A Composure I Don't Feel

I'm not taking notes.

Everyone around me is. Laptops open. Pens moving. Students nodding like they understand molecular bonding already.

My notebook is blank.

Because Dr Adrian Hale—the man at the front of this lecture hall—is the same man who kissed me in a dark alley four nights ago.

My professor.

My very off-limits professor.

And the worst part?

He looks just as shaken as I feel.

You wouldn't notice unless you were looking closely. Most students are too busy being intimidated. But I notice everything. The way his hand pauses before he writes. The slight tension in his shoulders. The breath he takes before turning around.

And every few minutes—

His eyes find me.

Just for a second. Like a reflex he can't control.

I look down quickly every time. My pulse races so hard I'm convinced the entire room can hear it.

This is absurd. One kiss. One reckless moment in the rain. It shouldn't mean anything.

Except my body clearly disagrees. Because every time he speaks, I remember exactly how his mouth felt on mine.

His voice cuts through my thoughts.

"Materials," he says calmly, "are defined by the strength of their internal bonds."

The irony nearly makes me laugh. Bonds. Right.

He turns, scanning the room. His gaze reaches my row. And stops. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. But long enough for my stomach to twist.

Something passes between us in that look. Recognition. Heat. And something deeper—something dangerously curious.

Then he clears his throat and continues. Professional again. Controlled. It's almost impressive how quickly he builds that wall.

"Understanding those bonds is essential to engineering materials that can withstand pressure."

Pressure. That's one word for this situation.

Beside me, Freya leans over. "He's terrifying."

I almost choke. "Terrifying?"

"Look at him. So serious."

Serious is one way to describe the man who kissed me like he'd been thinking about it for hours.

I press my lips together, trying not to smile at the memory.

He continues lecturing with perfect precision. But now I'm watching him properly. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he moves his hands when explaining something complex. He's younger than most professors—early thirties maybe. Confident. Controlled. And extremely, unfairly attractive.

Which explains the quiet sigh from somewhere behind me.

Then something unexpected happens.

During a pause, his eyes drift across the room again. Land on me. This time they stay longer. Just long enough for something to pass between us.

A memory. Rain on cobblestones. His hand on my waist. The heat of that kiss.

His jaw tightens. He looks away first.

But that tiny moment sends a thrill through me. Because the man who looks completely in control? Is not nearly as unaffected as he wants everyone to believe.

A small, reckless part of me enjoys that.

The lecture continues another thirty minutes. Eventually he closes his notebook.

"That concludes today's introduction."

Students immediately pack up. Chairs scrape. Bags zip. Conversations start.

I remain sitting. Because when he glances at me again, something in his expression has changed. The shock is gone. Replaced with something more careful. More dangerous. Like he's already decided something important.

Then he looks away. Professional mask restored.

"Next week," he says evenly, "we begin advanced fibre structures."

Fibre structures. Silk. Textiles. My world. I wonder if he remembers that from our alley conversation.

The thought sends another shiver down my spine.

Freya nudges me. "Come on."

I stand slowly, still trying to calm the storm in my chest. As we head toward the exit, I feel his presence behind me at the front.

I don't look back. I refuse to look back.

Because if I do—I have a terrible feeling I might see him watching.

Two hours later, I'm still thinking about it.

I sit in the campus café, stirring cold coffee, when my phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

I open the message.

How's your ankle?

My heart stops.

I know who this is. I don't know how he got my number—student records, probably. Which makes this even more dangerous.

I should delete it. Ignore it. Report him.

Instead I type back: Healed.

Three dots appear immediately. Like he was waiting.

Good.

I hesitate. Then: This isn't appropriate.

Long pause. Then: I know.

Another pause. Then: I just needed to know you're alright.

My chest tightens. This man—this composed, controlled professor—is texting me like he can't help himself.

I shouldn't respond. I know I shouldn't.

But my fingers move before my brain stops them.

And now?

His reply comes fast.

Now I need to forget I did this.

I stare at the screen. The café noise fades.

Another message: Delete this conversation. Please.

That word again. Please. Like he's asking me to save him from himself.

I don't respond. But I don't delete it either.

Instead I save his number under a name no one would question.

Dr Hale.

And I pretend that's professional.

Wednesday morning, there's a knock on my flat door.

Freya's visiting her boyfriend. I'm alone.

I open it.

Adrian stands in the corridor.

Not Dr Hale. Not my professor. Just Adrian. In a dark jumper, jeans, rain damp in his hair. Looking at me like he's already lost a battle with himself.

I step back instinctively. He steps inside. Closes the door behind him.

We stand in my tiny flat entrance, barely a foot apart.

"You shouldn't be here," I whisper.

"I know."

"If someone sees—"

"I know."

His voice is rough. His eyes are darker than I remember.

"Why did you come?"

He doesn't answer immediately. Just looks at me. That grey gaze dragging over my face like he's memorising it.

"Because I can't stop thinking about you," he says quietly. "And I needed to see if being here would fix it."

"Does it?"

A pause. Then, softer: "No. It makes it worse."

My breath catches.

He reaches out. Slow enough that I could stop him. His fingers brush a strand of hair from my face. Tuck it behind my ear. His hand lingers at my jaw.

"I should go," he murmurs.

"Probably."

Neither of us moves.

His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Tell me to leave, Céline."

I should. Every rational thought screams at me to say the words.

Instead I look up at him. "What if I don't want you to?"

Something breaks in his expression. Control. Restraint. Whatever wall he's been holding since that alley.

He makes a sound—low, rough—and then his mouth is on mine.

And this time—

This time it's not brief. Not restrained. Not a mistake we can pretend didn't happen.

This time it's everything.