Chapter 20 Patrick
Patrick
The door clicks shut behind her, and the sound hits me like a physical blow.
For a long moment, I just stand there, staring at the wood grain as if it might shift and undo what just happened. My breathing is uneven — too fast, too shallow — like I’ve just sprinted up a flight of stairs.
My pulse is still hammering. My skin is still buzzing.
The air in the room is thick with her scent — winter-sharp and pine-clean, edged with something warmer beneath it. Something soft. Something dangerously inviting.
It clings to everything. To the walls. To my clothes. To me.
I drag a hand over my face.
What just happened?
I push off the wall, but my legs feel unsteady, like they’re not entirely convinced they can hold me. I brace myself against the edge of my desk, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles ache.
I can still feel the ghost of her breath against my throat. The warmth of her body crowding into mine. The electric hum that seemed to spark the moment she stepped into my space.
I swallow hard.
It does nothing.
I’ve never—no one has ever—nothing has ever hit me like that.
Not in college. Not in grad school. Not in any relationship I’ve ever had. I’ve known attraction. I’ve known desire. I’ve known heat.
This wasn’t that. This was something else. Something primal. Something that bypassed thought entirely.
I inhale carefully — and immediately regret it.
Her scent is still here.
It spikes something low in my chest, something instinctive and sharp that I cannot reason with. My body reacts before my mind has time to intervene.
I force myself to breathe through my mouth.
Slow. Measured. Until the worst of the reaction dulls.
Barely.
I sink into my chair and lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, hands clasped at the back of my neck.
My thoughts are a mess — tangled and frantic, replaying the exact moment she stood, the exact moment I felt myself tipping toward something I shouldn’t want.
Something I absolutely cannot have.
I should have stopped her sooner. I should have stepped away. I should have reminded her — and myself — of the line we cannot cross.
But the truth is brutal in its clarity:
I didn’t want to stop her. Not for a single second.
When she leaned in, when her breath brushed my skin, when she whispered that she was losing control—I wanted it.
I exhale shakily.
I need to get control. I need to think. I need to remember who I am.
I am a professor. An adult. A man who understands consequences. A man who has built his career carefully, deliberately, over years of discipline and restraint.
Someone who should be stronger than this. But the moment she touched me — even indirectly, even just proximity — everything rational in me short-circuited.
The suppressants might as well have been sugar pills.
That realization chills me more than the winter wind ever could.
I sit up slowly and press my palms flat against my thighs, grounding myself in the pressure.
I glance toward the door she walked through.
She left in a rush.
I could feel it — her restraint fraying just as badly as mine. The way she tore herself away. The panic under it.
This isn’t sustainable. This isn’t typical. This isn’t something I can ignore anymore.
I need answers. I need to talk to Dr. Marin.
I need something — anything — that explains why being near her feels like standing on the edge of a cliff with loose gravel under my shoes. One wrong shift and I’m falling.
I straighten my clothes, smooth my hands over my hair, and force my breathing into something that resembles normal.
I have to pretend I’m fine. I have to pretend nothing happened. I have to pretend I’m still in control.
Even though, for the first time in my life, I’m not sure that’s true.
The cold outside is brutal. The wind cuts straight through my coat like it has a personal vendetta. It feels almost corrective — like the world is trying to snap me back into alignment.
Good. I deserve the sting.
I walk quickly to my car and slide into the driver’s seat, shutting the door with a solid thud that seals me into silence.
For a moment, I just sit there, hands on the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.
I start the engine. Cool air spills from the vents, washing over my overheated skin.
It helps. A little.
After a few minutes, the air warms, and I feel myself thawing in a way that unsettles me. Like something inside me froze the moment she stepped into my space — froze in shock, in intensity — and now it’s melting slowly, painfully.
I grip the steering wheel harder.
I shouldn’t have let it get that far.
I shouldn’t have let myself lean into it.
I shouldn’t have—I cut the thought off before it spiraled into something useless.
Regret won’t undo it.
I drive carefully, hyperaware of every turn, every stoplight, every pedestrian crossing the street. I focus on mechanics. On routine.
Anything to keep my mind from replaying the moment her lips touched mine.
But the memory pushes through anyway.
Her breath. Her nearness.
The faint tremor in her voice.
The way the air seemed to hum between us like a live wire.
By the time I pull into my driveway, my pulse is still uneven.
I shut off the engine and sit there in the darkening quiet, hands resting uselessly in my lap.
The silence is too loud.
Everything replays again.
The scent.
The heat.
The way I almost forgot who I was.
I exhale shakily and pull my phone from my pocket.
Dr. Marin.
I press her contact. The ringing stretches long and a bit loud in the enclosed space of the car. Each tone tightens something in my chest.
Voicemail. Again.
When the tone sounds, I open my mouth — and my voice catches.
I clear my throat. “Dr. Marin, I… I really need to talk to you. Please call me back as soon as you can.”
A pause.
“I don’t know what to do.”
The last part comes out quieter than I intend. Almost a confession.
I disconnect and let the phone fall into my lap.
For a long moment, I just sit there.
Then I force myself out of the car and into the house. Inside, I lock the door behind me and make my way to the couch. My legs feel heavy, like I’m wading through something thick and invisible.
I sink into the cushions and let my head fall back.
I’ve been here before.
Not like this. But close.
Since meeting Lottie, I’ve found myself in this exact position too many times — drained, overwhelmed, trying to understand something that doesn’t fit into any framework I know.
Something I am increasingly certain I have no control over.
And that thought terrifies me.
Sleep takes me faster than I expect.
One moment I’m staring at the ceiling, replaying every second in my office, and the next I’m dropping into darkness so heavy it feels like a blackout. No dreams. No images.
Just nothing.
When I wake, the room is pitch black. For a few disoriented seconds, I don’t know where I am. My neck aches. My back protests. My limbs feel stiff from being curled in the same position for hours.
I reach for the lamp and flick it on. Warm light spills across the room.
I blink against it and exhale slowly.
My body feels heavy, like I’ve been carrying something too large for too long.
And immediately — without hesitation — my mind goes to her.
As if it has nowhere else it wants to land.
I rub a hand over my face, but even now, hours later, I can almost smell her.
Faint. Ghostlike. Lingering at the edges of my senses.
It makes my chest tighten.
I can’t let today happen again.
I know the rules. I know the consequences. I know exactly what’s at stake — her education, my career, both of our reputations.
I have to take steps.
I have to put distance between us.
I have to regain control before this spirals into something neither of us can survive professionally.
But even as I think it, another truth rises quietly beneath it.
Softer. More dangerous.
If I’m honest with myself, I want it to happen again.
The thought lands like a stone in my stomach.
And I don’t know what frightens me more:
That it happened. Or that part of me is already waiting for it to happen again.