Chapter 48 Lottie
Lottie
The tone of Professor Hale's voice is what finally cuts through the lingering haze, pulling me back into myself and anchoring me in the reality of what we've just done.
There's no softening it. No pretending it was anything less than what it was.
We crossed every line. Broke every rule. Tore down every wall that ever stood between us.
And now there's no going back.
At least… not for me.
I can feel it almost immediately — the shift in him. Not physical. He's still here, still within reach, still warm beneath my arm. But something deeper is retreating, slipping behind the careful control he's always held onto.
And I hate it.
Because I'm not there anymore.
I'm past hesitation. Past restraint. Past caring about rules that suddenly feel small and irrelevant compared to this — whatever this is between us.
Fuck the rules, and consequences be damned.
I want him.
And I'm done pretending I don't.
My gaze drifts to the mark at the back of his neck, dark against his skin — mine. The claim isn't just instinctual; it feels right in a way I can't explain, like something ancient settling into place.
I don't want it any other way.
"Professor," I murmur.
He tenses immediately beneath my arm, the reaction subtle but unmistakable.
"Lottie," he whispers, his voice tight, conflicted. "We weren't supposed to give in."
A quiet breath leaves me as I tip my head back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling.
"Tell me how we were supposed to fight something like that," I say, my voice quieter now, steadier. "Something that was never really in our control to begin with."
For a moment, he doesn't answer.
Then he exhales, the tension in his body easing just slightly as he leans back into me, like part of him is too tired to keep resisting.
"I… I have to tell you something."
I tighten my hold on him, drawing him closer until there's no space left between us, from shoulder to hip. "What is it, Professor?"
He stiffens again, hesitation threading through him.
"I asked someone," he says slowly. "A former teacher. About… what we've been experiencing."
My wrist drifts from his waist to his chest, my scent brushing lightly over warm skin, grounding him — or maybe grounding myself.
"And?" I prompt softly.
"They said it's… signs of…" He falters, like even saying it out loud makes it real.
"Of?" I prompt again.
"Of, uh, fated mates."
For a brief moment, my body stills.
Not in rejection, but in recognition.
Then I let out a slow breath and relax again against him, pressing closer instead of pulling away.
"So," I murmur, my voice quieter now, more certain, "we were always meant to find each other."
He nods faintly, the movement drawing my attention back to the mark at his neck — the one I left behind.
A quiet, possessive warmth settles in my chest as I look at it.
Proof.
Not just of what we've done.
But of what we are.
I tighten my hold on him as the realization settles fully into place.
There was never a version of this where we walked away untouched.
We were never going to win against something like this — not when it runs this deep, not when it feels this inevitable. Every step, every stolen glance, every moment of restraint… it was all leading here.
To this.
To us.
My grip firms slightly, possessive without thinking, instinct overriding hesitation.
"You're mine, Professor," I murmur against him, quieter now but no less certain. "That's all there is to it."
But even as I say it, I feel the denial ripple through him.
He's already shaking his head.
"No, Lottie." His voice is strained, tight with something close to panic. "We have to pretend this never happened."
The words hit harder than I expected.
"Fate shouldn't be allowed to decide something like this," he continues, more firmly now, like he's trying to convince himself as much as me. "Not when we're in no position to be together."
A flicker of irritation sparks in my chest.
"What position are we in, then, Professor?" I ask, my tone sharpening slightly.
He exhales, shoulders tensing beneath my arm. "We're teacher and student. That doesn't change just because…" He trails off, like he doesn't even have the words for what this is. "If this goes any further, it could ruin your academic career. And my professional one."
I shake my head immediately, refusing to let this be the end of it.
"We can figure it out," I insist, more urgently now. "Together. We don't have to just… give up." My hand drifts down his chest again, slower this time, more deliberate, as if reminding him of what we are when we're not hiding behind titles. "I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose how you make me feel."
My palm settles low on his stomach, feeling the subtle tension there, the warmth of him lingering under my touch.
"I love this," I admit softly. "Being close to you. Feeling you like this."
He inhales sharply when my hand stills, his body tightening again — not pulling away, but not leaning in either. Caught somewhere in between.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, quieter now, searching.
A humorless breath leaves him.
“No,” he says, voice low. “No, it’s not okay. We crossed a line we were never supposed to cross.”
I shake my head again, more firmly this time.
“If we’re fated mates, then that line was never real to begin with,” I say. “We were always going to end up here. No matter how hard we tried not to.”
My breath stutters slightly as my body finally begins to settle, my knot receding and my dick slipping free of his body. The shift creates space where there was none before, and the absence is immediate, noticeable.
He lets out a soft sound — quiet, almost involuntary — at the loss.
It makes something in my chest tighten.
“Professor,” I say, more serious now, more grounded. “I can’t go back to how things were. Pretending this isn’t real. Pretending we don’t feel this.” My voice lowers. “This isn’t something surface-level. It’s not a mistake we can just ignore.”
I swallow.
“It’s deeper than that. It’s… soul deep.”
For a moment, there’s silence.
Then he moves.
This time, physically.
He pulls out of my hold and sits at the edge of the bed, his back to me — a clear line drawn where there wasn’t one before.
“No, Lottie.” His voice is quieter now, but more resolute. “I can’t let this happen. I won’t be the reason you lose everything you’ve worked for.”
He pauses, running a hand through his hair, tension visible in every line of his body.
“I could teach anywhere,” he adds, almost to himself. “But I chose to be here. I like teaching at MIT.”
The words land more heavily than they should.
I sit up slowly behind him.
“So that’s it?” I ask. “We just… pretend none of this happened?” My gaze flicks briefly to the back of his neck, to the mark still visible there. “Even with my mark on you?”
“Yes,” he says, not turning around. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’ll cover the mark.”
A beat.
“I can’t be with you.”
Something in my chest sinks, but it doesn’t break.
Not yet.
I let out a slow breath and swing my legs over the side of the bed, the cool air hitting my skin, grounding me in a way I’m not sure I want. I stand, gathering my clothes in silence, the quiet between us louder than anything we’ve said.
He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say my name again.
I walk out of the room and down the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. By the time I reach the front door, I’m dressed again, my movements automatic, distant.
I pull on my coat and pause with my hand on the handle.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Waiting.
Hoping.
That I’ll hear footsteps behind me. That he’ll come down, say he didn’t mean it. That he’ll admit this is bigger than rules, titles, and consequences.
That he needs me the way I need him.
But the house stays silent.
My chest tightens, but I force myself to move.
I step outside and pull the door shut behind me, the soft click echoing louder than it should.
The rain continues — light, steady, soaking into everything.
I zip my coat and start walking, not really thinking about where I’m going. The world feels muted, distant, like I’m moving through something thick and slow.
By the time I reach my dorm, I’m drenched, cold seeping into my bones, my teeth chattering despite myself.
Inside, I strip quickly, dropping damp clothes to the floor before stepping into the bathroom and turning on the shower.
Steam begins to fill the space, warm and inviting.
I hesitate.
Because I don’t want to wash him away.
I don’t want to lose the last traces of him — his scent, his warmth, the evidence that this was real and not something I imagined.
But the cold wins.
Slowly, I step under the water.
It’s too hot at first, stinging against my skin, but I don’t move. I let it run over me, washing away the rain, the tension, the ache — everything except him.
My eyes close.
And I try not to cry.
Because what hurts the most isn’t what we did.
It’s what he chose after.
He doesn't want to fight for us.
He’d rather protect the life he built than risk it for something uncertain — even if that something is fate itself.
I don’t know if that makes him smart.
Or a coward.
But I do know one thing.
I’m not ready to let him go.