Fire and restraint

Jalen’s POV

Sleep didn’t come easily that night.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her voice replaying in my mind — soft, pleading, dangerous. “What if I don’t want anyone else? What if I want you?”

Those words had struck me harder than I’d ever admit. I had tried to get rid of the fucking recurring dream I always had of her and now this? I knew her presence in this school would be trouble from the day Harry had mentioned her admission. Now I'm stuck!

Every sane thought I had told me to stay away from her — she was my student, my best friend’s daughter, and too young to understand the weight of what she was playing with. I won't be able to forgive myself if Marian gets to know. But my heart… my heart didn’t listen. It raced every time I remembered the look in her eyes — the mix of innocence and longing that could unleash any man’s determination.

I couldn't get my mind off that oversized sweater and the subtle, tempting scent of vanilla, I almost lost it. I almost reached out and touched her the way I wanted to, the way she would love it.

Almost.

I turned over on the couch, dragging a hand through my hair. I was supposed to be the adult here. The man with control, discipline, and restraint. The same control that had built my career, my reputation, my life.

But around Fiona, all of that discipline seemed to crumble.

“Urrgg, what is she doing to me?” I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Maybe it was the way she looked at me — not like a professor, not like her father’s friend, but like a man. A man she saw, wanted, and wasn’t afraid to chase.

I shut my eyes tightly, trying to block out her image, but it was useless. I could still feel her hand brushing mine at the door, the faint warmth of her skin against my fingers, and that terrified me.

I stayed up throughout the night, avoiding Martian’s endless calls and the urge to go to her room and finger her tight cunt while pinning her against the wall. I shook my head, trying to force some sleep, but it wasn't coming.

By morning, I’d gotten maybe an hour of sleep. My reflection in the mirror looked like a man on the edge — tired eyes, tense jaw.

I tried to shake it off with a shower, a piping hot black coffee, and a long walk before class. Nothing worked.

By the time I reached the lecture hall, the chatter of students filled the air. I forced a smile, nodding at a few greetings, but my eyes instinctively searched for her.

And there she was.

Sitting near the window, hair loosely tied back, a soft glow on her face as the morning sun streamed in. She looked effortlessly beautiful — not in an intended way, but in that quiet, natural way that drew people in without trying.

She looked up to meet my gaze, and time slowed for a heartbeat. Then she looked away, pretending to flip through her notes, though I could see the faint smile playing on her lips.

It shouldn’t have affected me the way it did, but it did. My pulse quickened. My thoughts scattered.

I cleared my throat, straightening my tie, and began the lecture. “Good morning, everyone. Today we’ll be discussing creative tone and emotional pacing in narrative structure.”

My voice sounded steadier than I felt. I paced slowly before the board, talking through examples. But every time I looked up, my eyes found her again.

She wasn’t taking notes. She was watching me — quietly, I always felt it every day, her gaze soft and knowing.

Halfway through class, I made the mistake of asking a question. “What do you think, Fiona?”

Her lips curved into a subtle smile, sending me over the edge. Her voice came out smooth and controlled. “I think emotion depends on connection. You can’t teach someone to feel what they don’t already want to feel.”

A few students nodded thoughtfully, unaware of the undercurrent in her words. But I felt it — every syllable aimed right at me.

“An interesting point,” I replied quickly, moving on before my composure could slip.

By the time class ended, my chest felt tight. The moment everyone began packing up, I turned to the desk, pretending to check my notes — but really, I just needed to breathe.

I didn’t even notice her walking up until her shadow fell across the desk.

“Good morning, Professor,” she said softly.

I froze. “Fiona. You should be heading to your next class.”

“I wanted to thank you… for last night,” she said, her tone polite, but her eyes held something deeper — a spark that made it hard to look at her for too long.

“You don’t have to,” I said quickly. “It was nothing.”

“Maybe to you,” she murmured, “but not to me.”

That was it — the push I didn’t need. I closed my book sharply, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “Fiona, listen to me. Whatever you think is happening between us — can’t work okay? You need to understand that it's too dangerous, and I'm old enough to be your father.”

She tilted her head, her voice calm. “But you're not my father, and you're nothing like him. You keep saying that. But you don’t sound convinced.”

“Because it’s not about what I want,” I said through clenched teeth. “It’s about what’s right.”

She smiled faintly, stepping closer. “And what if right doesn’t feel right anymore?”

I stepped back, my pulse pounding. “You’re playing with fire. Marian must never find out about this Fiona,”

Her eyes glimmered. “Then maybe I want to burn.”

I drew in a sharp breath, torn between anger and desire. “Go to class, Fiona,” I ordered,

She nodded, but the smile on her lips told me she wasn't going to give up. As she turned to leave, she brushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine — a touch so light, yet it set my body aflame.

The door closed behind her, and I leaned against the desk, gripping the edge tightly.

What was I doing? I thought.

This had to stop — before it went too far, before her father found out, before I lost everything I’d worked for.

But even as I told myself that, I knew it was already too late.

The moment she’d looked at me that first day in her room, naked for me— wide-eyed, curious, too innocent for her own good — I’d already lost it. I packed my books and stormed out of the class to my office.

***

Later that evening, I sat in my office long after the sun went down, staring at her name on the attendance sheet. I should have been grading essays, but my mind was somewhere else entirely — back in that quiet room, her voice whispering my name in the dark.

I buried my face in my hands. “Get a grip, Jalen.”

But the truth was, I’d never been less in control in my life. Not even to that wrench of a woman I called my wife.

I wanted her.

And no matter how many times I reminded myself that I couldn’t have her, the wanting never stopped.

It only grew louder.

By the time I left the office, the hallways were empty, the air still and cold. I walked past the dorm building, and my eyes automatically drifted toward her window — the faint light glowing behind the curtain.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring, fighting the urge to go to her. To knock on her door. To tell her everything I shouldn’t.

But I didn’t.

I turned away, forcing my feet to keep walking.

Still, deep down, I knew what I wanted wouldn’t fade fast. And the next time she came close, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to stop myself.

Back home Marian opened the door for me and landed a hard spiking slap on my face

“Where the hell have you been?”