Chapter 16
Stella:
I took a breath, trying to steady myself. My hands were still shaking—from adrenaline, from fear, from the image of that man's hands on me and Noah's blood on the pavement. But I couldn't let him see that. Couldn't let him think that what he'd done tonight had affected me in any way beyond professional concern.
"Because you're nineteen years old," I said finally, my voice coming out sharper than I'd intended. "You're my student. You're not responsible for protecting me."
The words hung in the air between us, sterile and professional in the too-bright examination room. Noah's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, maybe, or frustration.
I stood up abruptly, grabbing my bag from the plastic chair. "It's late. I should get you back to campus."
"Professor—"
"The doctor said you need rest." I was already moving toward the door, needing to escape the confined space, the weight of his gaze, the question I didn't want to answer. "Come on."
He followed without argument, which somehow made it worse. The Noah I'd gotten used to would have pushed back, would have challenged me with some clever retort about academic hierarchies or professional boundaries. This quiet compliance felt like defeat.
We walked through the health center in silence, past the tired resident doing paperwork at the front desk, out into the parking lot. The cool night air hit my face, a relief after the antiseptic staleness inside. Street lamps cast pools of orange light across the pavement, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the faint sound of music from a late-night party.
I unlocked the car. We both got in. I started the engine, adjusted the mirrors, pulled out of the parking spot. All normal, mechanical actions that required no thought.
Noah sat in the passenger seat, holding the compress to his cheek, not speaking.
The silence felt different now. Heavier. Like something had shifted between the examination room and here, and I didn't know how to shift it back.
We were halfway back to campus when I heard him shift in his seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him glance at me, then at the road ahead, then back at me. He was working up to something.
"So," he said finally, his voice deliberately light, "do I get extra credit for tonight's performance?"
I blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. "Excuse me?"
"I mean, defending my professor from drunk creeps wasn't on the syllabus, but I figured it's worth at least a few participation points." He adjusted the ice pack, and I caught the hint of a smile tugging at his swollen lip. "What do you say, Professor? Bonus points for heroics?"
Despite everything, despite the knot of tension still lodged in my chest, I felt my mouth twitch. "Mr. Carter, this is not a joke."
"I'm not joking. I'm negotiating." He shifted in his seat, turning to face me more fully. "Come on, Professor. You have to admit, my conflict resolution skills were top-notch. Very hands-on approach. Literally."
"Your conflict resolution skills involved getting punched in the face."
"Minor detail." He waved his uninjured hand dismissively. "The important thing is that I successfully neutralized the threat. That's got to count for something in a psychology class, right? Fight or flight response? I chose fight. Very primal. Very textbook."
I felt something loosen in my chest, the worry and guilt and confusion that had been suffocating me since I'd seen him bleeding starting to unravel. He was doing this on purpose, I realized. Making jokes, keeping his tone light, trying to ease the tension I'd created with my sharp words in the examination room.
"You're impossible," I said, but my voice came out softer than I'd intended.
"I prefer 'dedicated to my education.'" He pressed the ice pack more firmly against his cheek, wincing slightly. "See? I'm even icing my face like the doctor said. That's got to be worth at least partial credit."
"Icing your face is not an academic achievement."
"It is if you're studying pain management." He grinned, then immediately regretted it based on the way he sucked in a sharp breath. "Okay, note to self—don't smile with a split lip. That's definitely going in my research notes."
I shook my head, but I couldn't quite suppress the small smile pulling at my lips. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're starting to relax." His voice was quieter now, more serious despite the playful words. "That's good. You've been gripping that steering wheel pretty tight since we left."
My fingers loosened slightly. I hadn't even realized how tense I'd been until he'd pointed it out. Until he'd made me almost laugh with his absurd jokes about extra credit and research notes.
He'd been trying to make me feel better. To pull me out of whatever spiral I'd been falling into.
The realization made my throat tight for an entirely different reason.
We turned onto the street leading toward campus, the familiar route I'd driven countless times. The late-night traffic was sparse, just the occasional car passing by. Through the open window, I could smell the salt air from the ocean, hear the distant sound of waves.
"You know," Noah said as we pulled into the student housing area, "if I'd known getting punched would make you personally chauffeur me around campus, I might've picked a fight sooner. Much more efficient than waiting for office hours."
"That's not funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny. I'm trying to establish a new precedent. Professor Morrison's Emergency Taxi Service. Available for all students who take a hit defending her honor." He paused. "Though preferably just me. I don't like competition."
I shot him a look as I pulled into a parking spot outside West Suites. "You shouldn't have done that."
"We've established this already, Professor." The lightness in his voice faded slightly, replaced by something more genuine. "But if it makes you feel better, I promise to fill out the proper paperwork next time. Maybe submit a request form. 'Dear Professor Morrison, I'm planning to punch someone on your behalf this Friday. Please approve.'"
"There won't be a next time."
"Right. Because you're going to avoid all drunk assholes from now on." He unbuckled his seatbelt, fumbling slightly with his injured hand. "Good plan. Very realistic."
I watched him struggle with the clasp for a few seconds before reaching over to help. Our hands brushed, and he went very still.
"Sorry," I muttered, pulling back quickly. "You were having trouble."
"I know." His voice was soft. "Thank you."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He opened the door and stepped out, moving with careful deliberation. I should have let him walk into his building alone. Should have driven away.
Instead, I found myself getting out of the car.
"Professor?"