TESSLYN'S POV
I haven't slept in three days.
The news report. The security officers. Climbing down Thayer's fire escape at night like some kind of criminal.
And now this: my essay, returned with red ink that might as well be blood.
See me during office hours. Wednesday, 4pm.
It's Wednesday. 3:47 PM. Thirteen minutes until I have to walk into his office.
"You look like you're going to throw up," Rowan observes from her bed.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You've been staring at that paper for twenty minutes." She snatches it from my hands. "Let's see what has you so—oh. OH."
"What?"
She's reading my essay, eyes getting wider. "'Love that consumes. Love that destroys. Catherine and Heathcliff's passion defies logic, morality, and survival itself. Some loves are not meant to exist in civilized society—they're too raw, too dangerous, too real.'" She looks up. "Tess. This is intense."
"It's Wuthering Heights. It's supposed to be intense."
"No, I mean..." She keeps reading. "'The cruelest thing is loving someone you can't have. Not because they don't want you, but because the world says you can't. That's the real tragedy. Not death. Impossible desire.'" She puts the paper down. "Are we still talking about the book?"
My face burns. "Of course we are."
"Because it sounds like you're writing about someone real." Her eyes narrow. "Someone you can't have. Someone like... a professor?"
"Rowan—"
"You have a crush on Professor Murdoch. Admit it."
If she only knew. If she only knew I already had him, already know what his mouth tastes like, already climbed out his window while security searched his apartment.
"He's my teacher," I say firmly. "This is about literature. Nothing else."
She doesn't look convinced. "Then why are you terrified to go to office hours?"
Good question.
Because being alone with Thayer again, after everything, after we agreed to stay away from each other—it's playing with fire.
But I can't skip. That looks worse. More suspicious.
"I'm not terrified. I'm just... nervous about my grade."
"Right." Rowan grins. "Your grade. Not about being alone in a room with the hot professor who makes you blush every time he lectures."
"I don't blush!"
"You're blushing RIGHT NOW."
I grab my bag, checking my phone. 3:52 PM. "I have to go. I'll be back in an hour."
"Use protection!" Rowan calls after me.
"ROWAN!"
Her laughter follows me down the hallway.
The literature building feels like a walk to my execution.
Every step closer to Thayer's office makes my heart pound harder. We haven't spoken since that night. Since the news report. Since I texted him it was over.
But now I have to face him. Alone. Behind a closed door.
With cameras watching. Security monitoring. Everyone suspicious.
I reach his office. 3:58 PM. Two minutes early.
Deep breath. Knock.
"Come in."
His voice wraps around me like memory. Cedar and whiskey and safety.
I open the door. Step inside.
Thayer sits behind his desk, papers spread everywhere. He looks exhausted—dark circles under his eyes, hair messier than usual, jaw tight with tension.
Our eyes meet.
The air catches fire.
"Miss Verne." His voice is professional. Cold. "Close the door, please."
I hesitate. "Should we... leave it open? Because of—"
"The camera's running." He nods toward the corner. "Anyone can review footage. We're completely monitored. Door closed is standard for academic privacy."
Right. Of course. This is fine. Professional.
So why does my hand shake as I close the door?
"Have a seat."
I sit across from him. The desk between us feels like miles and inches at the same time.
He picks up my essay. Red marks everywhere.
"Your writing is exceptional," he says. "Passionate. Insightful. You understand these characters deeply."
"Thank you, Professor."
"But." His eyes meet mine. "You're not analyzing the text. You're feeling it. There's a difference."
"I don't understand."
He leans forward. "This essay—it reads like confession. Like you're writing about something real. Something personal."
My breath catches. "It's about Wuthering Heights."
"Is it?" He reads aloud: "'The cruelest thing is loving someone you can't have. Not because they don't want you, but because the world says you can't.'" His voice drops. "That's not Catherine and Heathcliff. That's you."
Silence. Heavy. Dangerous.
"Maybe," I whisper. "Maybe I understand impossible love better than I used to."
His jaw clenches. "Tesslyn—"
"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't say my name like that. Not here. Not when we're being recorded."
He sits back, professional mask slamming down. "You're right. I apologize, Miss Verne."
The formal name hurts worse than silence.
