I disentangle myself from him, standing on unsteady legs. I dress quickly, avoiding his gaze, ignoring the way my body aches with the loss of him.
"I should go," I say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Thank you for... for everything."
I turn to leave, but his hand catches my wrist, stopping me. I look back at him, steeling myself for recriminations or apologies.
But his expression holds neither. Only a quiet intensity that makes my heart stutter.
"This wasn't a mistake," he says, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist. "And it wasn't a one-time thing. Not for me."
I stare at him, trying to process his words. Trying to reconcile them with everything I know about men and power and sex.
"I don't... I can't..." Words fail me, my throat closing around them.
"I know." He releases my wrist, but the heat of his touch lingers. "But when you're ready, I'll be here. For whatever you need."
It's a promise and an offer. One I'm not sure I'm ready to accept.
So I do what I always do when things get too real, too close. I run.
I leave his office on shaky legs, my body humming with aftershocks, my mind spinning with questions I'm afraid to answer.
Ian's words echo in my head, a temptation and a challenge.
When you're ready, I'll be here.
But will I ever be ready?
I don't know. But as I step out into the neon night, I feel something unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
Something that feels dangerously like hope.
CHAPTER 4
The autumn wind bites through my thin jacket as I hurry across campus. Three hours of back-to-back lectures have left my brain feeling like overcooked pasta, and all I want is to get home, crawl under my blankets, and maybe—if I'm feeling ambitious—crack open one of the five textbooks currently weighing down my backpack.
I check my phone as I walk. A message from my friend from Rhapsody, Orchid.
How’s class coming along?
I'm typing a response when I see him.
Theo.
Standing at the corner ahead, hands in his pockets, watching me.
My heart stops. Then restarts at triple speed.
It can't be him. Ian said he was "taken care of." That he should be on his merry way on the other side of the country. Ian wouldn't lie to me, would he? Not about this.
But that silhouette. That stance. The way he's just... waiting.
My fingers go numb. My phone slips through them like it's coated in oil, clattering to the sidewalk with a sound that makes me flinch.
"Shit," I mutter, bending to scoop it up with trembling hands. The screen isn't cracked—small mercies—but my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
When I look up again, the man is turning away, walking in the opposite direction. He's taller than Theo. Broader in the shoulders. His hair is different too—longer, curlier.
Not Theo. Just some random guy who triggered my paranoia.
