CHAPTER 63
CHAPTER 63
ARIA
He moved closer, leaning over my shoulder, even bending down to glance at my notebook.
My chest tightened instantly, and my fingers froze around the pen, my notes clutched tightly in my other hand. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat loud and insistent, like it was trying to escape.
“C-come on, focus,” I muttered to myself under my breath, though the words barely made sense even as I tried to steady my racing thoughts.
My mind tangled—hold the pen… breathe… don’t look at him… just… stay calm…
I felt my stomach knot itself tighter the closer he leaned, every bit of air between us shrinking until it felt like there was none at all. He wasn’t even trying—just glancing over my notes, as if my frantic scribbles were of mild interest—but the nearness of him threw everything off balance.
His sleeve brushed against mine when he shifted, just barely, yet it sent a rush of heat up my arm. I couldn’t stop noticing the subtle scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, distracting in a way that made my chest flutter. My pen sat useless in my hand, the page blank, my thoughts splintering.
Why is he so close? Why here, why me?
My mind stuttered over itself, every carefully practiced bit of composure slipping through my fingers. I told myself to focus, to breathe, to write something—anything—but my hand wouldn’t move. My pulse thundered in my ears, louder than the voices around us.
Okay, Aria… just hold the pen. Just breathe. Pretend like this isn’t happening.
But it was happening, and he was right there.
Then, a figure in the audience rose to their feet, hand lifted politely to draw attention. Their voice carried clearly across the hall:
“Professor Lian, could you walk us through the case you handled last month with the complex cranial injury? How did you approach it?”
The room seemed to hold its breath, every rustle and whisper swallowed up by the weight of anticipation.
My eyes flicked toward him, my pulse jumped, scattering my thoughts until I couldn’t string them together anymore.
Professor Lian’s gaze shifted from the man who’d asked the question, sliding back—straight to me.
“Aria, right?”
His voice carried so easily across the auditorium, low and deliberate, and for a second I couldn’t move. Heat rushed to my face, my heart giving a startled kick as if I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
I blinked, frozen, unsure if I’d imagined it. But no—he was looking at me.
I nodded quickly, unsure if I was supposed to say more.
He gave a small, almost imperceptible pause, then added,
“Could you… stand up, please?”
I blinked, looking around in confusion.
Stand up?
Was he… talking to me?
My eyes darted to the rows of seats, the other attendees, and back to him.
A flush crept up my neck.
“Uh… okay?” I whispered under my breath, the words barely audible.
My fingers tightened around my notebook, almost crushing it, as I slowly rose from my seat.
I hesitated, heart hammering, my mind spinning—
Why me?
What does he want?
Just… stay calm, Aria…
Every eye in the hall seemed to land on me at once, their attention like a weight pressing down on my shoulders.
Just stand… breathe… don’t mess this up…
“Could you retrieve the model beside you on the table?” Professor Lian asked, his voice steady, his chin tilting toward the brain simulation resting right there.
I blinked, startled, my eyes flicking to the object beside me.
“That… m-module?”
The word caught awkwardly in my throat, too small, too shaky, and instantly I regretted even opening my mouth.
Heat crept up the back of my neck, the weight of dozens of eyes pressing harder against me.
Professor Lian didn’t waver.
His gaze held steady, calm, patient—almost reassuring. He gave the faintest nod, his voice smooth and unhurried as it carried through the hall.
“Yes. That module.”
I almost choked on my own breath.
My throat went dry, and my hands clamped tighter around my notes as if they could anchor me.
Before I could even fumble to move, he was already rising.
His motion was so smooth, so unhurried, that it made my own hesitation feel glaring.
He leaned past me, reaching for the model, and in that moment his shoulder brushed mine—barely, a fleeting touch—but it sent a sharp current through me all the same.
My pen wobbled in my grip.
I realized with a start that I was holding my breath, every nerve in my body on high alert, aware of nothing except the nearness of him.
The module was in his hands in an instant, and he straightened, holding it with perfect poise as if the proximity hadn’t affected either of us at all. I, on the other hand, felt my chest constrict and my thoughts scrambling.
My mind stuttered like a broken record:
Okay, Aria, breathe… it’s just a model… it’s just a lecture… focus…
He returned to the front of the stage, placing the module carefully on the demonstration table.
The room was silent, the anticipation thick in the air.
I tried to focus on the module, on the diagrams he was about to explain, but my senses were still tangled in the brief, lingering touch.
He began speaking, his voice calm, precise, carrying effortlessly to every corner of the hall.
“This case involved a highly complex cranial injury,” he said, gesturing to the model.
“Our objective was to reconstruct the damaged tissue while preserving the neural pathways essential for cognitive function.”
I nodded mechanically, but my attention wavered.
The memory of his proximity—the slight brush of his shoulder against mine—kept intruding, making it nearly impossible to concentrate.
Every movement he made with the model, every precise tilt and adjustment, drew my eyes like a magnet.
My pen hovered uselessly over my notebook; I couldn’t write fast enough to capture both the technical details and the chaos of my own thoughts.
Mary beside me scribbled away, focused, attentive.
I felt the sting of frustration—not at her, but at myself.
Why can’t I just… pay attention?
I tried to anchor myself to the lecture, forcing my gaze on the module, on his hands as they demonstrated, on the diagrams projected behind him.
But it was no use.
Every subtle motion, the tilt of his head, the calm confidence in his stance—it all pulled my attention in a way I hadn’t anticipated.
Someone in the audience asked a question, and his response was measured, precise, every word deliberate.
“The critical factor was assessing the patient’s neuroanatomy in three dimensions before attempting the reconstruction,” he explained, demonstrating on the module.
“Any miscalculation could have compromised both function and outcome.”
I tried to take notes, but my mind kept looping back to that moment when he leaned past me.
The faint warmth, the scent lingering even seconds later, the sudden jolt of awareness that he was that close—it made my hands tremble slightly as I attempted to scribble coherently.
I gripped my pen tighter, as if the physical act could ground me, but it did little.
My chest ached faintly, a persistent thrum reminding me of how distracting proximity could be. I hated it. I wanted to feel annoyed, to scold myself for being affected by it—but I couldn’t.
Every adjustment he made on the module, every tilt of his hands, made my thoughts stutter again.
Focus… pay attention… it’s just a lecture… but… ugh… can’t… breathe… My pulse continued to race, and I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t erase the jolt of awareness that had lodged itself firmly in my chest.
By the time he finished explaining his method, placing the module carefully back on the table, applause rippled through the room. I remained standing, pen hovering uselessly over my notes, heart still hammering, mind still scattered.
My attention hadn’t been on the lecture as it should have been—it had been hijacked, entirely, by the brief, electric moment of contact.
Even now, as he answered further questions from the audience with calm authority, I could feel the residual effect of him leaning past me.
Every nerve in my body was alive, every thought stuttering between focusing on the lecture and replaying the seconds he had been inches away. I clenched my notebook tighter, took a shaky breath, and forced myself to look down at the module.
But the thought lingered, stubborn and insistent: How is it possible for someone to affect you so completely in just a few seconds?