Chapter 19 Lottie
I make it through the class a little lightheaded from how often I have to hold my breath.
His scent swirls around me like a living thing — warm, sweet, bright — thick enough that I’m amazed no one else reacts. It clings to the air, settles into the fabric of the seats, wraps around my senses until I can’t tell where it ends, and I begin.
Once, I glance around, half-expecting someone to wrinkle their nose or shift uncomfortably. But everyone is focused. Pens scratching against paper. Fingers tapping on keyboards. Eyes trained on the front of the room.
Oblivious. Completely unaware of the storm I’m sitting in.
I look back toward the front just in time to catch Professor Hale’s eyes.
My breath stutters in my chest.
There’s something there — tension, restraint, something barely leashed.
I look away immediately.
Avoidance is the only thing keeping me sane. The only thing keeping me from coming undone in front of thirty other students.
I take as many notes as I can, though I’m only catching fragments of the lecture — isolated phrases that slip through the haze of his scent and the pounding of my pulse. My handwriting is uneven. Some words trail off entirely.
When the bell rings, I exhale in relief. But it’s short-lived.
“Lottie,” Professor Hale says.
His voice is steady, but softer than usual.
“If you don’t mind, can I see you in my office for a moment?”
My stomach drops.
Even as I nod, I know this is a terrible idea. Being alone with him is the last thing I should do. I should stay in open spaces, surrounded by other people, anywhere but behind a closed door with him.
But saying no would raise questions I can’t answer. So I gather my things slowly and wait by the door while he collects his. My heart beats harder with every passing second. When he steps into the hallway, I follow.
Each step tightens the coil inside me.
His office isn’t far, but the walk feels endless. The air between us is charged, humming, almost visible.
He opens the door and gestures for me to enter first. When he steps in behind me and shuts the door, the click echoes louder than it should. Something in me flinches.
I want to ask him to leave it open. I want to laugh and say this is ridiculous. I want to rewind the last five minutes entirely.
But the look on his face stops me. He wants privacy.
And that terrifies me more than the closed door.
I sit in the chair across from his desk. My hands rest in my lap, fingers curled tightly together.
He doesn’t sit. He leans against the edge of the desk instead.
Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough that his scent brushes against my skin like a physical touch.
I force myself to look up.
And freeze.
There’s heat in his eyes — raw, unguarded, stripped of the careful professionalism he wears in the classroom.
I clear my throat, but it doesn’t steady my voice. “Uh… what did you want to speak with me about, Professor?”
He inhales sharply.
The sound slides down my spine like a spark.
“Outside of the classroom,” he says quietly, “you can call me Patrick, Lottie.”
My name on his lips does something to me. Twists. Tightens.
But I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He straightens slightly, studying me fully now. No masks. No distance. “And why is that, Lottie?” His voice lowers further. “Are we going to keep ignoring whatever this is between us?”
My pulse jumps violently.
I swallow. “It’s best for both of us if we do. We can’t be involved. The rules are clear. So are the consequences.”
He nods slowly, gaze drifting to the floor as if weighing every word. “I know. But I think we should at least try to understand what this is. I’ve never felt anything like it.” His jaw tightens. “It’s… difficult to resist something so strong.”
My throat tightens.
“I know what you mean,” I admit. “But we have to keep things professional. It’s the only way to protect what we’ve both worked so hard for.”
He nods again, but this time there’s strain in the movement.
“I understand. That doesn’t make it easier.” His voice roughens. “I feel like I’m losing control of myself.”
His scent shifts — deepens, sharpens — overwhelming and thick.
A soft sound escapes me before I can stop it. Low. Frustrated. Wanting.
And then I’m moving.
I don’t think. I don’t decide. I just react.
One moment I’m sitting, and the next, I’m on my feet, closing the distance between us in a heartbeat.
He backs up instinctively until his shoulders meet the wall. The faint thud is swallowed by the silence.
Suddenly, I’m too close. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that his scent crashes into me like a tidal wave.
I lean in without fully realizing I am. My breath brushes his jaw. My nose traces the line of his throat, drawn there by instinct more than intention.
The scent is so clear here. So intoxicating.
It steals the strength from my knees.
A shiver runs through me at the nearness — at the contact that isn’t quite contact.
“You have no idea,” I whisper, voice hoarse and barely recognizable as my own, “how hard it’s been to control myself. It feels… impossible.”
The air between us crackles. Sharp. Electric. Undeniable.
And then I kiss him.
It isn’t planned. It isn’t careful. It’s instinct — overwhelming and immediate, like something inside me snaps and surges forward all at once.
The moment our lips meet, a jolt shoots through me — bright and startling. I gasp softly against his mouth.
He responds instantly.
The world narrows to heat and breath and the dizzying pull between us. His hand lifts as if to steady me — or himself — and the contact sends another shock through my system.
It feels like stepping on a live wire. Like gravity tilting. Like everything inside me has been waiting for this without my permission.
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
Seconds. Minutes. A lifetime compressed into a single reckless moment.
And then reality crashes in.
What we’ve done. Where we are. What this means.
I tear myself away.
The sudden distance is brutal — like stepping from extreme heat into extreme cold. I turn so fast I nearly stumble, grabbing my bag with shaking hands.
I don’t look at him. I can’t.
I slip out of his office and pull the door shut behind me. The click sounds final. Sharp.
The moment it closes, I suck in a breath as if I’ve been underwater.
I walk down the hall quickly, pulse hammering in my ears. My skin feels overheated. My lips tingle. My thoughts are nothing but static and sensation.
I’m late.
The bell has already rung.
Not good.
More eyes. More attention.
I push into Chemistry and offer the professor a sheepish smile before ducking my head and sliding into my seat beside Sandy.
She immediately turns toward me, eyebrows raised, eyes sharp.
“Where were you?” she whispers. “I didn’t see you in the hallway. I thought you weren’t coming. And you didn’t answer my text. Is everything okay?”
Her voice is soft.
But it feels like a spotlight.
I force a breath that I hope sounds casual. “Yeah, everything’s good. I just had to help Professor Hale for a few extra minutes. That’s why I’m late.”
The lie tastes thin.
Fragile. But it’s all I have.
The truth is too big. Too dangerous. Too impossible to say out loud.
Sandy studies me for a second longer than I’d like — long enough that I wonder if she can sense the adrenaline still clinging to my skin. Or see the faint tremor in my hands as I pull out my notebook.
But eventually, she nods and turns back to the front.
I try to do the same.
I open my notebook. Focus on the board. Listen to the lecture.
But my mind is still in that office.
Still pressed against that wall.
Still caught in heat and scent and electricity.
Still replaying the exact moment everything inside me snapped.
I force my breathing to slow. Force my hands to steady. Force my eyes to track the equations on the board.
But underneath all of that, one truth hums like a live wire beneath my skin:
I am not okay.
And I have no idea how I’m going to get through this class without collapsing into a boneless heap.
Though I am grateful—desperately grateful—that it’s the last class of the day.