Chapter Six - How Close Is Too Close?

The weekend was an avalanche she did not want to outrun.

Lena did everything she could think of — scrubbed, for instance, counters that were merely clean, folded laundry so perfectly it might have met military standards — and then walked round and round the block, her earbuds in but no music on, for hours at a time. It didn’t matter. She couldn’t quiet the hum under her skin. Jace’s voice wouldn’t leave her. The weight of his eyes. The note. The box.

That damn box.

Yet still sitting in the drawer, unopened.

Well—except once. Saturday night, after a third glass of wine and soaking in the bath, she had removed it. Only to see the charge, she told herself. If for no other reason than to ensure it still worked.

She hadn’t turned it on.

Not even once.

But she had planted her thumb against the smooth surface. Had shut her eyes and pictured how that would be. How would he feel? And then she had pushed it back in the drawer, as if it had scorched her.

On Sunday night, he came to her in a dream.

He was back in the classroom again, as always — only it wasn’t. No desks. No whiteboard. Just the two of them standing at its center, and a chair between them, as it were, like a dare. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. Heat came anyhow, poured off him, like a tide. She woke drenched, sweat sticking her nightshirt to her chest, the longing between her thighs a continuous ache, her pillow clutched so tightly in her hand that her knuckles thumped.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

She couldn’t not do it, either.

Monday seemed forever away, yet when it arrived, it struck her as forcefully as a rogue wave. She picked her look three times before settling on a neutral one: a blouse in candlelight that hugged her in the wrong way, a black high-waisted skirt, and heels that skirted on the scary side. Her hair remained down once more, curling in patches due to the humidity. She even donned a necklace she had not worn in years — a silver chain and dainty teardrop pendant. The kind she used to wear in the days that she still believed in romance and before she had learned to flinch at it.

It was not for him, she told herself.

It was for her.

She kept repeating that lie until she reached campus.

But when she walked inside the classroom, and saw him sitting there already — legs spread, arms loose on the desk, eyes on her like he already knew what she’d chosen, even before she left the building — every part of her had known the truth.

The room didn’t buzz. It vibrated.

She walked to the front of the room slowly, oblivious to how his eyes followed her, how long his fingers drummed a beat on the desk, timing her steps by the sound of her heels. She placed her materials on top of each other with an unnecessary amount of precision — notes aligned, pen uncapped, water bottle clicked open — and took a breath before she looked up at the class.

Students shuffled past her, thick with the dim energy that came in the wake of a weekend in a small town. She heard the bar mentioned again — something about a stranger buying a round of shots, a friend who blabbed secrets after too many mojitos. Someone joked that Lena should join them more often.

“Twice in one year?” she deadpanned. “I might get reckless.”

A few laughed. One of them— naturally, it was Rachel— arched her brow and said, “Don’t tease us, Lena. We can’t handle it.”

More laughter. A few nods.

She offered a lopsided smile and turned back to the board, her heart crumpling at the mufflers’ dull roar, louder than the students’ voices. Not a single word had passed Jace’s lips, but he felt to her like gravity, pulling her toward the reminder of the impossible night and impossible morning they had spent. Her hands were not trembling, but she wished they were. Her entire body lagged behind her thoughts, lodged in some low simmer that had not dissipated.

Class began as it always did. Her voice was stronger than she felt, her legible notes. But whenever her gaze strayed too far, it found him — still watching, still inscrutable. It was the feeling they had about one another that hummed just beneath the surface. No smiles. No smirks. Just heat. Pressure. That creeping loss that could only happen as you were already stripped naked.

About midway through, she called for an in-class writing exercise.

Twenty-five minutes. No overthinking. No laptops.

As students retrieved notebooks, she circulated a stack of notecards with writing prompts. “Choose one,” she said in that controlled voice she used when her own emotions could run away with her if she let them. “Fiction or nonfiction. Doesn’t matter. Just write.”

The sound of pens scratching could be heard throughout the room. The occasional throat clearing. A few sighs. And then her phone buzzed.

She ignored it.

At first.

But it buzzed again, a single time, a single vibration that seemed to ring down her spine.

She turned it face down, if only to silence the noise, yet her eyes landed on the screen all the Mollye.

[Jface8989] — You don’t even have to use it with me. But I did get it fully charged and ready for when you are.

Her stomach dropped.

Blood roared in her ears.

The room remained silent, students dwelling in thought or words, but Lena sensed she was standing under a spotlight. She shuffled the phone under a stack of handouts, made herself breathe more slowly, and stood as if it had cost her, though she stood at the Molly time.

It did.

She cleared her throat. “We have a timed exercise tonight,” she said, her voice too loud.

A few students started at her abrupt tone. Rachel blinked and glanced up in surprise.

Jace didn’t even flinch.

"We'll have twenty minutes," Lena said, patting down her blouse, which was, in fact, not rumpled. "Just keep your pen moving. Whatever comes out, let it come.”

