: Emotional Regulation
The next time it happened, I was back in the psychology section—again. My "safe space" was slowly becoming enemy territory. Shelves of neatly stacked journals and textbooks should have felt comforting, but now they felt like walls closing in.
I was hunched over a book on emotional regulation, highlighter in hand, pretending the world outside the pages didn't exist.
And then I felt it.
Someone behind me. Too close. Too deliberate.
"Don't freak out," he murmured, voice low, brushing my ear like heat against my skin. "I'm trying to regulate my emotions too. Mostly the violent attraction."
I didn't flinch. I'd been expecting him. Like a migraine I couldn't shake.
"Ever heard of personal space?" I muttered, stepping aside without looking at him, forcing my voice as neutral as possible.
He followed, annoyingly smooth.
"Yep. Ignoring it is my favorite form of rebellion."
"Try ignoring me instead."
> "Tried," he said, circling around the shelf, blocking my path effortlessly. "Didn't take."
I froze for a second, my pulse kicking up. He was standing in front of me now, leaning casually against the shelf, arms crossed, like he had been carved from the very wood itself. The library lights caught the faint sheen of sweat at his hairline. He looked too composed, too… magnetic.
I narrowed my eyes.
"If you lean any closer, I'm filing for academic harassment."
He smirked, low and teasing.
"That's rich coming from someone who called me unhinged and compared me to a devil."
"Devils take no for an answer," I shot back, stepping carefully around him, refusing to meet his gaze.
He mirrored me. Too fast. Shoulder-to-shoulder now, his presence pressing against mine like a physical claim.
"Tell me something," he said, lowering his voice to a velvety whisper. "Do you actually hate me? Or are you just scared I'll grow on you?"
I tilted my head, a smirk tugging at my lips despite myself.
"Fungus grows on people too. Doesn't mean they want it."
He laughed. Quiet. Deep. Unfailingly attractive. It vibrated in the air between us, pulling at some corner of my composure I didn't know I had.
"You've got claws," he said, almost admiringly. "Why do I like that so much?"
"Maybe because you're a masochist," I said, lifting a thick textbook and lightly thwacking it against his chest. "That would explain the constant need for rejection."
> "You reject me beautifully," he said softly, the grin never leaving but somehow quieter, more intimate. "It's almost poetic."
I scoffed, brushing my messy bun over my shoulder, glasses slipping down my nose.
"What do you want from me?"
His smile faltered—just a flicker—and the air shifted.
He stepped closer. I instinctively backed into the shelf. My fingers brushed over the spines of the textbooks, grounding myself.
"Honestly?" he said, voice low, deliberate. "I don't know yet. But whatever it is… I want all of it."
I blinked. That was… not what I expected. Not at all. My chest fluttered, panic and irritation mingling.
I shoved the book into his chest.
"Find it somewhere else," I hissed, half-embarassed, half-defiant.
He caught it effortlessly, smiling like it had never been a challenge.
"You'll miss me when I'm not around," he said casually, but there was a gleam in his eyes that made my stomach twist.
I started walking away, head held high, but my pulse was racing like I'd just run a mile.
> "I miss peace when you're around," I called over my shoulder, voice sharper than I felt.
He didn't follow this time. He stayed rooted, leaning against the shelf, arms folded, watching me retreat. Still smiling. Still that smug, impossibly confident grin.
Like he'd already won.
I rounded the corner, heart hammering, wishing the library walls would swallow me up.
My hoodie felt tight now, my glasses hot against my cheeks, my messy bun somehow betraying me. But I couldn't stop replaying the way he'd moved—how easily he'd blocked me, the low, deliberate cadence of his voice, the confidence that radiated in a way I couldn't match.
And yet… I couldn't hate him. Not fully. Not even when he teased me, cornered me, or claimed me with a smirk that made the world tilt just slightly off balance.
Dangerous. Annoying. Infuriating. Magnetic.
I shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket, trying to steady the tremor in my fingers.
I'm supposed to be focused on emotional regulation.
But my thoughts weren't on regulation. They were on him. Brown shirt. Smirk. Eyes dark and teasing.
Progress…
I sighed, letting the thought linger. I wasn't sure whether I was scared, annoyed, or… something else entirely.
And I knew one thing for certain: he wasn't going away. Not today. Not ever.
-----
The next morning, I slipped into my seat at the back of the lecture hall, tugging my hoodie tight around me like armor. My notebook lay open, but the lines blurred as soon as I heard his voice.
Low. Controlled. Too familiar.
"Open to chapter five," he said, pacing at the front with that irritating ease. "Emotional regulation—where theory meets practice."
Of course. Emotional regulation. Again.
I pressed my pen harder against the page, willing myself not to look up. But my body betrayed me. My eyes found him anyway—brown shirt today, sleeves rolled, chalk dust on his fingers like a careless halo.
He caught me staring. Of course he did. His smirk was instant, sharp as a blade.
"Miss ___," he said, drawing out my name like it was a dare. "Perhaps you'd like to explain why regulation is considered a learned skill rather than an innate one?"
My stomach dropped. He could have asked anyone. But no—he chose me.
I cleared my throat, gripping the edge of my desk.
"Because emotions are… messy," I managed, voice thinner than I wanted. "And people don't automatically know how to control them. They have to practice."
He tilted his head, eyes glinting.
"Messy," he repeated, as if savoring it. "Interesting choice of word."
The class chuckled. Heat flared in my cheeks.
I clenched my pen. Do not rise to it. Do not give him the satisfaction.
But then he stepped closer, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on me like no one else existed.
"Would you say you practice regulation well, Miss ___?"
The room went still. My pulse roared.
I forced a smile, sharp and deflective.
"Depends on who's testing me."
The corner of his mouth twitched—just enough for me to know I'd scored a hit.
"Careful," he murmured, eyes never leaving mine. "That sounded like an admission."
A few students snickered, oblivious to the undercurrent running beneath his words. But I felt it. Every syllable was aimed at me, threading back to the library, to the way he'd cornered me against the shelves.
I looked away first, scribbling something useless in my notebook. My hands trembled, but I hid them under the desk.
He turned back to the board, writing in swift, neat strokes.
"Regulation," he said to the class, "isn't about suppressing. It's about redirecting. Turning dangerous impulses into something… useful."
My pen froze mid-stroke. My pulse stuttered. Was that a lecture—or a warning?
When the class ended, students filed out in chatter and laughter. I packed my bag slowly, hoping he wouldn't notice.
Of course, he did.
"Miss ___," he said, voice lower now, private. "Stay a moment."
My breath caught.
I turned, ready with some excuse—but the look in his eyes stopped me cold. Calm on the surface. Dangerous underneath.
"I'll expect more from you next time," he said smoothly, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Consider it… practice."
That damn smirk again.
I left the classroom with my heart hammering against my ribs, certain of one thing—whatever game he was playing, I was already caught in it.