaze lifted just then, and our eyes locked. It wasn't a glance; it was something more—searching, raw, filled with the kind of unsaid words that threaten to explode in silence. She wasn't hiding her feelings. Neither was I.

The heat between us had been building since the moment we met—at that bar, of all places. The tension was thick enough to drown in now, and as I sat there pretending to focus on my notes, I could barely breathe.

Her chest rose and fell more quickly, her breaths shallow and uneven. She bit her lip, and my gaze fell to the subtle trembling of her hands resting on the table. She was trying so hard to keep it together—trying to act like this was just tutoring, nothing more—but I knew better.

I pushed back my chair, the scrape against the floor startlingly loud in the quiet library. I stood and closed the distance between us, my heart hammering in my chest like a warning drum.

I placed my hand on the back of her chair, close enough that the heat from my palm seemed to radiate toward her. Her eyes flicked up to mine and held me there, unblinking. I saw the pulse thudding in her neck, the hitch in her breath, the way her body stiffened under my gaze.

"Are you going to keep avoiding me?" My voice dropped low, barely more than a whisper. The words held an edge, a challenge, a plea—all tangled into one.

She shifted, her eyes flicking toward the door as if looking for an escape route. But she didn't get up. She didn't run.

"I'm not avoiding you," she whispered back, but her voice cracked at the edges. I caught the quiver beneath the calm she tried so hard to wear.

I moved around the side of the table until I was almost beside her, leaning in just enough to let her feel the weight of my presence. My fingers brushed against the edge of the chair, just grazing her arm. The air between us thickened, charged with a dangerous electricity I had no intention of controlling anymore.

"You're lying," I muttered, voice low and rough.

Her eyes met mine again, wide and vulnerable. Her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to say something but was afraid. The space between us shrank until it was almost unbearable. The faint scent of her—her shampoo, a trace of vanilla—wrapped around me, pulling me in.

My breath caught when I reached out, my fingers brushing the soft skin at the back of her neck, just below the hairline. It was warm, tender, and for a moment, she flinched. A small, involuntary reaction that sent a jolt through me.

Her lips parted with a soft gasp, her breath uneven and shaky. It was the kind of sound that broke through every barrier I'd tried to build.

She didn't pull away. She didn't stop me.

And neither did I.

The world around us—the rows of bookshelves, the dull overhead lights, the distant murmurs of other students—faded into irrelevance. It was just us, suspended in a moment too charged for words.

My hand moved gently, cupping her jaw as I tilted her head just enough. My thumb traced over her lips, barely touching, but it was enough to make her whimper quietly.

Her breath hitched, rapid and shallow. I leaned closer, my face hovering just inches from hers, our eyes locked in a battle neither wanted to lose.

Everything inside me screamed to close the gap, to taste her lips again, to lose myself in her.

But I fought it. Fought the part of me that wanted to break every rule, shatter every line drawn between us.

"I should let you go," I whispered, voice rough with barely suppressed need. "But I can't."

And then I kissed her.

The kiss was fierce and desperate, full of all the tension we'd been holding back for days. Her breath shuddered against mine, and I felt her hands clutch at my shirt, pulling me closer.

But just as quickly as it started, she pulled back.

Her hands moved to my chest, pressing lightly as if to hold me at bay.

Her eyes were wide, startled and unsure.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

The silence between us was heavy with possibility.

I could feel the shift in her—the fragile line she was balancing on.

"You can't keep doing this to me," she whispered, voice shaking.

"Neither can you," I replied, voice raw.

My breath was ragged, my heart racing. She was everything I shouldn't want—everything forbidden.

But I wanted her.

And there, in that quiet library corner, under the weight of unspoken rules and dangerous desires, I knew nothing would ever be the same again.