Chapter 5

The Line Drawn

The scraping sound of thirty chairs being pushed back should have been deafening, but to me, it was nothing more than a dull roar drowned out by the thumping panic in my chest.

Professor Thorne hadn’t looked at me once during the entire ninety-minute lecture, yet his presence had been a vise around my throat. Every time he’d paced near my desk, the air had thinned, charged with the phantom heat of his skin.

Now the room was emptying, students murmuring about due dates and midterm review. I felt pinned to my seat, unable to move, unable to breathe.

“Mr. Hayes.”

The voice was low, devoid of the soft, dangerous intimacy of last night. It was the voice of Professor Igor Thorne: academic, authoritative, and utterly untouchable.

I swallowed, gathering the remnants of my shattered composure. “Yes, Professor?”

He was standing behind his large oak podium, collecting his notes with meticulous, almost obsessive neatness. It was a clear attempt at professionalism, but the tremor I saw run through his fingers when he stacked the papers gave him away. He was fighting this just as hard.

“Stay for a moment, please. We need to discuss your… participation.”

The word hung between us, thick and laced with a double meaning that made my cheeks burn. Participation was what he’d demanded in the lecture hall; participation was what he’d taken in the secluded glow of the city lights.

The last student hurried out, and the heavy door thunked shut. Suddenly, the room wasn't just empty; it felt suffocatingly small.

Igor pushed away from the podium and walked to the nearest window, looking out over the sprawling campus green. He didn't turn around. The stiff line of his back was a challenge, a wall built of expensive wool and unbreakable self-control.

“Look at me, Professor.” The demand slipped out before I could stop it, raw, needy, and dangerous.

He let out a sharp, quiet exhale, then slowly turned. His expression was a perfect shield of cold authority, but his eyes, those striking, intelligent blue eyes, were turbulent.

“Killian,” he corrected, his use of my first name a quiet concession. “You know why I asked you to stay. This… this simply cannot happen again.”

I felt a dizzying mix of fear and defiance. The fear whispered, He regrets it. He’s going to reject you. The defiance screamed, No. I won’t let him treat last night like a mistake.

“Cannot happen, or will not happen?” I asked, pushing off my chair and taking a step toward him. “There’s a difference. That night felt inevitable, Igor. Not accidental.”

He winced slightly at the use of his name, and that small, human reaction was my undoing. It showed me the man beneath the title.

“The word is irrelevant, Killian. The fact is that it stops now.” He took a step forward, and the power dynamic shifted, overwhelming the fragile intimacy. He was the authority figure again, the King on his throne. “We are standing in my classroom. I am your professor. This is a university, not a club. The risk to your career, to my reputation, to the entire integrity of this institution, is catastrophic.”

He paused, letting the weight of those words crush the air between us.

“I was reckless, and I violated every professional standard I hold, and I sincerely regret putting you in that position. Do you understand the severity of this?”

Regret? Is that all it was? A professional blunder? It was the most alive I’ve ever felt. He touched my face like I mattered. I don’t want a 'professional standard' from him. I want the man who couldn’t keep his hands off me.

My throat felt tight. “I understand the rules, Professor. But rules didn’t make you kiss me.”

“Do not romanticize this,” Igor snapped, and the sharpness of his tone was like a slap. “That was a moment of weakness, fueled by tension and proximity. It was a terrible lapse in judgment that I will not repeat. I was your professor, and you were my student. That power dynamic alone makes any genuine relationship impossible—it makes it unethical.”

His words, meant to be absolute and final, only stoked the fire of my desire. The forbidden nature of it all suddenly made him more mesmerizing, more dangerous.

“But what about the connection?” I countered, my voice shaking. “The way you looked at me? The way you held me? That wasn’t a syllabus, Professor. That was real.”

Igor looked away briefly, his jaw flexing. He ran a hand over his silver-threaded hair, a gesture of deep weariness.

“‘Real’ is a luxury neither of us can afford, Killian. The moment that secret leaves this room, you lose your academic standing, and I lose my entire career. I will not be responsible for that kind of collateral damage. I won’t destroy your future for a moment of selfish desire.”

He looked back at me, his eyes now cold and resolute, leaving no room for argument.

“You are brilliant. You have a path laid out for you. I am drawing a line right here, right now. It is non-negotiable. We will interact only within the context of this course. No outside contact. No late-night messages. Nothing.”

He waited, not moving, allowing the immense, crushing weight of his authority to settle over me. I could fight him, scream at him, try to force the issue, but he was right. He held all the power here: the professional status, the reputation, the ability to ruin both our lives. I was just the student, desperate and reeling.

A profound, aching sadness replaced the heat of my anger. It felt like a part of me was being surgically removed.

“And if I don’t agree?” I whispered, the fear finally winning out.

“Then I will have no choice but to file the appropriate paperwork to have you transferred out of my course immediately, and report myself to the Dean for an ethics review. I will not put myself—or you—in a position to compromise again.”

He was serious. He would sacrifice his career just to cut the tie. The finality of it was brutal. I realized then that his 'rejection' wasn't about malice; it was about self-preservation and protecting the walls of the gilded cage he lived in.

I straightened my spine, fighting the urge to shatter into a million pieces.

“I understand, Professor Thorne,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “The line is drawn.”

“Good.” His exhale was silent, but his shoulders visibly relaxed. He had won.

“Then I’ll see you next Tuesday,” I said, turning and walking toward the door, leaving the silence of the classroom, and the man I desperately wanted, behind me.