Seams of Obsession

Episode 1 — The Fall

If you ask me when everything started to unravel, I could pretend it was later. A dramatic moment. A scandal. A forbidden kiss in a laboratory.

But that would be a lie.

It started with rain.

Edinburgh rain is not polite. It doesn't drizzle the way it does in Lyon. It attacks—sideways, sharp, relentless, as though the sky itself has taken offence at your existence.

By the time my taxi disappeared, my suitcase wheels were splashing through puddles and my hair had completely given up.

“Brilliant,” I muttered.

First day in Scotland and I already looked like a drowned philosophy student.

The cobblestone street outside my new accommodation gleamed under yellow lantern light. Every stone slick with rain. Every stone treacherous.

I tugged my coat tighter and dragged my suitcase toward the entrance. Just ten more steps. Step one. Step two. Step—

My foot slid. Properly slid. Not the elegant sort of slip you recover from with a graceful laugh. This was catastrophic. The sort of fall that announces itself loudly to the entire street.

My suitcase flew. My dignity followed.

And I—

Didn't hit the ground.

Strong arms caught me before gravity could finish the job.

For a moment the world froze. Rain tapping stone. Distant traffic. My breath caught somewhere between shock and something else entirely.

I looked up.

And forgot how to function.

He was tall. Much taller than me. Dark hair damp from rain, falling across a serious brow. His coat smelled faintly of cold air and something warm—cedar, perhaps.

But it was his eyes that ruined me.

Grey. Not dull grey. Storm-grey. The kind that made you think of dangerous seas and long winter nights.

“Careful,” he said. His voice was calm, low, distinctly Scottish.

My brain had decided to shut down.

“Oh,” I said intelligently.

Fantastic, Céline. Engineering student of the year.

He was still holding me. Very firmly. One hand steady at my waist, the other gripping my arm.

“I'm fine,” I said quickly.

Which was clearly a lie because the moment he loosened his grip, my ankle protested sharply. I winced.

His eyes sharpened. “You're not.”

Before I could argue, he guided me toward the narrow entrance of an alleyway beside the building, out of the rain.

“Sit.” Not rude. Just decisive.

I obeyed.

He crouched in front of me, examining my ankle with surprising care. “You twisted it.”

“Wonderful.”

His mouth twitched slightly. Not quite a smile. “First night in Edinburgh?”

“How did you know?”

“You look lost.”

“Rude.”

“You're dragging a suitcase through a thunderstorm.”

“Fair point.”

For a moment we just looked at each other. Rain fell steadily around the alley entrance. The world beyond felt distant, blurred.

Something strange was happening to the air between us. Something warm. Dangerous.

“You should ice it,” he said quietly.

“I will.”

Neither of us moved.

My heart had begun doing something deeply unhelpful.

Then he looked at my mouth.

And that was when everything went terribly wrong.

Or wonderfully. Depending on your perspective.

The kiss happened quickly. Unexpectedly. Like a spark catching dry paper. One moment we were two strangers in the rain. The next—

His hand brushed my cheek and his lips met mine.

Warm. Firm. Brief.

But devastating.

His mouth moved against mine with a certainty that stole my breath. One hand slid to the nape of my neck, fingers threading into damp hair, tilting my head back. I made a sound—something small and helpless—and he swallowed it, deepened the kiss. His other hand pressed against the small of my back, pulling me closer until there was nothing between us but rain-soaked clothes and heat. He tasted like coffee and something darker, something that made my knees weak. When his tongue traced my lower lip, I forgot my own name.

My brain completely shut down.

When he pulled back, the rain seemed louder somehow. We both looked slightly stunned. His chest rose and fell too quickly. His thumb still traced slow circles at my nape, like he couldn't quite let go.

“Well,” I managed softly.

That was all my vocabulary could manage.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. “That shouldn't have happened.”

“No,” I agreed. But neither of us sounded convincing. Not with the way his gaze dropped to my mouth again. Not with the way my skin still tingled where he'd touched.

He stood and offered his hand to help me up. This time I noticed the faint tension in his posture. Like he was already putting distance between us.

“Take care of your ankle,” he said.

Then he walked away.

Just like that. No name. No explanation. Nothing.

I stood there for a long moment in the quiet alley, rain mist drifting through the air. Then I shook my head, grabbed my suitcase, and limped toward my new flat.

A reckless kiss with a stranger. Ridiculous. Completely ridiculous.

I would never see him again.

Not in a city this large. Not in a world this busy.

Monday morning proved exactly how wrong I was.

Because the man from the alley? The one who tasted like rain and dangerous mistakes?

He walked into my first lecture. Dark hair perfectly composed now. That serious brow. Those storm-grey eyes that had watched me fall apart in an alleyway.

He set his notes on the lectern. Rolled his sleeves to the elbow. And wrote his name on the board in clean, decisive strokes.

Professor Alistair Reid.

His gaze swept the lecture theatre. Calm. Professional. Utterly composed.

Then it found me.

And for one suspended heartbeat, something flickered in those grey eyes. Something that had nothing to do with lectures.

He looked away first.

But the damage was done.

My engineering degree had just developed a very serious problem.