Chapter 18 Lottie
Lunch and a movie with Sandy is easy in the way gravity is easy — she pulls me along without effort, without asking, without even realizing she’s doing it.
For the first time in days, I’m not drowning in my own head.
She talks too fast, laughs too loud, gestures with her entire body like she’s conducting an orchestra, only she can hear. Her hands slice through the air. Her voice rises and falls dramatically over the smallest details. She reenacts parts of conversations that happened weeks ago, like they’re live theater.
And I let myself be carried along.
I nod. I laugh. I tease her back. I even forget — for minutes at a time — the constant hum that’s been sitting beneath my skin all week.
Maybe because being with Sandy is distracting enough to pull my mind away from Professor Hale.
Even if only for a few hours.
The movie helps, too. Bright colors explode across the screen. The soundtrack is loud enough to rattle the seats. The plot is so predictable that I know the ending halfway through the second act.
It’s comforting.
Something simple. Something that doesn’t smell like grapefruit and honey. Something that doesn’t make my pulse spike without warning.
When we get back to campus, we part ways easily, promising to see each other tomorrow in Chemistry. It feels normal. Familiar. Like slipping into an old sweater that still fits — soft at the cuffs, stretched in all the right places.
But the moment I step into my dorm room and shut the door behind me, the quiet crashes over me.
It’s immediate. Heavy.
I peel off my coat, my scarf, my gloves, letting them fall wherever they land. The radiator hums softly. The room is warm, still faintly scented with my detergent.
And yet—I stand in the middle of the room, unmoving, and the thoughts I managed to outrun all afternoon come rushing back at once.
Professor Hale fills my mind so completely that it’s like there’s no oxygen left for anything else.
His eyes.
His voice — low, measured, always controlled.
The way the air feels charged when he’s near, like a storm building behind clear skies.
The way my body reacts before my brain has time to form a single rational thought.
Heat creeps up my neck just thinking about it.
I take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
It doesn’t help.
I walk into the bathroom because I need something — anything — solid. Something real and physical to anchor me.
I brace my hands against the sink and stare at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed from the cold. My hair is slightly wind-tangled. But it’s my eyes that hold me. They look… unsettled. Too bright. Too alert. Like I’m bracing for impact without knowing what’s coming.
I turn on the cold water and cup my hands beneath the stream. When I splash it onto my face, the shock steals my breath.
The chill is sharp enough to sting.
I hope it’ll clear my head. I hope it’ll quiet the noise. I hope it’ll wash away the image of him that keeps replaying behind my eyes — the way his jaw tightens, the way his pupils darken, the way the air between us feels like it’s thinning.
Water drips down my cheeks and neck, soaking into the collar of my shirt.
But the thoughts don’t fade.
If anything, they sharpen.
Because tomorrow, I’ll see him again.
And I’ll have to pretend his pheromones don’t affect me the way they do. Pretend I’m not unraveling every time I’m near him. Pretend I’m not terrified of what this means.
The cold helps, but only a little.
The rest?
I’ll have to face that in the morning.
The next day is brighter than anything I’ve seen in a week. Golden sunlight spills through my window in thick, warm beams, cutting across my blankets and straight into my eyes. For a moment, I just lie there, blinking at the light, wrapped in warmth.
It feels safe. Almost peaceful.
Then I grab my phone.
9:00 a.m.
My stomach drops. “Shit.”
I bolt upright, blankets tangling around my legs. If I don’t move now, I’m going to be late. I launch myself out of bed and sprint to the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under it before the water is fully warm. Lukewarm spray hits my skin in uneven bursts, but I don’t have time to care. I scrub quickly, barely breathing, barely thinking.
In and out. Towel. Back to my room. Jeans. Long-sleeved shirt. Thermal layer. Socks. Boots. I drag everything on in a chaotic blur. My scarf ends up twisted. My coat hangs unevenly. My hat is crooked.
I grab my bag and rush out of the dorm hall without fixing any of it. The cold hits me like a slap. It’s brutal this morning — sharp enough to sting my cheeks and slice through fabric. The shock forces me to stop and tighten my scarf properly, tug my hat down, zip my coat all the way up.
I head to the cafeteria, grab a tray of food, and slide into my favorite quiet corner by the window.
I eat fast. Too fast. Barely tasting anything.
Because I am racing a clock.
As soon as I’m done, I layer back up — correctly this time — and bolt across campus. I weave through clusters of students, my breath puffing in frantic clouds.
By the time I slide into my seat in biology, the bell rings.
Perfect timing. Barely.
My chest rises and falls rapidly as I try to catch my breath.
I’m usually up earlier than this. Early enough to move slowly. To think clearly.
But last night—last night I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, thoughts of Professor Hale looping through my mind like a song I couldn’t turn off. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.
The way he looks at me. The way his control seems almost nonexistent. The way my body answers him without permission.
I had to fight myself not to give in to those thoughts.
Not to let them drift somewhere dangerous. Somewhere that would make it harder to look him in the eye.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged me under, but not until well past one in the morning. Now I inhale deeply, letting the breath out slowly as my heart begins to steady. I open my laptop.
Biology is easy to disappear into. Predictable. Structured.
Within minutes, I’m taking notes automatically. Cells. Systems. Terminology. Clean lines of logic that don’t blur or pulse or ache.
For a little while, everything else fades.
But only for a little while.
The next class passes in a blur — equations I’ve already memorized, concepts I could recite in my sleep. The monotony is almost comforting. It keeps my mind from drifting. From going where it always wants to go.
To him.
When the bell rings, I gather my things slowly.
Time to see him again. Time to smell him again.
My stomach tightens painfully.
I drag my feet across campus, not eager to subject myself to the torture of breathing him in and pretending it doesn’t undo me. Pretending I’m not starving for something I’m not allowed to have.
I reach the classroom five minutes early and go to step inside. His scent hits me before I’m fully through the door. It slams into me — warm, sweet, sharp. Like stepping into a kitchen where grapefruit has just been sliced open, where honey lingers thick in the air.
My breath catches. My knees nearly buckle.
Then I hear it.
A quiet sound from the front of the room — low, strained, almost pained.
My pulse spikes instantly.
I know that sound.
And then his scent shifts.
It deepens. Thickens. Spikes.
A pheromonal surge so potent it feels physical, curling around me like invisible hands.
Before I can stop myself, I inhale. Deeply. Like that breath is oxygen after drowning.
The scent floods my lungs, coats my senses, and settles beneath my skin. It’s vivid enough that I almost taste it — citrus-bright and sweet-warm. My tongue flicks out instinctively, brushing my lower lip.
I freeze.
Then I force myself to move.
I shake my head hard and walk to my seat. My legs feel unsteady, like the floor isn’t entirely solid. I set my bag down, open my laptop, and focus on the glow of the screen.
Pretend I’m fine. Pretend I’m not falling apart molecule by molecule.
I can feel him watching me. His gaze is tangible — warm, heavy, deliberate. It drags across my skin like a touch that never quite lands but leaves heat behind.
I don’t look at him. I can’t.
Every time our eyes meet, something inside me splinters. Something I’ve been holding together with nothing but stubborn will.
And I don’t know how much longer I can keep resisting whatever this is. Whatever we are.
I sit there, breathing him in despite myself, pretending I’m unaffected. Pretending I’m strong enough to maintain this distance.
But the truth presses in, undeniable.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.