I didn't see him for two days.
Not because we agreed to keep distance, and not because either of us said anything after that night. It was just… silence. But it wasn't the kind of silence that comes from indifference. It was heavier, like something suspended between us, waiting for the moment one of us was brave—or reckless—enough to touch it again.
I kept checking my phone even though I knew he wouldn't message me. He wasn't the type to initiate anything. He wasn't even the type to let things unfold naturally. If anything, he would rather press everything back into a tight, controlled box than let anything slip. But the problem was… something had slipped. And we both knew it.
On the third day, I saw him on campus. I wasn't expecting to. He was talking to another professor, standing near the hallway where a small group of students had gathered around their office doors. He looked like his usual self—composed, unreadable, the kind of mature calm that made people naturally lower their voices when passing him. But when his eyes lifted and found mine, something flickered.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't obvious to anyone else.
But to me, it was a spark of recognition—surprise, hesitation, and something dangerously close to relief.
I froze for half a second before pretending I hadn't been staring. I turned away, but my heart was beating too loudly, too quickly, as if I had just been caught doing something forbidden. The truth was, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to walk toward him or pretend nothing had happened that night.
I chose neither.
I simply walked forward, slowly, hoping the universe would decide for me.
It did.
"Hey!"
A male voice called out behind me. I turned and saw a guy from one of my general classes jogging up. He wasn't someone I knew well—just someone who occasionally borrowed notes or asked casual questions before class. But today, he seemed strangely eager to talk.
"Do you have a moment?" he asked, slightly out of breath. "I wanted to ask you something about the assignment."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.
He wasn't looking at the other professor anymore.
He was looking at the two of us.
The guy continued talking, pointing at something on his phone, stepping a little too close, smiling a little too easily. I answered politely, feeling a little uneasy, not because the guy was doing anything wrong, but because the air behind me felt charged.
I didn't have to look to know his eyes hadn't left us.
"Anyway," the guy said, rubbing the back of his neck, "if you're free this weekend, maybe we could—"
"She's not free this weekend."
The voice came from behind us. Deep. Calm. Controlled—but strained at the edges.
I turned.
He was standing there, hands in his pockets, expression neutral but eyes… not. His gaze flicked briefly to the guy, dismissive but polite. A warning hidden beneath courtesy.
The guy blinked, confused. "Oh, I didn't realize—"
"You didn't," he replied evenly. "Now you do."
The guy mumbled something, awkwardly excused himself, and left.
Silence settled between us. Different from the last two days. Warmer. Tighter. Like a thread that had snapped back into place.
"You didn't have to do that," I said quietly.
"Yes," he said. "I did."
His answer was immediate. Too immediate.
I folded my arms, trying to steady my breathing. "You don't get to be jealous."
His jaw tightened. "I'm not jealous."
I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
His eyes narrowed slightly—not in anger, but in the way a person might react when they're caught telling a lie they hadn't prepared for.
He exhaled slowly. "Fine. Maybe I didn't appreciate the way he was talking to you."
"That's jealousy," I said softly.
"It's concern," he corrected.
I stepped closer—not enough to touch him, but enough that the air shifted. "Are you sure?"
His eyes held mine for a long, quiet second. Then another. Something moved behind his gaze, subtle but unmistakable.
"No," he said finally, voice low. "I'm not sure of anything when it comes to you."
The hallway seemed to fade around us. Students walked past, doors opened and closed, but all I could hear was the unsteady rhythm of his breath.
"You've been avoiding me," I whispered.
"So have you."
I swallowed. "I thought you regretted that night."
His expression softened in a way that made my chest tighten. "If I regretted it, I wouldn't be standing here right now."
Something warm and dangerous unwound inside me.
"Then what are we doing?" I asked, barely audible.
He looked away for a moment, as if searching for something he couldn't name. "Trying to do the right thing," he said. "And failing."
My heart stumbled. "So what now?"
He hesitated. Then, with a quiet exhale, he said:
"Can you stay after your last class today?"
My breath caught—not in fear, but in anticipation.
"Yes."
His eyes softened, almost in relief. "Good."
He turned slightly, as if to leave, then paused.
"And… don't walk around with guys like him anymore."
I blinked. "Why?"
His lips curved just barely—too subtle to be a smile, too real to ignore.
"Because I don't like it."
And then he walked away, leaving me standing in the hallway, heart racing, knowing exactly what I would be doing after class.