Chapter 42 Lottie
Lottie
We’re about to be in February, and something is off with Professor Hale. It’s subtle enough that most people probably wouldn’t notice.
But I do.
He’s not sick. Not distracted in the normal, end-of-semester kind of way. It’s… heavier than that. Like he’s carrying something he can’t set down and doesn’t know how to share.
During lectures, he spaces out.
Not for long — just long enough.
A student will ask a question, and there’s this pause. His eyes go distant, unfocused, like he’s looking through the room instead of at it. Someone has to repeat his name once. Sometimes twice.
“Professor Hale?”
He’ll blink like he’s surfacing from a fog.
Then he answers perfectly. Clearly. Intelligently. As if he hadn’t just disappeared for a second.
But he had.
I see it every time.
There’s this far-off look in his eyes lately. Like he’s here physically — standing at the front of the classroom, writing on the board, adjusting his glasses — but somewhere else entirely at the same time.
It makes my chest tight in a way I don’t fully understand.
Because I know him. Or at least, I feel like I do.
He’s controlled. Precise. The kind of man who always seems ten steps ahead of whatever’s happening.
Seeing him look… unmoored?
It unsettles me.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been tempted more than once to pull him aside. To corner him after class. To find some excuse to be alone with him and just ask:
What’s going on?
Are you okay?
But every time the urge rises, something else pushes back.
It’s not my place. No matter how much I want it to be.
No matter how my body reacts when he walks past me. No matter how aware I am of the way his shoulders seem tighter lately, the way his jaw clenches when he thinks no one is watching.
I’m not entitled to his burdens. I’m not entitled to his thoughts. Because no matter how badly I want him to be, he isn’t my omega.
The thought is sharp. Bitter.
I try to push it away, but it lingers.
Because sometimes, when his gaze accidentally catches mine across the lecture hall, there’s something there.
Something strained. Something almost… aching.
And for a split second, it feels like whatever is weighing on him is somehow tied to me.
But that’s arrogant. Dangerous.
So I keep my distance. I take my notes.
I do the minimal tasks he assigns me — fewer than I expected this semester, if I’m being honest. He barely calls me into his office anymore. When he does, the door stays cracked open.
Professional. Careful.
Like we’re both pretending something didn’t almost happen.
Still, every time he drifts off mid-sentence, every time that faraway look clouds his eyes, the urge claws at me again.
Pull him somewhere private. Demand answers.
Make him look at me and tell me what’s wrong.
But I don’t.
Because no matter how much my instincts whisper otherwise—He isn’t mine.
A few more days pass. Nothing improves. If anything, Professor Hale seems worse.
More distracted. Quieter. Like something is building under his skin.
Then last night, my phone rang. His name flashed across the screen, and my stomach flipped immediately.
I let it ring once before answering, trying to sound normal. “Hello?”
His voice was lower than usual. Rough. “Lottie. I’m not feeling well. I need you to come by and pick up the classwork for tomorrow.”
Not feeling well.
The words didn’t quite match the tone. It wasn’t a cough or congestion I heard — it was something strained.
“Of course,” I said quickly.
He sent me his address. I stared at it for a full minute before grabbing my coat.
The drive over felt surreal. I’d never been to his house before. I’d never even imagined what it might look like. Professors exist in classrooms and offices — not in real, personal spaces with couches and kitchen counters.
When I pulled into his driveway, my heart was pounding.
I told myself it was just because I was somewhere new.
I knocked. A few seconds later, the door opened.
And there he was. Thick robe tied loosely at his waist. Hair slightly disheveled, like he’d run his hands through it too many times. No sweater. No pressed shirt. No polished, composed professor mask.
Just him. Soft. Comfortable. And unfairly cute.
“Hey,” he said quietly, stepping back to let me in.
I stepped inside cautiously, and the door shut behind me with a soft click.
And then it hit me.
His scent.
It flooded my senses immediately — rich and warm and distinctly him. Stronger than I’d ever noticed in class. This was his space. His walls. His air.
There was no mixture of other people’s traces. No other pheromones. No lingering perfume from passing students.
Just him.
My pulse kicked up.
It felt intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
He turned and walked into the living room, and I stayed near the entryway for a second, trying to steady my breathing.
I could see him moving around — the way the robe shifted with his steps, the casual familiarity of him in his own space. He bent slightly to grab a folder off the coffee table.
I shouldn’t have been staring. But I was.
There’s something vulnerable about seeing someone where they sleep. Where they exist without the world watching.
He walked back over and handed me the folder.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” he said. His voice was controlled again. “You can let them know you’re there to assist if they need it.”
I nodded, clutching the folder a little tighter than necessary. “Got it.”
Up close, I could see faint shadows under his eyes.
“You don’t look sick,” I almost said.
Instead, I swallowed it, saying, “I hope you feel better, Professor.”
For a split second, something flickered in his expression. Guilt? Frustration? Something deeper?
Then he gives me a small, reluctant smile.
“Thanks, Lottie,” he said softly. “Be safe getting home. Good night.”
I know when I’m being dismissed.
The word hung unspoken in the air.
I forced a smile back. “Good night, Professor.”
I stepped outside into the cold night air, and the door closed behind me.
But even as I walked back to my car, his scent clings to me.
And the heaviness in his eyes?
That followed me all the way home.