Chapter 43 Patrick
Patrick
It’s been a couple of weeks since I sat in Dr. Marin’s sunroom and had my entire understanding of biology — and autonomy — quietly dismantled.
And I’ve done exactly what I accuse my students of doing when faced with uncomfortable truths.
I’ve avoided it.
I feel like an ostrich with its head buried in the sand.
If I don’t look at it directly, maybe it won’t solidify. Maybe it’ll stay theoretical. Abstract. Something that applies to other people in case studies and journal articles — not to me. Not to us.
Anything to make it feel less real.
I should talk to Lottie. That thought surfaces at least once a day. Sometimes more.
I should tell her what Dr. Marin said. Tell her what the symptoms mean. Tell her what the timeline implies.
But instead, I avoid the subject like it’s contagious.
I avoid being alone with her. I avoid eye contact for too long. I avoid silence in enclosed spaces.
As if distance alone will neutralize biology.
It doesn’t.
It’s never far from my mind.
In class, I drift. Mid-sentence, mid-explanation — my thoughts slide sideways into calculations.
When did we first touch?
How many weeks has it been?
How close are we to three months?
I’ll hear my name faintly through the fog.
“Professor Hale?”
It takes a second. Then another.
And I surface, blinking, forcing myself back into the present.
Every time, I catch her watching me.
Lottie. Her gaze isn’t casual anymore. It’s searching. Concerned. Curious.
I can almost feel how badly she wants to know what’s going on.
She’s perceptive. She always has been. She notices the tension in my shoulders, the way my answers come a half-second too slow.
I can tell she’s itching to corner me, to pull me aside after class. To demand an explanation for the way I’ve been acting.
And part of me almost wishes she would.
Force the conversation. Break the stalemate.
But she doesn’t. And neither do I.
Because what would I even say?
Hello, Lottie. According to emerging biological research, you are my fated mate, and we have a three-month deadline before instinct overrides free will.
The words feel absurd before they even reach my throat.
I imagine trying to explain it and the sentences tangling on my tongue. I’d sound unhinged. Delusional.
Why is it so hard to tell someone they’re your fated mate?
Probably because I don’t fully believe it myself. Or maybe I don’t want to believe it.
If I reject the premise, then I’m not on a clock. If I deny the mechanism, then there’s no inevitability.
But denial hasn’t stopped the symptoms.
It hasn’t dulled the pull. It hasn’t quieted the way my body reacts when she’s near.
And then there’s the part that unsettles me most—The idea that the decision could be taken from me. From us.
Who put fate in charge?
Who decided biology gets to override consent if ignored long enough?
I don’t recall signing any contract surrendering my free will.
Why must we abide by what “fate” says?
The questions loop endlessly, each one feeding the next.
They’re the reason I haven’t spoken to her. Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real. Real means a countdown. Real means responsibility. Real means choosing — or being chosen for.
Maybe, if I’m honest, I’m waiting. Waiting to see if what Dr. Marin said will actually happen. Waiting to see if the pressure builds. If the suppressants fail entirely. If my control starts to crack.
As long as nothing catastrophic happens, I can keep pretending this is manageable.
But every time I look at Lottie—every time our eyes meet and something electric passes between us—I know one thing.
The sand is shifting.
And I can’t keep my head buried forever.
A few days later — on a quiet Sunday morning — I call Lottie and tell her I’m sick.
My voice is measured. Controlled. Just a touch rougher than usual for effect. “I won’t make it in tomorrow,” I tell her. “I’ll need you to pick up the classwork.”
She pauses on the other end of the line. Just a second too long.
“Of course, professor,” she says gently.
But I can hear it — the skepticism wrapped in concern.
The truth is, I’m not sick.
Not in the way she thinks.
What I am is overwhelmed.
I need distance. A break.
Space to breathe without feeling like my skin is too tight for my body.
I only see her three times a week. Three lectures. A handful of office hours. Accidental brushes in hallways. It shouldn’t feel like so much.
And yet, every time she’s near me, instinct claws up my spine, urging me closer. Urging me to close the gap. Urging me to touch.
To bare my neck.
To—
I shut the thought down before it finishes forming.
That’s exactly why I’m doing this.
Because lately, fighting the instinct to drag her into my lap and lose myself in her scent feels like a full-time job. It’s exhausting. My control feels thinner by the day.
So I sent her my address and waited. The waiting is worse than I expected.
When her car finally pulls into the driveway, my pulse kicks up as if I’ve just run a mile. I take a steadying breath before opening the door.
She stands there on the porch, bundled against the cold, hair slightly wind-tousled. Her cheeks are pink from the winter air.
God.
I step aside quickly. “Come in.”
She walks past me, and her scent — soft, warm, unmistakably hers — threads through the air and wraps around my senses. It tangles with mine, fills the space.
This is a mistake.
This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.
I turn before she can read that realization on my face and head straight to the living room, grabbing the folder from the coffee table. I keep my movements efficient. Clinical. Distant.
When I hand it to her, I make sure our fingers don’t touch.
“It’s straightforward,” I say, focusing somewhere just past her shoulder. “Go over the material, and let them know you’re there if anyone needs help.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.”
I still don’t look her in the eye.
Because I already know what I’ll see if I do.
She knows I’m lying. Not outright — she’d never accuse me — but she knows I’m not sick. Lottie is observant. She notices patterns. My scent isn’t wrong. My posture isn’t weak. My voice isn’t fevered. She’s too kind to call me out on it. Too respectful.
But the questions she refuses to ask are written all over her face.
What’s going on, professor?
Why have you been so distant?
Why do you look at me like you’re afraid of something?
What aren’t you telling me?
They sit there between us, heavy and unspoken. And I don’t know how to answer any of them.
Because how do I explain that every time she’s near, my instincts scream at me to close the distance? That my body reacts before my logic can catch up? That I’m terrified of crossing a line I can’t uncross?
How do I admit that I’m afraid of losing control?
I don’t.
Instead, I give her a small, restrained smile. “Thank you for doing this.”
She holds my gaze for a second longer than usual this time, as if debating whether to push.
She doesn’t. “I hope you feel better,” she says softly.
There’s a searching look in her eyes. Something patient.
That almost makes it worse.
“I will,” I reply.
Eventually. Hopefully.
She lingers just a heartbeat longer before turning toward the door. I follow, keeping a careful distance, resisting the urge to breathe her in one more time.
When the door closes behind her, the house feels both quieter and unbearably empty.
I lean back against it, closing my eyes.
This is what I wanted.
Space. A breather. Time to not feel so consumed by the pull toward her.
But even with the house empty, even with her scent already beginning to fade—The pull doesn’t.
It hums beneath my skin. Distance doesn’t weaken it.
It only makes me more aware of how much I’m fighting it.