"You're seventeen years old." I don't mean to shout, but the words tear out of me. "I'm your teacher. There is nothing between us, there never has been, and there never will be."
For a moment, the room is completely silent except for the sound of our breathing. Logan's face cycles through a dozen different expressions – hurt, rage, confusion, and something that looks almost like heartbreak.
"But you'll be with him," he says finally, his voice small and lost. "That biker trash. You'll let him touch you, kiss you, fuck you…"
"Stop." I hold up a hand, my voice deadly quiet. "Don't you dare talk about my boyfriend like that."
The word boyfriend seems to hit him like a punch. His whole body goes rigid, and when he looks at me again, there's something in his eyes that makes my blood freeze in my veins.
"Boyfriend?" He repeats the word like it's poison on his tongue. "That's what he is to you? Your boyfriend?"
I lift my chin, even though everything in me is screaming to run. "Yes. Dime is my boyfriend. We're together. And what you're feeling; it's not real, Logan. It's not healthy. You need to talk to someone…"
"Shut up." His scream echoes off the classroom walls, and I jump backward, my hip hitting the desk hard enough to send a spike of pain through my side. "You think I don't know what's real? You think I'm some stupid kid who doesn't understand what love is?"
"This isn't love, Logan. This is an obsession. This is…"
"This is your fault." He's pacing now, back and forth in front of my desk like a caged animal. "You made me feel this way. You smiled at me, you were nice to me, you made me think…" His voice breaks. "I thought you cared about me."
My heart actually aches for him in that moment, because I can see the lost, broken kid underneath all the rage and whatever drugs are coursing through his system. But I also know I'm in serious danger here.
"I do care about you, Logan. I care about all my students. But the way you're feeling…"
"Stop talking about my feelings like you're some kind of expert." He whirls around to face me, and that's when I see it. The way his jacket hangs oddly on one side. The bulge that's too big and too heavy to be a phone or wallet.
Oh God. He has a weapon.
My training kicks in. Stay calm. Don't escalate. Try to de-escalate. But also, get help. I need to get help.
"You're right," I say quietly, moving my hand slowly toward my purse on the desk. "I'm not an expert on feelings. I'm just a teacher."
"Don't." His voice is suddenly deadly quiet. "Don't move."
I freeze, my hand inches from my purse. From my phone.
"I saw you reach for something. What's in the bag?"
"Just... just my phone. And some makeup. Girl stuff." I try to keep my voice light, conversational. "Logan, whatever you took, it's making you paranoid. Let me help you."
"I said don't move!" He reaches into his jacket, and my world narrows to a single point of terror.
But instead of pulling out whatever weapon I know is there, he just holds his hand against it. A threat. A promise.
"I've been watching you for months," he says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather. "Did you know that? Since the end of the last school year. I know what time you get here in the morning. I know what you eat for lunch. I know that you always grade papers in your car before you go home because you like the quiet."
The casual tone makes it somehow worse than the shouting. I feel like I'm going to be sick.
"I know you live in that little blue house on Maple Street. I know you have a cat named Whiskers. I know you order Chinese food every Friday night and you always get too much and eat the leftovers for breakfast Saturday morning."
"Logan…"
"I know you've been sleeping with him." The words come out flat and emotionless. "The biker. I followed you to his place last Tuesday night. You didn't come home until Wednesday morning."
The blood drains from my face. He's been stalking me. For months.
"You wore that little black dress," he continues in that same dead voice. "The one that shows off your legs. You never dress like that for school. You never dress like that for me."
I have to get my phone. I have to call for help. But he's watching me like a hawk, and I know the second I make a move toward my purse, he's going to snap completely.
