The library was nearly empty when Amelia realized her groupmates had already left. The storm outside had grown heavier, sheets of rain pounding against the tall windows. The world beyond looked blurred and distant, like a watercolor running under water.
She should have left with them. She should have packed her things and slipped out before he noticed. But her fingers fumbled over her notes, stacking and re-stacking them pointlessly. Her chest ached with a restlessness she couldn't name.
She felt him before she saw him.
"Still here?"
Adrian Carter's voice cut through the silence like a blade.
Amelia stiffened. She turned slowly, clutching her notebook as if it could shield her. He was closer than she had realized, standing at the end of her table, a storm contained in a man's body — tall, dark suit immaculate, expression cool, but eyes… too sharp.
"I'm just finishing up," she said quickly. Her voice sounded too small in the cavernous space.
"Your group left fifteen minutes ago." His words were calm, but his gaze lingered, tracing her face in a way that made her heart lurch.
"I didn't notice," she whispered.
Something flickered in his eyes, something dangerously close to amusement. "Didn't notice," he repeated softly, almost like a challenge. He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curving — not in kindness, but frustration. "Or didn't want to?"
Amelia's lips parted, heat rushing to her cheeks. "Excuse me?"
He stepped closer. Just one step, but it shattered the careful barrier he had tried to build all week.
Her pulse raced.
"Miss Hayes," Adrian said, his voice lowering, deepening into something rougher, "you've been distracted. You never lose focus in my class. Never. So what exactly is it that's keeping you from listening?"
Her hands tightened on her bag. His words cut straight through her — not because they were cruel, but because they were true. She had been distracted. But not by the work. Not by the endless notes or lectures.
By him.
She wanted to lie. She wanted to throw his words back in his face. But her throat was tight, her tongue heavy.
"I—" The sound cracked in her throat.
He leaned forward, his shadow falling over her. His breath brushed her cheek, warm despite the storm raging outside. His cologne wrapped around her, subtle but devastating. "Because if it's the same thing distracting me," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, "then we have a problem."
The air left her lungs. For a second, the world went still.
Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She stared at him, wide-eyed, searching for some hint that she had misheard, that she had imagined the hunger in his words. But his eyes gave him away — dark, conflicted, burning with something he had no right to feel.
Her voice broke. "You're my professor. This is—wrong."
"Yes." His reply was immediate, sharp, but strained. "It is."
The admission should have killed whatever this was. Should have iced the room over. But instead, the silence that followed only deepened, heavy with all the things neither of them dared to say.
Lightning split the sky outside, illuminating the tension carved between them. The thunder that followed rattled the windows, and Amelia flinched.
Before she could stop him, his hand moved. Instinctively, protectively, his fingers wrapped around her wrist.
The contact was electric.
Her breath hitched, her knees weak. His hand was warm, steady, grounding, but the tremor in his touch betrayed the storm within him.
For a moment, the library ceased to exist. There was only his hand on hers, the look in his eyes, the fire that threatened to consume them both.
Her lips parted, a protest tangled with something far more dangerous. "Professor—"
The sound of his title seemed to snap him back. His jaw clenched. Slowly, painfully, he let go of her wrist, as though it burned him to release her.
He stepped back sharply, putting distance between them. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm too fast for his calm exterior.
"Go home, Miss Hayes." His voice was hoarse, the words forced.
She stood frozen, her wrist still tingling from his touch. She wanted to demand an explanation, to ask him what this was, what he wanted. But his back was already turned, shoulders rigid as he gathered his papers.
Her legs felt unsteady as she forced herself toward the door. The storm outside swallowed her instantly, rain soaking her clothes, plastering her hair to her skin.
But the cold of the rain wasn't what made her shiver.
It was the fire she had seen in his eyes.
The fire she knew would return — and next time, she feared neither of them would be able to walk away.
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