The next day felt longer than any day I could remember. Every class blurred into the next, every sentence on my notes disappearing the moment I wrote it. My mind was stuck in his office, replaying the way he said please—quiet, strained, as if it cost him something.
By the time my last class ended, my hands felt cold even though the room was warm. I packed my stuff slowly, giving myself time to breathe, time to think, time to prepare for whatever was waiting behind his door.
But nothing could prepare me.
When I reached his office, the door was closed this time. Completely. No light slipping through. No hint of what he was doing inside.
I knocked.
Silence.
I almost turned to leave when his voice finally came, low and controlled:
"Come in."
I opened the door.
He was standing by the bookshelf, not behind his desk this time. His sleeves were rolled up, his hair slightly messy, like he had run his hand through it too many times.
He looked… conflicted.
And tired.
But also relieved.
"You came," he said again, the same way he said it yesterday, as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit.
"You asked me to."
"Yes. I did."
He gestured for me to close the door. I did.
"I need to say something," he began, voice steady but forced. "Before anything else happens between us—before I let myself do something I can't take back—I need to understand something."
I waited.
"Why me?" he asked quietly. "Why someone my age? Why someone who has spent weeks trying to push you away?"
I felt the weight of the question settle in the room.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "Maybe because you're the only person who looks at me like you actually see me."
He didn't move.
"Or maybe," I continued, "because you make me feel safe and dangerous at the same time."
He inhaled sharply.
"And maybe," I added softly, "because I trust you more than I've trusted anyone."
His eyes closed for a beat.
"That's exactly what scares me," he whispered.
"Why?"
"Because I trust you too," he said. "More than I should."
He stepped forward slowly.
"One wrong choice," he said, "and I become the kind of man I never wanted to be."
"You're not that man," I said.
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Silence.
He looked at me for a long time, searching my eyes for something—doubt, uncertainty, hesitation. But I didn't look away.
Finally, he spoke.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"You don't know that either."
I took a breath and stepped closer.
"If you really wanted distance," I said quietly, "you wouldn't have asked me to come back."
His jaw tightened.
"If you really wanted to protect me," I continued, "you wouldn't have told me you trust me."
His breath wavered.
"And if you really didn't want this," I finished, "you wouldn't be standing this close to me."
He looked down at me, the last of his restraint visibly cracking.
"This is wrong," he said.
"Then tell me to leave."
He didn't.
"Say it," I whispered. "Tell me to walk out that door."
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink.
Because he couldn't.
Finally—quietly, painfully honest—he said:
"I can't."
And in that moment, we both knew:
Whatever line existed between us…
we had already stepped over it.