Chapter 8 Lottie
Lottie
Sandy is off for the rest of the day. Not in a dramatic, storming-out way. Not slammed doors or sharp words. Just… muted. Dimmed. Like someone quietly lowered the color on her.
Her laugh is softer. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She keeps drifting mid-conversation, gaze sliding somewhere far past me like she’s watching something I can’t see.
When I finally ask if she’s okay, she pauses for half a second too long. There’s a blankness there. Not anger. Not even sadness. Just… closed.
“I’ll see you later,” she says lightly, evading my question, already stepping back.
Then she turns and walks away before I can decide whether to follow.
Normally, I would. Normally, I’d grab her sleeve. Or at least jog to catch up. I’d push gently until she cracked and told me what was wrong.
But today?
Today, my own head feels like static.
Because all day — all day — my thoughts keep circling back to him.
Professor Hale.
His face.
His voice.
The way he said my name — low, careful, like he was testing how it felt.
And that moment our hands touched.
That impossible spark.
It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t imagined. It shot through me like an electrical surge, lighting up every nerve ending in my body. I’ve never reacted to someone’s pheromones before. Not once. Not even during high-stress labs or packed auditoriums.
But his?
Sharp. Sweet. Addictive.
It was like something inside me snapped awake.
Like I’d been asleep my whole life and didn’t know it.
I shake my head, watching Sandy disappear across the quad, her dark coat blending into the winter-gray sky.
No more classes today. And apparently, no hanging out either.
That’s fine.
I’m not exactly in the right headspace to be anyone’s emotional support. My thoughts are too tangled. Too dangerous.
Because the worst part — the part that makes my stomach twist — is that I know he felt it too.
I saw it. The way he froze.
The way his breath hitched.
The way the air changed between us — thickened, charged.
And beneath his scent, I caught it.
That faint, unmistakable sweetness.
Slick. Subtle, but there.
He was just as affected as I was.
I had to get out of that room. Before instinct overrode logic.
Before I leaned closer instead of stepping back.
Before I crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.
He’s my professor.
I’m his student.
There are rules.
Rules I can’t afford to break.
I need this TA position. I’ve worked too hard for it — late nights, extra labs, perfect attendance. One reckless moment could unravel all of that.
I can’t let it.
The cold barely registers as I walk across the quad. Wind slices through my jacket, but my skin still feels overheated. My pulse hums under the surface like I’m carrying a contained storm.
By the time I reach my dorm, I’m buzzing.
I unlock the door and step inside, shutting it behind me with more force than necessary. I lean back against it and exhale hard.
My room is mid-sized and practical — one of the newer single suites. Tiny kitchenette to the left: mini-fridge, microwave, a strip of counter space that always feels too narrow. Bathroom to the right — compact shower, small sink, mirror that fogs if you breathe near it.
The rest opens into my bedroom. Bed under the window. Desk opposite. Dresser beside the closet. Just enough open floor space for pacing.
Tonight, it feels too small. Too warm. Like the walls are holding onto heat.
Grapefruit and honey cling stubbornly to my senses.
I strip off my clothes and head straight for the bathroom, turning the water cool instead of hot. The spray hits my skin, and I shiver, goosebumps racing down my arms.
The chill helps. A little.
It dulls the edge of the heat simmering beneath my skin.
But it doesn’t erase him.
It doesn’t erase the way my body leaned toward his scent as if it belonged there.
The next morning, gray light seeps through my curtains. Heavy clouds press low against the sky.
I don’t have classes today, so I don’t know why I’m awake — until my phone buzzes.
Right. The meeting.
I reach for it, heart already picking up speed.
A message waits on the screen: Café Starlight near campus. 1 PM.
Short. Professional. Distant.
Yesterday, I sent him my availability — nothing else. His only reply had been a thumbs-up emoji.
Necessary distance. Necessary restraint.
I check the time. Eleven.
Later than I thought, but still not enough time for how unprepared I feel.
I roll out of bed and glance at myself in the mirror. Sleep-tousled hair. Puffy eyes. Flushed cheeks that have nothing to do with temperature.
I’m suddenly grateful he chose a public place. Less room for mistakes. Less room for instincts to take over. Less room for me to do something catastrophically stupid.
I go through my routine on autopilot — shower, teeth, skincare. The coffee maker hums softly in the kitchenette as I stare at nothing, lost in thought.
Maybe I should talk to him about it. Maybe he knows what that was. Maybe he’s already researched it. Maybe he felt it too.
The thought makes my stomach twist sharply.
I sip my coffee.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
By the time I walk into Café Starlight, I’m slightly out of breath.
I was almost late because I couldn’t decide what to wear. Professional? Casual? Something in between?
I changed at least five times. I finally settled on casual. Casual is safe. Casual is appropriate.
Casual is the only thing we can be.
Then I see him.
He’s sitting near the window, winter light catching the golden strands threaded through his glossy brown hair. His eyes — warm, deep brown — flick across the menu.
My breath stutters before I can stop it.
He stands when I approach.
And for a second, I’m struck by how compact he is compared to me.
How easily he would fit against me. Like two pieces of a puzzle.
The thought hits hard.
I shove it away immediately.
“Hi, Professor Hale,” I say, clearing my throat. “It’s good to see you. I didn’t get a chance to say thank you yesterday — for choosing me.”
A faint flush rises along his cheeks.
He gestures to the seat across from him. “No worries, Charlotte. You were well qualified. You stood out.”
His voice is steady. Too steady.
He’s in business mode. He’s using professionalism as armor. “Now, let’s go over expectations.”
I sit, open my laptop, and pull up a blank document. When I glance up, he’s staring at me for a second too long before looking away.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asks quickly. “Something to eat?”
I smile. “Give me a second to order. Can I get you a refill?”
He looks down at his cup like it personally betrayed him.
“Coffee. Black. Two sugars.”
There’s a faint blush again.
It does something to me.
I ordered his refill, a smoothie, and a sandwich for me. They promise to bring it over, and I head back.
The moment I step near the table, his scent hits me.
Warm. Sweet. Already familiar.
It wraps around me like stepping into a heated room after cold air.
Too inviting. Too much.
I sit quickly, wake my laptop, and focus on the screen.
He fidgets before speaking.
“You’ll assist with grading, attendance, and class preparation. If I’m late or unavailable, you’ll run class.”
I type quickly. “Run class how?”
He smiles. Soft. Gentle.
It transforms him.
“Just outline expectations. Keep students on task.”
My throat tightens. “And it’s paid?”
He chuckles quietly. “Yes. Nineteen an hour. Log all time — including student assistance outside class.”
His smile lingers.
Something protective and instinctive sparks low in my chest.
Our food arrives, saving me. I grab my smoothie and sip just to do something with my hands.
“Will I assist with office hours?” I ask.
He nods. “If it gets crowded.”
Then—the air shifts.
Subtle. But there.
His scent deepens. Warms.
Thickens slightly at the edges.
He takes a quick gulp of coffee, eyes dropping. “That’s everything. If you have questions, you have my number.”
He stands abruptly. Too abruptly. Coat on. Bag gathered. Movements precise but rushed.
“I look forward to working with you, Charlotte.”
He turns.
“Lottie,” I say softly.
He stops and slowly looks over his shoulder as he says quietly, “Lottie.”
The sound of my nickname in his voice —it’s warm, careful.
It hits low in my stomach, tightening something deep inside me.
He nods once.
Then he leaves.
And I’m left sitting there, heart pounding, smoothie untouched, wondering how I’m supposed to survive this semester without crossing a line I already feel dangerously close to stepping over.