Fiona's POV
The room felt too quiet after he left. Too still. As if his absence carried a weight heavier than his presence ever had—but that wasn't true.
I sat there for a full minute without moving, staring at his portrait a little too deeply, still hoping he'd come back. I had already prepared myself—I was ready to break every rule if only he'd stepped back in.
But nothing came.
The silence pressed against my chest, and the only sound was the soft ticking of the wall clock, blending with the faint smell of paint. My heart was still beating too fast. My body was still reacting to a man who wasn't supposed to touch me, wasn't supposed to look at me like that, wasn't supposed to make me feel anything at all.
But he left without looking back.
I shrugged, pulling my thighs close to my chest. The smell of alcohol mixed with his cologne still lingered on my neck—making me feel like I was still in that moment. My breath caught, and that was what scared me.
I exhaled shakily and stood up, pacing slowly toward the canvas. The unfinished portrait stared back at me, and for the first time, I wished I had never started it. His face on the paper looked too real, too intimate—too much like the version of him only I had access to. The version he never showed the world. The version that kissed me like he didn't care about the consequences.
The version that breathed me like he was starving, and I was the only thing that could bring him back to life.
My fingers brushed the edge of the painting, and guilt hit me hard, like reality crashing in to drown the fantasy his touch had created.
He's married. Older. My father's best friend. My professor.
Should I be doing this?
I wished I could care less, but my heart betrayed me. Somehow, that wasn't enough to kill what I felt.
Instead of sleeping, I washed my brushes, cleaned my table, arranged and rearranged my desk—anything to keep my hands busy and my thoughts quiet. But it didn't work. Not even when I finally lay down and closed my eyes.
Because every time I blinked, I saw his eyes—dark and conflicted, his jaw tense, the exact moment he stopped himself from touching me. The fight in his expression made my body ache. A soft moan escaped my lips, and I pressed my hand against them, but I couldn't stop myself.
My hand moved down my body until I reached my clit, flipping the tip as if it were him doing it. A shuddering moan tore from me, my legs trembling as pleasure surged through me. I was lost—practicing what I had seen in one of the movies that inspired his portrait.
Then came a soft knock on the door.
I didn't notice it at first—I was too lost in the wave of ecstasy—until I suddenly felt a presence. My body froze. I jerked up, breathless, only to find Jude standing in front of me, eyes wide in shock.
I gasped and immediately pulled the duvet around myself. His expression was a mix of confusion and something else I couldn't place.
"It… it's not what you think," I stammered.
His gaze softened, and he stepped closer, letting out a faint sigh.
"I could help you," he said quietly, his voice dropping to a whisper. His eyes narrowed slightly with something that looked dangerously like desire.
His fingers brushed my arm, and I trembled.
"No one has to know…" he murmured, a smirk tugging at his lips.
His scent—strong and masculine—filled my senses, and a strange feeling stirred deep in my stomach. The same one I only ever felt around Jalen.
I pulled back until my back hit the wall. But Jude cupped my face and pressed his lips to mine. I gasped into the kiss, and before I knew it, I was kissing him back.
It wasn't supposed to happen—but I couldn't stop myself. His hands roamed over my skin like I was something fragile, breakable.
I was breathless yet hungry for more. Then suddenly, I pulled away. Tears spilled down my cheeks before I even realized I was crying.
"Get out, Jude," I exclaimed.
"But—"
"GET OUT!" I yelled, louder this time.
"Okay, okay… I'm leaving," he said, catching his breath. He paused for a second, his eyes darting toward the canvas. My heart stopped. For a brief moment, I felt like my soul left my body. But he said nothing—he just turned and walked out.
My heart pounded as I turned toward the painting. Relief flooded me when I saw it was covered. I collapsed onto my bed, exhaling heavily, staring at the ceiling as my thoughts spiraled. I didn't even realize when I drifted off to sleep—only that when morning came, my body was heavy with exhaustion, and my pillow was still damp from tears I didn't remember crying.
⸻
The sunlight was too bright when I woke up. I sat up slowly, stretching the ache out of my neck. The first thought that hit me was Jalen.
I hated that—how naturally his name came to my mind, like he lived there rent-free. But then my thoughts shifted to Jude, and I shook my head, trying to push both away.
I got dressed faster than usual, avoiding the mirror because I already knew what I'd see—puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, and a face that looked like it had lost control.
Forcing a smile, I dragged myself out of the room. Paris was waiting by the door.
She stared at me—not a normal stare, but one that looked straight through me.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
I nodded quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Is it about the assignment? Or something else?"
My chest tightened. "Just school stuff."
"Uh-huh." She nodded slowly, unconvinced. "So you're just randomly up before 8 a.m. with your hair looking like you fought your pillow and lost?"
I blinked. "Paris."
She held up her hand. "I'm not judging. I'm just observing. You look… weird."
"I'm fine," I insisted.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her tone softer this time. "You've been acting off for days—like something's going on and you're trying to pretend it's not."
That hit too close.
I swallowed. "Nothing's going on."
She studied me for a moment, then lowered her voice. "Is it about Jalen?"
My heart stopped.
Paris kept talking, unaware that she had just hit the bullseye.
"Because if it is—just tell me. I just need to know you're not doing something that'll hurt you."
My mouth opened, but no words came out. I forced a laugh that sounded thin and wrong.
"Paris, I'm not—it's not Prof Jalen, okay?"
"Prof Jalen?" she repeated, eyes widening. Her brows furrowed in confusion. She stared at me for a moment, but when I said nothing, she nodded and let it go.
⸻
After classes, I sat through lectures without hearing a thing. I took notes I couldn't even read later. My thoughts were scattered until Paris snapped me out of them.
"Do you wanna go to the sports court? There's a tournament today—it's usually fun. I figured you could use a little distraction."
"Yeah, sure."
I hadn't seen Jalen or Jude all day. I was supposed to be worried, but I felt relieved instead.
We got to the basketball court and sat in the middle row. The players were stretching, chatting, and hyping each other up, while the girls sat in groups gossiping about their crushes.
Then I heard a familiar voice behind me.
"Hey, Fiona."
I turned and saw Jude, holding a basketball in one hand.
"Oh my God, Jude! You're playing too?" Paris asked, her face lighting up with excitement.
He smiled at her faintly but didn't respond.
"As you can see," I said flatly, eyes fixed on the court.
"Well, thanks for coming. I guess I'll see you around," he replied before walking past me.
I could feel the jealous glares from the other girls. Paris nudged me with a teasing grin.
"I think he likes you," she whispered.
"Yeah, yeah—not now," I muttered.
When the match started, I tried to focus—but my eyes kept following Jude. Every move, every jump, every stretch. The way his hands gripped the ball so firmly made me think of how they had felt on me.
I couldn't take it anymore.
"I have to go," I said abruptly, standing up.
"Are you okay?" Paris asked.
I nodded quickly and walked away.
"I'll check on you later!" she called out behind me.
The hallway was silent—all the students and professors were at the game—and I loved the calm that settled over me.
But when I turned the corner, my breath caught.
He was there—standing tall, waiting like he had known exactly where to find me.
Jalen.
I gasped.