She got up from the desk and began pacing down the rows.

It was something she did not infrequently — a subtle exertion of presence that did not quite hover. Today, though, it felt different. The atmosphere in the room was electric. Or maybe it was just her. Her own heels tapped lightly on the tile while she walked, a metronome to her growing nerves.

She went behind the back row. A girl by the window was chewing on her pen cap. Another boy had his head down and was scribbling on his desk like mad. The surface of the classroom was silent in the most devious way: calm on the surface, and just below that, her pulse pounded in her throat.

She did not need to pass by Jace’s row.

But her feet had ruined everything, the way they always did now.

She made her way down his aisle slowly, eyes roaming over nothing in particular. At his desk, she lingered a beat longer than she needed to, as though straightening the pile of extra pens on the corner cart next to him. His cologne drifted towards her. Clean. Understated. Spiced with cedarwood and something darker she couldn’t pin down.

She didn’t look at him.

But she could feel him.

When, at last, she allowed her eyes to slide downward to the page in front of her, she was prepared to see lines of writing like all the others. But Jace wasn't writing.

He was drawing.

Circles.

Small at first. Then larger. Looser. Spinning in wider and wider circles till the loops began to cross, one over the other. Hypnotic. Intentional.

Lena felt her breath catch.

She turned away — too quickly—and kept walking.

But before she was three strides past him, his voice stopped her. Low. Just above a whisper. No louder than breath.

“You let your hair down.”

She didn’t stop.

Didn’t respond.

Made her way back to the front of the room instead and concentrated on the time.

Eighteen minutes left.

After class, she moved like someone who was being careful not to show too much emotion. She smiled, nodded, and shooed everyone off with a reminder about the next assignment. She tightened her grip on her notes, which trembled a bit in her hands. Her eyes weren’t roving the room on purpose.

She knew he’d wait.

And one by one, when the last two students were leaving and waving goodbye, he stayed.

Jace was standing leisurely with his arms crossed against the doorjamb. “Ms. Hayes.”

Lena spun around, already half out the door. The strap of her tote bag pulled on her shoulder. “Yes?”

“I had a question…” He was mild. Measured. Too decent to be a menace, too close to be safe. “Could we talk for a minute? Outside?”

Her initial instinct was to refuse.

To keep boundaries intact. To protect them both.

But instead, she nodded. “Just a minute.”

The air was moist and cool outside, heavy with the promise of spring rain.

They were at the outer edge of the side entrance that led to the west lawn, standing on the sidewalk where it met the hillside. A few circles of shadow ringed each circle of light, the parking lot glowing below the amber lamplight.

Lena squeezed her framed bag under her arm closer to her body, as if to stop it from feeling so lonely, since there was nothing else to do with her hands.

Jace kept a respectful distance. There was a loose-limbed, puppy-dog quality in his stance from their last conversation, not in the sense that he slouched or seemed disengaged, but in the sense that, for a change, he was mentally awake. His gaze didn't tether her this time. It invited.

“I’d just like to apologize,” he said.

Lena looked at him warily. “For what, exactly?”

“For the message,” he said. “For the box. For the timing. I’m not trying to put you in a corner. I just…”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I just don’t want to overlook this.”

Her jaw was tight, though not with rage. How hard she was working to remain rational.

“I don’t want to overlook it, either,” she confessed, and the words startled her.

He blinked. Clearly, they surprised him, too.

“But that doesn’t mean we get to just engage it,” she added. “You know that, right?”

“I do.” His voice was low, but sure. “I know what this looks like. I know the lines.”

“Then don’t cross them.”

“I’m trying not to.”

She stared at him. “You forgot a vibrator in my desk drawer.”

He smiled faintly. “Fully charged.”

She rolled her eyes, turned her head away, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself.

Jace’s expression turned more serious. “I’m not playing with you. I’m not trying to get you out of control. I’m trying to show you I’m not scared of what this is.”

“And what is this?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “But I think it deserves to have an opportunity to be something.”

Lena let that dangle in the air.

Because she agreed.

And that scared her to death.

She exhaled slowly. “I’m not used to this. Still feels like I’m the one who’s so… undone.”

He took a half step toward her, eyes searching hers. “You’re not undone. You’re waking up. There’s a difference.”

A quiet pulse between them.

Then, more gently, “You are allowed to have emotions. Even if it’s inconvenient.”

She blinked hard. “You sound like falling apart is an honorable thing.”

“No,” he said. “But allowing yourself to feel something real? That’s brave.”

The streetlight blinked out above them.

Jace stepped back. He wasn’t attempting to narrow the distance between them this time. He was giving it up to her.

“I’ll let you go,” he said. “Just wanted to say my piece tonight.”

Lena nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

And she meant it.

Her heart thumped with each turn and each step to her car. She didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. She could sense his eyes on her until the door clicked shut behind her.

