Chapter 26 Patrick
Patrick
Time has passed — quietly, almost without my permission.
Days folding into weeks. Weeks slipping into a month and a half. The semester inching toward winter break, while I’ve been too preoccupied to notice the calendar turning. Too busy burying instinct beneath policy. Too busy convincing myself that logic is enough.
Lottie has been my TA for six weeks.
Six weeks of careful distance. Six weeks of rehearsed professionalism. Six weeks of walking a tightrope strung so tightly between us I can feel the strain in my bones.
I’ve become meticulous. Strategic.
I choose public spaces before she even suggests them. The café with its constant hiss of steam wands and clatter of ceramic cups. The library where whispers and fluorescent lights flatten everything into something sterile and safe. The open study lounge where students drift in and out, a living buffer zone of witnesses.
Anywhere but my office. Anywhere but behind a closed door. Anywhere but alone.
I frame it as practicality — convenience, accessibility, transparency.
But it’s a fortress.
Built from logistics, boundaries, and deliberate choices.
And Lottie… she seems grateful.
Every time we sit across from each other in public, I see it. The subtle easing of her shoulders. The quiet exhale like she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. The flicker of relief in her eyes when there’s a table between us and the world watching.
She needs me to hold the line.
That realization is what keeps me steady.
Because I can see how hard she’s fighting. I can see the way her jaw tightens when our hands brush over a stack of papers. The way her voice goes slightly uneven if I lean too close. The way she redirects conversations before they drift into personal territory.
She is trying.
And she stands to lose everything.
Her future is bright — earned through discipline, sacrifice, and intelligence that turns heads in faculty meetings. I’ve read her transcripts. I’ve watched her work. She is capable of something extraordinary.
I refuse to be the reason she burns it down.
So I stay steady. I stay distant. I stay the adult in the room — even when it feels like I’m holding back a tide with my bare hands.
Because if one of us has to be strong, it has to be me.
All of it unravels on a Friday afternoon, three days before Christmas break. The campus is half-empty already. Hallways echo. The air carries that restless, pre-holiday hum.
I ask her to follow me to my office to grab a stack of papers that need copying. Routine. Quick. Harmless.
I’ve done everything right for weeks.
I unlock the door, step inside, already reaching for the folder on my desk.
And I don’t see the chair. Or I see it, but I'm not paying enough attention.
My foot catches the leg.
I stumble forward hard, momentum pitching me into the desk. My palms slam against the wood, breath knocked clean from my lungs. The edge bites into my hips as I brace myself.
For a split second, I just feel embarrassed.
Then the air changes. It shifts — thickens — like pressure building before a storm breaks.
I feel it before I hear anything.
Her scent spikes — sharp and hot and immediate. It hits me like stepping into a snow-covered pine forest at dusk: cold air, resin, something wild and alive beneath it. The association is instant, primal, involuntary.
My body reacts before my mind catches up.
The door slams shut behind me. The sound cracks through the room — final, decisive.
Then I hear it.
A sound pulled from somewhere deep in her chest. Not quite a growl. Not quite a whine. Something instinctive. Something stripped of language.
Before I can turn, she’s there.
Her presence at my back.
Her heat.
She slams into me — not violently, but with unmistakable intent. Her body presses flush against mine, eliminating the air between us. The contact ignites something electric along my spine, tingles racing outward so fast my knees nearly buckle.
Every accidental brush over the past six weeks has felt like striking flint.
This is a bonfire.
Her lips press against the back of my neck — warm, deliberate.
A shudder tears through me. A sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. I try to push upright, to create space, to regain control.
But she’s stronger than she looks.
And she doesn’t move.
“Lottie,” I manage, breath fractured. “We can’t. You have to fight it.”
Her forehead presses against my shoulder blades. I can feel her shaking.
“I—” Her voice frays. “I can’t.”
A beat. Then, quieter. Raw. “No. I don’t want to.”
The words land like a physical blow.
Because I understand. Because every cell in my body is screaming to turn around. To grip her hips. To give in. To stop pretending I’m built from something sturdier than desire.
For one dizzying second, I imagine it — surrender. Dropping to my knees. Letting instinct take over. Letting her claim the space between us and everything else.
But reality crashes back in.
Tenure committees. Ethics boards. Headlines. Her transcript stained permanently. My career obliterated. Years of work reduced to a cautionary tale.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force air into my lungs.
“This ends badly,” I grit out. “For you and me.”
My resistance finally registers.
She jerks back with a frustrated, guttural sound — a noise of thwarted instinct and raw emotion. The sudden loss of her weight leaves me unsteady, overbalanced in the opposite direction.
I straighten slowly, hands trembling as I adjust my clothes. My pulse thunders in my ears. My skin still burns where she touched me.
When I turn, she’s not looking at me.
Her gaze is fixed on the floor. Jaw clenched so tightly I can see the muscle ticking. Shoulders rigid.
It’s not avoidance. It’s survival.
She knows if she meets my eyes, whatever fragile control she’s clawed back might snap.
“Lottie.” My voice sounds scraped thin. I grab the papers with hands that are steadier than I feel. “Take these. You should go.”
She steps forward like every movement is calculated. She takes the stack without lifting her gaze.
Our fingers brush.
Just a second.
It feels like touching a live wire.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. Soft. Fragile. Almost swallowed by the silence.
Then she turns, opens the door, and slips out. She closes it carefully behind her — gently, like she’s afraid a louder sound might shatter the last barrier we’ve managed to rebuild.
The latch clicks.
And I collapse back against my desk.
My breath comes in uneven pulls. My hands grip the edge of the wood until my knuckles burn white. The room feels too small. Too warm. Saturated with the ghost of her scent.
One stumble. One closed door. One moment of instinct unchecked.
And six weeks of discipline nearly dissolved.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm there.
I cannot let this happen again.
I cannot let her sacrifice her future because I wasn’t strong enough.
But as I stand there — shaken, overheated, hollowed out — a heavier truth settles in.
I don’t know how many more close calls I can survive.
Not when she feels like gravity. Not when every instinct in me is begging to yield. Not when I’m no longer sure whether I’m fighting her… Or fighting myself.