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The clock ticks. The quiet hum of the building is suddenly a hurricane in my ears. The hand I’ve braced above her head shifts; my fingers curl into the edge of the shelf, needing something that isn’t her. My other hand is still hovering, my palm feeling like a live wire near skin I’m not allowed to touch.

“We could—” She swallows. “We could not do anything. And still be honest. About wanting. Some things don’t need to be acted on to be—real.”

I lean a fraction closer, enough that I can feel her breath on my throat. I’m not touching her. I’m not. But my body thinks I am. The desk creaks behind me, an old piece of wood complaining that humans never change.

“This is me being careful,” I murmur. “This is me being good.”

She whispers, “You look anything but good.”

I huff out air that could be a laugh in another life and push back from her. “Don’t be clever right now.”

“Then don’t be cruel,” she returns. “Don’t take this class from me to save me from something I can handle.”

I search her face for an angle, a gap in the armor, a lie I can grab onto so the choice is easier. All I find is truth. It would be simpler if she were manipulative. It would be simpler if I were.

“Tell me you’ll transfer,” I say. “Tell me you’ll let me do this right.”

“Tell me you can handle me in your class,” she counters.

“I can’t promise that,” I say.

Her throat works. “I don’t want to transfer.”

“You are such a brat, pet,” I snarl, slamming both of my hands above her head. Our mouths centimeters away from each other, my ability to stop myself lost to her lidded eyes and I feel myself leaning into her--

Knuckles rap sharply on the door. “Professor?” a voice calls, muffled, right outside. There’s the squeak of the handle testing, then stopping. “Do you have a minute?”

The spell snaps. My hands come down and away from the shelves, and I step back like I’ve been scalded. Air rushes in between us, cold and necessary. Her eyes are wide, then shuttered. I grab the first object near me—a notebook—and make noise with it, cover motion with sound.

“One moment,” I call, and my voice is the right pitch again.

I look at Elara. She looks at the door. The moment is a glass that’s already falling.

“If you will not drop the class, fine,” I say, low. “But you stay away from me.”

She blinks. “Alexander⁠—”

“Go,” I say, because if she stays I will do something that gets me a headline and her a rumor. “Run, pet.”

Her jaw tightens, anger flickering through whatever haze I dragged her into, but she doesn’t argue. She slips past me, hand already on the knob, and pulls the door open.

She’s gone down the hall before I even turn back.

I straighten, smooth my shirt, drag a breath into my lungs, as the student enters.

“Sorry, Professor,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just had a question about the essay.”

“Come in,” I reply, already stepping aside, already locking everything dangerous back behind my ribs.

I listen to the boy. I answer his questions. I explain citation requirements and argument structure and deadlines like none of this ever happened, like my pulse isn’t still loud in my ears, like the room doesn’t still remember her.

When he finally leaves, thanking me on the way out, I don’t sit down.

I stand there in the quiet, staring at the closed door, at the faint echo of vanilla and peaches that refuse to dissipate.

Stay away from me, pet. It will be best for the both of us. The lie tastes bitter even as I tell myself it’s the only option left.

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