The engine buzzed to life as she made her way out of the parking lot, fingers gripping the wheel more challenging than was probably necessary. She glanced in the rearview mirror once. He was still beneath the light, hands in his pockets, watching her go. But there was no pressure in his stance. No push. Just… presence.

And that was what shook her most.

He would have been easier to chase down. It would be simpler if he were reckless, careless, or impulsive. But instead, he was patient. Measured. He saw her and still waited. As though he understood the battle raging inside her chest was one she needed to lose alone.

She turned onto the hushed street that led to her home and allowed the quiet to fill the car. No radio. No podcasts. How anything beyond just the swish of tires on pavement, the whispering hum of her thoughts coming apart.

She’d thrown her shoes off at home in a huff. The front door slammed more loudly than it should have. She threw down her bag on the entry table and didn’t bother with lights. The hallway was dark enough to make her feel like she was in a cocoon.

The velvet box was still on the nightstand, where she’d left it.

She’d left it there that morning and hadn’t touched it. Just stared at it, like a threat and an invitation at the Mollye time.

Lena stared at it now.

No one was watching.

No one would ever know.

But she would know.

That was what made the decision meaningful.

She took off her own clothes and pulled on an oversized sleep shirt, tying her hair back and brushing her teeth as if she weren’t debating the moral architecture of her adult life while she did it.

Then she made her way under the covers and tugged gently on the box.

Her hand hovered.

Then slowly, she opened it.

The clean, minimalist look shimmers in the moonlight seeping through the blinds. Not intimidating. Not aggressive. Just there. Waiting.

Like him.

Hesitating, she ran her finger down the side. There was a little blue light on the LED. Fully charged. Like he’d promised.

But she didn’t turn it on.

Not yet.

She left it lying on the bed beside her, closed her eyes, and let her mind wander.

To his voice. The gravel of it when he fell low.

About the way he had looked at her — as if she weren’t a woman at war with herself, but someone worth fighting for.

Her cozy world shrank under the covers, breath stuttering. Not from the device, not from touch.

Jace’s hand, lying on hers, across the bar. His eyes when she’d told him she hadn’t come to kiss him.

You don’t have to want me, he’d replied. But if you are deluding yourself, you’ll regret it even worse than if you’d have kissed me passionately and kicked me out on my ass.

She let out a trembling breath from deep within her throat.

And then, finally, slowly, she reached over and turned it on.

Just one setting. One pulse.

Just enough to say yes.

The hum was subtle.

But it wasn’t jarring or mechanical; it was gentle — a whisper against her skin. She switched the setting on and then switched it off again. She didn’t close her eyes. She studied the ceiling as her senses and body rushed to continue, even as her mind fought to refuse what was happening.

But there was no more denying it.

This wasn’t about him.

Not entirely.

It was about her. Her hunger. Her permission.

She pulled her knees up, first one and then the other, heart beating faster than she could control. And for a long minute, she allowed herself to feel. Not only pleasure, perhaps, but the ache of restraint, the breast-beating rush of finally stepping off the edge she’d been pacing for weeks.

The feeling developed gradually, and with it came memories. His breath was behind her ear. His words. His confidence. The danger in it — not because it was wrong but because it was burrowing into something she’d suffocated beneath layers of perfectly pressed cardigans and color-coded lesson plans for years.

She bit down on a whimper. She was gripping sheets with her left while her right navigated her new friend.

And then silence and stillness, except her chest rose once, twice, and fell.

The toy was still in her hand, and she flipped it off.

No music. No applause. No guilt.

Just breathe.

And then the strangest sensation — relief.

Because it wasn’t about proving anything. Not to him. Not even to herself. It was about recognizing what had already shifted.

She wasn’t unraveling.

She was becoming.

The sun rose the next morning unceremoniously, but Lena was affected by it now. The intentionality of it chewed her up and spit her back out into the waking world, where she had spent so long nursing a hope that she had no use for. She still went for flats, still pulled her hair back — but it wasn’t to hide.

Except it wasn’t really about not needing the performance.

She departed her home before 8 a.m., trod the path to campus with a somber kind of calm, and never once checked her phone until she reached her office.

There it was.

[Jface8989] — Morning.

No question. No hint. Just a check-in.

That could be what caused her to respond.

[LenaHayes] — Morning. And thank you!;)

This was her first response, and it was probably the first time she had been intentionally playful with him.

It was noncommittal enough to be polite. But they both knew it was something more.

He replied five minutes later.

[Jface8989] — You’re welcome. Hope the night gave you a good… release ;).

She smiled. Just barely.

Then she closed the phone, bundled up her class materials, and walked into the hallway with that particular self-assured peace that only comes from someone who has finally stopped lying to herself.

Whatever was to come, she wasn’t scared of it any longer.

Because now, Lena Hayes had made her play.

And it had been all perfectly, unapologetically, hers.

[Author’s Note]

🔥 Lena finally opened the box—but the choice she made tonight is only the beginning. In Chapter Six, the line between control and surrender blurs even more.