Chapter 24 Lottie
Time passes — slowly and quickly all at once, in that strange, distorted way life does when you’re trying very hard not to feel something.
Before I knew it, I had been a TA for a month.
A month of pretending. A month of breathing carefully. A month of walking a tightrope stretched tight between instinct and responsibility.
We manage to keep things professional.
Painfully professional.
Every meeting is public — the campus café with its constant hiss of espresso machines, the library where whispers drift like a protective curtain, the open study lounge where the low hum of other students acts as a buffer between us. There is always someone nearby. Always noise. Always witnesses.
We never allow ourselves to be alone again.
It becomes the only rule that matters.
And we cling to it like it’s the only thing keeping us upright.
But it’s hard. Harder than I ever imagined it would be.
Being around him in public grates on my nerves in a way I can’t quite explain. It feels like trying to hold a calm conversation while standing next to a speaker blasting static — everything distorted, everything buzzing beneath the surface.
Every time he leans over the table to point something out in a textbook. Every time his voice lowers just slightly because we’re in a quiet space. Every time I catch the faint warmth of his breath when he speaks too close. Every time his scent drifts toward me in a soft, unintentional wave.
Something inside me jolts. Sharp. Immediate. Impossible to ignore.
And beneath all my careful restraint, one thought pulses, low and dangerous:
I want him alone. All to myself.
Even as I know that should never happen.
But Professor Hale is the adult.
The responsible one.
The one who understands the stakes in a way that cuts through the noise of my instincts.
And he proves it — over and over again.
He is meticulous. He arranges meetings in open spaces. He leaves doors open. He keeps physical distance even when it’s visibly uncomfortable. He never lets silence stretch long enough to become charged.
He redirects conversations the moment they drift toward anything personal. He maintains that careful, academic tone — precise, neutral, controlled.
He is steady where I’m not. Disciplined where I falter. Determined in a way that makes me both grateful and painfully aware of what we’re denying ourselves.
Sometimes, when he thinks I’m not looking, I catch it.
The strain. The tightness around his eyes. The way he presses his lips together before speaking, like he’s holding something back. The slight hesitation before he steps closer to point at a page, as if measuring the distance with invisible lines.
He feels it too.
The pull. The tension. The thing neither of us has named.
But he never lets it linger.
He straightens. Clears his throat. Slips back into the role he’s supposed to play — professor, mentor, adult in control.
And I follow his lead.
Because I have to. Because my future depends on it. Because one reckless moment could undo everything I’ve worked for.
Still, some nights, when I’m lying awake staring at the ceiling while shadows stretch across my dorm room walls, I can’t help thinking:
If he hadn’t drawn the line so firmly…
I’m not sure I would have had the strength to draw it myself.
And that thought both relieves me and terrifies me.
It isn’t until a couple of weeks later that I finally feel like I can take a real breath. Not the shallow, measured kind I’ve been surviving on.
A real one.
Sandy talks me into going to another frat party. I hesitate at first, but something in me is tired of living in careful restraint. Tired of being wound tight. Tired of feeling like I exist only in reaction to something I’m trying to suppress.
This time, I decide I’m going to make the most of it.
I’m going to have fun. I’m going to loosen up. Maybe even get pleasantly blurry around the edges.
We’re in my dorm room when Sandy takes over my closet like it’s a treasure hunt. I let her pick my outfit because left to my own devices, I’m a jeans-and-sweater girl. Sneakers. Neutral colors. Nothing that draws attention.
Sandy, on the other hand, looks like she was born knowing how to dress for a party. Tonight she’s wearing a black mini skirt and a halter top that leaves her shoulders bare despite the winter chill. I don’t know how she manages it.
“Mind over matter,” she says with a grin when I point out the temperature. I suspect she’s just immune to cold when cuteness is involved.
She rummages through my closet with dramatic flair before pulling out a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans and a long-sleeved sequined crop top I bought impulsively months ago and never dared to wear.
I’d forgotten it existed.
Under the overhead light, it shimmers like it’s been waiting patiently for this exact moment.
I change, tugging the jeans into place and smoothing the top over my skin. When I turn toward the mirror, I pause.
Oh.
The jeans hug my legs perfectly, accentuating lines I usually ignore. The sequined top catches the light every time I shift, glittering with quiet confidence. It hugs my torso in a way that feels bold but not overdone.
Sandy steps behind me with my flatiron before I can protest. She works quickly, teasing soft waves into my shoulder-length honey-blonde hair. When she’s done, the curls frame my face gently, softening the sharpness I didn’t know was there.
She steps back dramatically.
I barely recognize the girl staring back at me.
I look… good.
Not just decent. Not just acceptable. Hot. Like someone who belongs at a party. Like someone who might walk into a room and actually enjoy the attention instead of shrinking from it.
A slow, surprised smile curves my lips.
For the first time in weeks, I don’t look weighed down.
I turn to Sandy. “Ready to go?”
She squeals — actually squeals — bouncing on her toes. “Yes! You look so hot right now. I cannot wait to see everyone’s reaction.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Her excitement is contagious, bright, and uncomplicated in a way that feels like sunlight after weeks of gray.
I glance at the clock.
“Ten-thirty,” I say. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Sandy grabs her coat, still grinning like she’s unveiling a masterpiece.
Maybe she is.
I take one last look in the mirror before we leave.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel defined by longing or restraint or the constant pressure of pretending I’m unaffected by something that shakes me to my core.
Tonight, I’m just Lottie. A girl going to a party with her best friend. A girl who looks good — and knows it.
And for one brief, shimmering moment, that feels like enough.