His office door wasn't fully closed when I arrived. A thin line of warm light cut through the dim hallway, spilling onto the floor like a quiet invitation. I hesitated for a moment, adjusting the strap of my bag, trying to calm the nervous pulse in my throat.
Two days of silence.
One hallway confrontation.
And now… this.
I lifted my hand and knocked lightly.
"Come in."
His voice was calm—too calm, like he'd been rehearsing it.
I pushed the door open slowly. He was sitting at his desk, papers neatly arranged in front of him, but none of them had been touched. He looked up the moment I stepped inside, and something in his expression softened, the kind of softness he always tried to hide.
"You came," he said, as if he wasn't completely sure I would.
"You asked me to."
"That doesn't mean you had to."
His eyes held mine for a beat too long. "Sit down."
I closed the door behind me and sat in the chair across from him. The quiet between us wasn't uncomfortable—it was heavy, loaded with all the things we still hadn't said.
He folded his hands on the desk, exhaling slowly. "I wanted to talk to you. Properly. Without… interruptions."
I didn't respond. I waited.
He looked at me for another moment, then leaned back in his chair, eyes steady. "What happened the other night shouldn't have happened."
I felt my stomach drop, just a little.
"But it did," I whispered.
"Yes." His voice dipped, low and tense. "And I keep replaying it in my head, which is exactly the problem."
I swallowed, unable to look away from him. "Do you regret it?"
He closed his eyes briefly, as if the question physically hit him.
"No," he said quietly. "I regret nothing about it."
Then he opened his eyes again. "That's what scares me."
My breath caught.
He stood up suddenly, maybe to put distance between us, maybe because sitting still made him too vulnerable. He walked to the window, hands in his pockets, staring out as though the glass could hide how conflicted he really was.
"I shouldn't want this," he said. "I shouldn't want you."
The words stung, but not because they were harsh—because they were honest.
I stood as well, slowly walking until I was standing a few steps behind him. "Then tell me what you want."
He didn't move for a long moment. Then, quietly:
"I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the only person you see."
My heart thudded.
"I want you to stop walking into my office with that expression that makes me forget all the reasons this is wrong."
I took a small breath. "And what if I can't stop?"
His shoulders tensed.
I stepped closer—not touching him, but close enough for him to feel me there.
"What if you're not the only one who's been replaying that night?" I whispered.
He inhaled sharply.
Slowly, he turned to face me.
His eyes weren't calm anymore. They were raw, conflicted, and full of something he had been trying too hard to suppress.
"You're too young," he said, his voice unsteady. "Too bright. Too… everything I shouldn't want."
"And yet," I said, meeting his gaze, "you do."
Something in him finally broke.
Not dramatically. Not loudly.
But in the quiet way a wall crumbles when it's been pushed for too long.
He stepped closer—only an inch, but it felt like crossing a line we couldn't uncross. He lifted a hand as if he wanted to touch me but forced himself not to.
"You make it impossible to stay rational," he said. "And I'm tired of pretending I'm unaffected."
I looked up at him, feeling my pulse quicken. "Then stop pretending."
His breath hitched. His hand hovered near my face again, trembling slightly.
And just when he was about to touch me—
just when the last thread of restraint was about to snap—
A knock on the door shattered the moment.
He froze.
I stepped back instinctively.
"Professor? Are you still in there?" a voice called.
He closed his eyes, jaw tight. "Yes. Give me a moment."
Footsteps receded down the hall.
He looked at me again, expression torn between frustration and something deeper.
"This is what I mean," he said. "This is why we can't lose control."
I swallowed. "But you almost did."
"So did you."
We stood there, breathing the same tense air.
He finally exhaled. "Go home for now. Please."
I nodded slowly, even though it hurt more than it should have.
But before I reached the door, he said—
"Come back tomorrow."
I froze. Turned.
His eyes met mine—raw, unguarded.
"Please."
And that one word undid me completely.