"Your essay needs revision," he continues, all business now. "Less emotion. More textual analysis. I've made notes. You have until Monday to resubmit."
"That's two days."
"Yes. I trust you can manage." His eyes say something different. Something that has nothing to do with essays.
I take the paper. Our fingers brush. Just for a second.
Electricity shoots through me.
He feels it too. I see it in how his breath catches. How his pupils dilate.
"Is there anything else, Professor?" My voice comes out breathier than intended.
"No. That's all." But he doesn't look away. Can't seem to look away.
I stand. Walk to the door. Hand on the handle.
Then I hear myself say, "The news report. Have they identified anyone yet?"
Thayer's expression darkens. "No. The investigation is ongoing. But Tesslyn—Miss Verne—" He corrects himself fast. "Be careful. Whoever's targeting us isn't done."
"I know."
"Do you?" He stands now. Moves closer. Still professional distance, but barely. "Because you came to my apartment. At night. That was reckless."
"You opened the door."
"I shouldn't have."
"But you did." I turn to face him fully. "Why?"
The question hangs between us. Heavy with meaning.
"Because I'm weak," he admits quietly. "Because seeing you terrified made me forget every rule I'm supposed to follow."
My heart hammers. "Thayer—"
"Professor Murdoch," he corrects sharply. "In this building, that's all I am."
"And outside this building?" The words escape before I can stop them.
His eyes blaze. "Outside this building, I'm a man who can't stop thinking about a student he has no right to want."
The confession steals my breath.
"We can't," I whisper.
"I know."
"It's too dangerous."
"I know."
"Someone's watching us. Waiting for us to slip."
"I know." He steps closer. Too close. "But knowing doesn't make wanting you any easier."
The camera. The recording. We're being so stupid.
But I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at this man who looks at me like I'm oxygen.
"I should go," I manage.
"You should."
Neither of us moves.
Then his phone buzzes. Shattering the moment.
He checks it. His face goes pale. "Christ."
"What?"
He shows me the screen. Email from Dean's office.
Emergency faculty meeting tonight. 7 PM. Regarding ongoing ethics investigation. Attendance mandatory.
"They're moving fast," I whisper.
"Too fast." He's thinking hard. "Someone's pushing this. Someone with power."
"Dr. Frost?"
"Maybe. Or someone else. Someone we haven't considered."
Before I can respond, there's a knock at the door.
We both freeze.
"Professor Murdoch?" A female voice. Familiar. "It's Dr. Frost. May I come in?"
Thayer's eyes meet mine. Pure panic.
If she finds me here, alone with him, right after the news report—
"Under the desk," he mouths silently.
"What?"
"Now!"
I dive under his desk just as the door opens.
I'm crouched in darkness, heart pounding, hearing Dr. Frost's heels click across the floor.
"Thayer. We need to talk."
"Linnea. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me the truth." Her voice is sharp. "About you and that student. Miss Verne."
Silence. I hold my breath.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't insult my intelligence. I saw how you looked at her that first day. I've seen the security footage of her entering your office. Multiple times. Staying late."
"Academic meetings. Nothing inappropriate."
"Then you won't mind if I check your email correspondence with her? Your text messages?"
"You have no authority—"
"The dean gave me authority this morning. Full access to investigate." Papers rustle. "In fact, why don't we check your computer right now?"
Footsteps. Moving toward the desk.
Toward me.
I'm trapped. Nowhere to go. If she looks down, if she sees me hiding here—
"My computer is university property," Thayer says coldly. "But my office is private during academic meetings."
"Academic meetings?" Dr. Frost laughs. "Is that what we're calling it? Because I could have sworn I saw Miss Verne enter this office ten minutes ago. But she hasn't left."
My blood turns to ice.
She knows. She knows I'm here.
"She left through the side door," Thayer lies smoothly. "Connected to the faculty lounge."
"Really?" Dr. Frost's voice is poisonous sweet. "Then you won't mind if I check?"
Footsteps moving away. Toward the side door that doesn't exist.
Then stopping.
"Interesting. There is no side door."
Silence. Terrible silence.
"So where, exactly, is Miss Verne right now?"
And from my hiding spot under the desk, I realize:
We're caught.
There's no way out of this.
And whatever happens next will destroy us both.