Chapter 7 IRRESISTIBLE PULL.
CLARA'S POV:
“What… was that?” I muttered underneath my breath, spinning around like maybe the empty classroom would give me an answer. My brow furrowed, lips parted, a shiver crawling down my spine.
I didn’t understand why he had kept me here without saying a single word, without even hinting that he remembered last night.
And yet… somewhere deep down, a small part of me felt relief. Relief that he didn’t mention it. Relief that he didn’t make me confront it.
I didn’t even notice when a quiet sigh escaped me, swallowed instantly by the emptiness around me.
I moved toward the door, my fingers brushing against. the cool metal handle. The hallway that greeted me was deserted, eerily quiet. No footsteps. No voices. Not even the faint shuffle of a student.
My heels echoed against the floor, each step a reminder that I was completely alone, except for the lingering weight of him.
I could still feel him - the way he had looked at me, silent and piercing. His stare had stripped me bare, left me raw and exposed, and yet I couldn’t look away in my memory.
My stomach fluttered, my pulse jumped, and I had to bite my lip to keep from running. His intensity was maddening, and part of me hated that I wanted to stay in it.
I remembered the tilt of his head, the faint line of his jaw, the way his brows drew together when he focused on me.
My hands clenched the strap of my bag, curling around it tighter than necessary. I tugged at a loose strand of my hair, trying to shake it off, but the memory stayed.
His silence wasn’t empty - it was deliberate. Controlled. And it unsettled me in ways I couldn’t name.
The closer I got to my dorm, the faster my heartbeat increased. My chest felt tight, breaths shallow, and yet a faint, guilty smile tugged at my lips.
Relief. Confusion. And something else - something I wasn’t ready to admit.
I slid the key into the lock, stepped inside, and shut the door behind me. Finally, alone, I leaned against it and exhaled fully, letting myself feel the weight of everything.
But even here, in the quiet, I knew it. His eyes; silent, intense, and predatory, would not leave me so easily.
I sank onto my bed, letting my bag slump to the floor. My fingers drummed lightly against the quilt, restless, almost trembling.
Why did he have this much effect on me?
The memory of him - the way he had looked at me, the way his presence seemed to seep into every corner of my mind clung stubbornly, refusing to be ignored.
Why him? Why now? I wondered. No man had ever managed to swirl inside my head like this, not even Dylan. Not ever.
The thought of Dylan made my stomach twist unpleasantly, a tight, sour knot formed low in my chest. I shook my head sharply, as if physically banishing him from the room.
The memory - the bitter arguments, the cold silences, the way he had made me feel small - was heavy, and I didn’t want it here, not when my mind was already so crowded with this.
I exhaled slowly, trying to push the unwanted memory away, and my hand instinctively reached for my diary. It felt like the only lifeline I had right now.
Opening it, I traced the familiar smooth cover with my thumb before flipping to a blank page. Pen in hand, I felt a small measure of relief, like I was finally talking to someone who wouldn’t judge me,
Someone who would let me unravel without fear.
Why does he have this hold on me? I wrote, letting the words tumble freely. Why can’t I get him off my mind, when no one - no one - has ever made me feel like this?
I paused, resting my forehead against the page, my hair falling forward to shield me from my own reflection in the mirror.
My chest tightened, and I could feel my pulse racing in my neck, in my temples, like tiny drums echoing the chaos inside me.
I swallowed, tasting the faint metallic tang of adrenaline in my mouth.
He intrudes on every fiber of me, I scribbled next. Even when I try to think of anything else, making me feel… exposed. I don’t even know why. I don’t even know if I want to stop feeling this.
My hand moved faster, almost of its own accord, scrawling down everything I couldn’t say out loud.
The blush on my cheeks warmed to a prickling heat, my shoulders tensed, and my fingers gripped the pen like it was an anchor holding me steady in the storm of my thoughts and sensations.
I hate that I’m thinking about him this much. I hate that I remember the way he looked at me, that little flicker of attention that felt… too much, and yet not enough. And I hate that I want more.
I leaned back against the headboard, legs now stretched out in front of me, pen still poised.
My breath came in shallow bursts, and my eyes kept flicking to the ceiling, as if it might somehow offer answers that my mind refused to give.
But journaling felt like the only place I could confess all of it - the confusion, the pull, the desire, the fear - without consequence.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, I felt a little of the tension ebb away, though I knew deep down the effect he had on me wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever.
Just then, a sudden jolt of memory hit me like a bolt of lightning - sharp, electric, and impossible to ignore. Last night.
The way he had held and kissed me with that fierce, feverish intensity, like he couldn’t get enough, like every second without me had been agony.
My stomach twisted at the recollection, a mix of warmth, shame and disbelief, swirled inside me.
My hands flew to my cheeks.
Where did I even get that kind of nerve? Not just anyone… a stranger. Now my professor.
My pulse quickened at the thought, and I had to press my palms harder against my face, as if I could physically shove the memory back into some dark corner of my mind.
I could still see the way his eyes had held mine - intense, unflinching, claiming, and yet… vulnerable in the way only he could be.
The memory burned hotter when I remembered how I had looked back at him, dead in the eyes, in that empty classroom, feeling the flush of boldness surge through me as if I weren’t afraid at all.
And somehow… somehow, I had contained myself. I hadn’t run. I hadn’t screamed. I stayed.
And now, thinking about it, the embarrassment was almost unbearable. My cheeks felt hot enough to burn through my skin, and a soft, strangled groan escaped me.
How did I even do that? How did I manage to act so… audacious, so fearless?
I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to calm the storm of sensations - desire, shock, regret, curiosity - all mingling and refusing to settle.
My breathing came out, shallow and uneven, and I tugged at a loose strand of hair as if it could somehow untangle the mess inside me.
And then reality landed like a stone in my stomach. I’d see him again. This week. Next week. Probably every week for the semester. He was my literature professor now.
My plan, my only thought, crystalized immediately: Avoid him. Keep my distance. It was impossible. And the worst part? I knew the pull wouldn’t let me.
Every lecture, every classroom, every discussion - it would be him, that same magnetic, infuriating presence that had left me exposed and trembling.
And deep down, I knew that avoidance wouldn’t be easy. Not with him. Not ever.
I closed my diary with a snap, heart pounding. My plan was simple: Avoid him at all costs. But deep down, I knew I wouldn’t get to choose.
Because he was everywhere now.