Chapter 16 Patrick
I finish in the shower, deliberately ignoring the way my body reacts to that imagined scent — that impossible, lingering echo of her. My muscles tense. My pulse stutters. Heat curls low in my abdomen.
She’s not here. She never was. And she never will be.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra as I rinse the last of the soap from my skin.
She can’t be here. Not now. Not ever.
People say never say never, but I don’t have the luxury of that kind of hope. Hope implies possibility. Possibility implies temptation. Temptation implies failure.
So I don’t say never. I say can’t. She can’t be here. It would be disastrous. For her. For me. For everything I’ve built.
I shut off the water and step out, grabbing a towel and drying myself briskly — almost harshly — as if I can scrub the thoughts from my skin. As if friction alone could erase the memory of pine and winter air and the way my body instinctively responds.
I dress in the clothes I laid out last night. The uniform. Button-down. Sweater. Slacks. Loafers.
Professional. Predictable.
Layers of normalcy draped over something far less controlled.
When I’m done, I shrug into my coat and wrap my scarf tight around my throat. Gloves. Keys. Phone. Armor.
Against the cold. Against myself.
The moment I step outside, winter greets me like an adversary. The air is sharp enough to sting my lungs, wind slicing down the quiet street with a metallic bite. Winter arrived too early this year, and somehow it feels personal — as though the season itself has aligned against me.
Each breath crystallizes in front of me. Each step crunches over brittle frost. The cold settles into my bones, into my marrow.
I walk quickly to my car, grateful for the physical discomfort. It anchors me. Reminds me the world is still moving, still indifferent to the storm gathering inside my chest. But even as I focus on the bite of the air and the stiffness in my fingers, one thought threads through everything else:
If I can smell her when she’s nowhere near me…What happens when she is?
And why does part of me feel — with dreadful certainty — that the moment is coming when I won’t be able to resist the pull?
I arrive at the classroom before any students do, and the relief that washes over me is almost embarrassing.
Silence. Neutral air. A space untouched. For a few more minutes, the room is mine.
I cling to that quiet like it’s oxygen.
I gather the stack of worksheets for today’s lesson and move methodically down each row, placing one at every desk. The repetitive motion steadies me. Paper against wood. Step. Place. Step. Place.
It gives my hands something to do. Something other than tremble.
When I finish, I return to the desk at the front and sit. I draw in a slow breath and release it carefully.
I’ll be fine. I can handle this. I can handle her.
I repeat it as if repetition alone can forge truth.
But the reality is, I’m already frayed at the edges. It’s only the second week. The second week of knowing her. And I feel wound so tight it’s painful. There isn’t much further to stretch before something gives.
I rub my palms against my slacks, grounding myself in the texture.
The room remains quiet, but it feels like the stillness before a storm — the kind of silence that makes your skin prickle because you know what’s coming.
Any minute now, the door will open. Any minute now, the students will file in. Any minute now, she will walk through that doorway.
And the moment she does, everything inside me will shift.
The air will change. My pulse will spike.
Her scent will hit me like a physical force.
I know it. I dread it.
I crave it.
I lean back and close my eyes briefly, trying to gather the scattered pieces of myself before the day begins. But even in the quiet, even in the emptiness, there’s a hum beneath my skin.
Anticipation. Electric. Like my body already knows she’s near. Like it’s waiting.
And that terrifies me most of all. Because I don’t know how long I can hold out against something this strong.
And yet I have to. The rules aren’t optional. The boundaries aren’t flexible. I cannot blur them. I will not blur them. I have to stay away from my students. Not students, plural. Just one.
Her.
I press my palms against my eyes until stars bloom behind them. I have to be stronger than this. Not just for myself — but for her. I won’t be the reason her academic future derails. I won’t be the cautionary tale whispered in faculty meetings. I won’t become the man who lets instinct override integrity.
Still… I may be getting ahead of myself. There’s no guarantee anything will happen.
Nothing is promised. Nothing is set in stone. Even if sometimes it feels like it is.
Sometimes it feels absolute — carved into bone, written into marrow. Like something fundamental has shifted, and no amount of willpower can undo it. Like fighting gravity.
The door opens.
Students begin to file in, their chatter filling the room in fragments. I straighten immediately, professional mask snapping into place. I offer nods. Small smiles.
Routine. Structure. Distance.
I cling to each like a lifeline.
Five minutes before class begins, the air shifts.
It’s subtle at first.
A prickle along my arms. A faint hum under my skin.
The atmosphere tightening like it does before lightning splits the sky.
Then her scent hits me.
Not softly. Not gradually. It crashes over me in a wave — crisp and cold and devastatingly familiar. Fresh pine crushed under snow. Winter air sharp enough to sting.
It fills the room. Fills my lungs. Fills me.
She steps inside.
A quiet sound escapes me — too quiet for anyone else, but far too loud in my own ears. Every muscle in my body locks with the effort it takes to remain seated. To not rise. To not cross the room. To not close the distance and breathe her in like survival depends on it.
I grip the edge of my desk until my knuckles pale.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
All I can do is hold myself rigid and pray no one notices the shift — the way the air around me feels charged. The way my composure thins, and my pheromones spike. The way instinct claws against restraint.
Because she’s here.
And every part of me reacts as if that single fact is enough to rewrite the laws I’ve lived by my entire life.