The lecture hall felt smaller than it had a week ago.
Not because the walls had moved, or the ceiling had dropped, but because he was standing at the front of the room.
My professor.
The man from the bar.
The man whose mouth I still remembered in ways I pretended I didn't.
I slid into my seat near the middle row, my boyfriend's shoulder warm against mine, his knee brushing my leg as he leaned closer to whisper something about how the place smelled like fresh paint and nerves.
I nodded. Smiled. Played the role.
Inside, my pulse was loud enough that I was sure the people around me could hear it.
At the front of the room, he adjusted his notes with calm, deliberate movements. He wore a crisp shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. His hair was neater than it had been that night, his expression carefully neutral.
Professional.
Untouchable.
He looked nothing like the man who had brushed my hair back from my face in a quiet apartment lit by city lights.
My gaze betrayed me.
It drifted.
I caught the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his fingers tapped once against the podium before he stilled them.
Then his eyes lifted.
They found mine.
Just for a second.
And in that second, the world tilted.
It wasn't a look of recognition. Not outwardly. Not obviously.
It was something deeper.
Something that lived under the surface, hidden behind calm and control.
He broke eye contact first.
"Let's begin," he said, his voice steady, composed. The same voice that had murmured to me in the quiet of the night, asking me to tell him if I wanted him to stop.
I stared at my notebook and wrote my name at the top of the page over and over again until the letters blurred.
He introduced himself formally, outlining the course, the expectations, the grading system. His words flowed smoothly, like this was just another semester, another room full of students.
Like I wasn't sitting there with a secret that felt too big for my chest.
I tried to focus.
I really did.
But every time he moved across the front of the room, every time his voice dipped or rose, my body reacted before my mind could catch up.
I hated myself for it.
When the lecture ended, the room erupted in noise, chairs scraping, conversations starting, phones lighting up.
My boyfriend stood, stretching his arms over his head. "I'm starving," he said. "You coming to the cafeteria with me?"
I opened my mouth to answer.
"Excuse me," the professor's voice cut in gently.
We both turned.
His eyes were on me.
"Miss," he said, checking his attendance sheet. "I didn't catch your name."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I swallowed. "I, "
I said it.
My name.
It sounded different in my own ears, like I was hearing it for the first time.
He nodded once, writing it down.
"Thank you," he said. "If you have a moment, I'd like to speak with you during office hours."
My boyfriend's hand tightened around mine.
"Is there a problem?" he asked, half-joking, half-alert.
The professor's gaze flicked to him, then back to me.
"Nothing serious," he said calmly. "Just administrative."
I forced a smile. "I'll meet you later," I told my boyfriend.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Don't take too long."
I watched him leave, my chest tightening with something that felt a lot like guilt and a lot like relief.
The hallway outside buzzed with life. Students leaned against lockers, laughed, argued about classes and clubs and weekend plans.
I walked the opposite direction.
Toward the office I already knew too well.
His name was printed neatly on a small plaque beside the door.
Seeing it there, official and real, made my stomach twist.
I knocked.
"Come in," he said.
His office was simple. A desk. A bookshelf lined with academic texts. A window that looked out over a stretch of green lawn where students lay in the sun like nothing in the world was complicated.
He gestured for me to sit.
I did.
The silence between us pressed in.
Finally, he spoke. "We need to address what happened."
My fingers curled in my lap.
"I didn't know," I said quickly. "I swear. If I had, "
"I believe you," he said.
That surprised me.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly.
"This is… unfortunate," he continued. "For both of us."
I laughed, a short, humorless sound. "That's one word for it."
His eyes softened for just a moment.
"We can't repeat what happened," he said. "This can't exist here."
"I know," I whispered.
And I did know.
I knew this was wrong. Dangerous. A line that couldn't be crossed without consequences.
But knowing didn't erase the memory of his hands or his voice or the way he had looked at me like I was something fragile and fierce at the same time.
"We need boundaries," he continued. "Clear ones."
"Of course," I said.
Another silence.
His gaze dropped, just briefly, to my hands.
Then back to my face.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
The question hit harder than it should have.
I shrugged. "I'm fine."
He studied me like he didn't believe me.
"I shouldn't ask," he said quietly. "But I am."
I looked at the floor. At the sunlight cutting across the carpet.
"My boyfriend cheated on me," I said.
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"That night," I continued. "I found out an hour before I met you."
He didn't interrupt.
"I thought I was being reckless," I admitted. "I thought I was just trying to forget."
"And now?" he asked.
I looked up.
His eyes held mine.
"I don't know what I'm trying to do now," I said honestly.
Something shifted in his expression.
Regret.
Or maybe recognition.
He stood, walking to the window, putting physical distance between us.
"This is exactly why we need to be careful," he said. "Emotions make people do things they can't take back."
"Like cheat?" I asked softly.
He turned.
"That wasn't what I meant," he said.
"But it's true," I replied. "For both of us."
The air between us felt charged, like a storm waiting to break.
He took a breath. "You should go."
I stood.
At the door, I hesitated.
"I didn't regret it," I said.
I didn't look back to see his reaction.
I walked out with my heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The days that followed were worse.
Better.
Both.
In class, he avoided looking at me.
Which made me notice him more.
Every time he walked past my row, my skin prickled. Every time his voice dipped when he explained a concept, my thoughts drifted where they shouldn't.
My boyfriend tried.
He really did.
He walked me to class. Texted me good morning and good night. Held my hand in public like he was afraid I'd disappear if he let go.
I told myself that was love.
But sometimes, when he kissed my cheek, I felt the ghost of another touch linger there instead.
One afternoon, my phone buzzed.
Professor: Office hours have changed. Please stop by if you still need to discuss your coursework.
I stared at the message for a long time.
I didn't need to discuss my coursework.
I went anyway.
His office was dimmer this time, the sun hidden behind clouds.
"You shouldn't be here," he said when I stepped inside.
"Then why did you text me?" I asked.
He closed the door.
Not all the way.
But enough.
"We're playing with fire," he said.
"Maybe we already did," I replied.
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
But close enough that I could feel his presence, warm and steady.
"This isn't about desire," he said quietly. "This is about damage."
"Everything in my life feels damaged," I whispered.
His hand lifted.
Stopped.
Hovered near my face.
I held my breath.
He dropped it.
"Go," he said, his voice rougher now.
I left.
But something between us stayed behind.
That night, my boyfriend held me while we watched a movie I didn't pay attention to.
His arm was around my shoulders.
His voice was in my ear.
But my mind was somewhere else.
With a man who kept telling me to stay away.
And looking at me like he hoped I wouldn't.
By the end of the week, the whispers started.
Nothing specific.
Just glances. Half-formed rumors. A friend asking if I was okay because I "looked stressed."
I told myself it was paranoia.
Until I saw a girl from my class watching me walk out of the building behind him.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
Not kindly.
I went home that night with the sinking feeling that secrets don't stay buried.
They wait.
And when they surface, they drag everything with them.