Chapter 14 Patrick
Patrick
I wake on Saturday to a wash of gray light seeping through the blinds, thin and colorless, draining the room of warmth. It’s the kind of morning where everything feels quiet — the walls, the sheets, even the air — as if the world itself is hesitating.
I blink up at the ceiling, disoriented for half a second.
And then I remember.
Lottie.
Of course.
She was in my dreams.
All night.
I scrub a hand over my face, dragging myself upright as heat creeps slowly up my neck. The images come back in fragments — not even the explicit parts, not fully formed scenes, but impressions. Sensations.
The intensity of it.
The way I reached for her without thinking, without weighing consequences or titles or ethics. The way she fit against me like something inevitable. The way I leaned into her touch as if I’d been starving for it.
The way I opened myself to her — body and mind — like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And beneath it all, the hunger.
God.
I’ve had partners before. Enough to know my preferences. Enough to understand my body. Enough to recognize attraction when it sparks and fades.
But nothing in my life has ever felt like that.
Nothing has ever hit me with that kind of instinctive certainty — that bone marrow-deep pull that feels less like desire and more like gravity.
And somehow, I know — without knowing how I know — that being with her would be different. More. Maybe too much.
I exhale sharply and swing my legs off the bed, standing as if movement alone can dislodge the lingering heat in my chest. I head to the bathroom, flick on the light, and splash cold water onto my face. Droplets cling to my lashes as I grip the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
This is ridiculous.
I turn on the shower and step under once the water heats, letting it pound against my shoulders. The steam fills the small space, blurring the edges of everything. The heat helps. It gives me something tangible to focus on — the sting against my skin, the rhythm of water striking tile — instead of the memory of her hands.
I run through the day’s nonexistent agenda in my head.
No plans. No errands. Nothing but a stack of first-week homework assignments waiting to be graded.
And the looming question of whether I should finally reach out to Dr. Marin.
I grimace.
Everyone else I contacted — colleagues, researchers I trust, old acquaintances from grad school — has responded already. All of them gave me some variation of the same answer: they had no idea what an electric shock between two people could signify. No biological model. No documented phenomenon. No explanation for the way my nervous system seemed to light up like a live wire the moment we touched.
Dr. Marin is my last hope.
And that terrifies me.
Because I know — deep in my bones — that whatever she says will change everything.
And I’m not ready for everything to change. Not when I’m barely holding myself together as it is.
I finish showering, dry off, and pull on comfortable clothes. Soft sweatpants. An old university T-shirt. Something loose. Something that doesn’t cling. Something that doesn’t remind me of how my body reacts when she’s near.
Downstairs, I start the coffee maker and crack a few eggs into a pan. The sizzle is immediate and sharp. The smell of coffee blooms through the kitchen, rich and bitter.
Routine helps.
The repetition of ordinary tasks steadies me. Flip the eggs. Toast the bread. Pour the coffee.
When it’s ready, I reach into the drawer and take out my suppressants. I keep them everywhere — the kitchen, the bathroom cabinet, my office desk — so I never have an excuse to forget.
I swallow the dose with a sip of coffee and close my eyes briefly.
Please let it do something today.
Anything.
I carry my breakfast into the living room and set it on the coffee table. My school bag sits beside the couch, overstuffed with introductory assignments. I pull out the folder and flip it open. The prompts are simple. Baseline assessments. Nothing that requires deep analysis.
I pick up my pen.
And still — even now — my mind drifts.
To green eyes the exact shade of summer leaves after rain. To the way she says my name — careful, deliberate, like she’s tasting it. To the scent of fresh snow and pine that lingers in my memory, clean and sharp and impossible to ignore, as if it’s embedded somewhere behind my ribs.
I press the heel of my hand to my forehead.
Get a grip.
I need to get her out of my head.
Because if this is how I’m behaving after only one week, I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive the rest of this semester.
I force myself into the rhythm of grading.
Read. Mark. Sip coffee. Chew. Turn the page. Repeat.
The repetition is a balm. The small corrections, the marginal notes, the predictable structure of it — it gives my brain something neutral to hold onto.
Minutes pass. Then more.
For the first time in days, my thoughts are quiet.
No scent memory. No intrusive flashes of green eyes. No echo of her voice.
Just work.
Just something normal.
By the time I finish the last assignment, an hour has slipped by unnoticed. I lean back against the couch and exhale, almost stunned.
I did it. I actually blocked her out.
Only for an hour — but it feels like a victory.
I tuck the folder back into my bag and gather my dishes, carrying them to the kitchen. I rinse the plates, load them into the dishwasher, and align them neatly. I’ll run it tomorrow when I clean the house. Maybe scrubbing countertops and vacuuming floors will buy me another hour of silence.
Maybe I can outrun my own mind.
But the moment I stop moving — the second the last dish clicks into place — she’s back.
Her scent.
Her eyes.
The way she looked yesterday, trying so hard not to look at me.
That was… cute.
I let out a frustrated breath and brace my hands against the counter, bowing my head.
“I am not an animal,” I whisper into the empty kitchen. My voice sounds thin against the hum of the refrigerator. “I am not ruled by pheromones and instinct.”
The words feel fragile. Brittle. Like they might shatter under the weight of what I’m feeling.
“I am capable of rational thought,” I add quietly. But even as I say it, I feel powerless. Whatever is happening between us — whatever this is — it’s bigger than anything I’ve dealt with before. Bigger than anything I was taught to handle.
What am I supposed to do?
Lottie is young. Not too young — but young enough that the difference matters. And more importantly, she’s my student. My TA. Someone I’m responsible for mentoring. Protecting.
Not wanting.
How could anything between us ever work?
Unless I quit teaching.
The thought hits hard.
I don’t need the money. I never have. But I need the structure. The purpose. The rhythm of semesters, lectures, and office hours. I need the sense that I’m contributing something meaningful.
Would I really give that up?
I shake my head sharply. I’m getting ahead of myself. There’s no guarantee anything will happen. There shouldn’t be.
I should want nothing to happen.
But I can’t force myself to feel something I don’t.
And what I feel—It’s like wanting my next breath.
Automatic. Essential. Impossible to ignore.
I push away from the counter and return to the living room, sinking heavily onto the couch. I turn on a movie — something familiar, something I’ve seen a dozen times. The opening credits roll.
I don’t absorb a single scene.
My mind drifts immediately.
Back to yesterday.
Back to her.
She hides it better than I do. She avoided direct eye contact. Held her breath when she stepped close. Created distance where she could.
But that’s useless. I can smell her from across the room. Which means she can smell me, too.
The thought sends a low, dangerous warmth through my chest.
This is unsustainable.
I grab my phone and scroll through messages without reading them, thumb moving purely to move. Notifications blur past. My pulse ticks steadily in my ears.
Then my thumb stills.
Dr. Marin.
Her name sits there, quiet and unavoidable.
I stare at it for a long time.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to hear what she has to say. I don’t want confirmation of the thing I’m afraid to name.
But I can’t keep spiraling in ignorance.
I inhale slowly. Exhale shakily.
“Alright,” I murmur to the empty room. “Let’s face the music.”
With a sinking weight settling in my stomach, I tap her name.