New school, new professor.

Chapter three— New school, new professor.

"He started last semester," Richard said proudly. "Youngest professor they've hired in five years."

I stared at Micaiah, my mind racing. This was impossible. I'd checked. Before I left, before I'd even accepted the transfer to Seattle, I'd looked him up on every ASU page I could find. He'd been at Stanford for his master's program. He'd had no ties to Arizona at all.

"I thought you were working at Richard's firm," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I am. Part time." Micaiah tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve. "The teaching is new. Very new. Like, three weeks ago new."

Three weeks ago. Right around when Mom would have told him I was coming home.

"What department?" I asked, even though I didn't want to know.

"Business Administration. But I teach some cross-listed courses." His smirk widened. "Introduction to Business. Required for all business majors. Small world, isn't it?"

Mom clapped her hands together. "See? You might even have Micaiah as a professor! This is perfect."

Perfect. That's exactly what this was. A perfect nightmare.

I looked at Micaiah and saw something flicker in his expression. Something that made my blood run cold. He'd known. Somehow, he'd known I was coming back, and he'd positioned himself right in my path.

"When do classes start?" I heard myself ask.

"January eighth," Micaiah said. "I have a nine a.m. lecture. Introduction to Business Ethics." He paused, letting that sink in. "Mandatory for all incoming juniors in the business program."

Ethics. He was teaching ethics.

"That's very generous of the university," Mom said, completely missing the undercurrent in the room. "Maliya, won't it be nice to have family on campus? Someone to help you adjust?"

I couldn't answer. My throat had closed up, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought it might break through.

Micaiah leaned forward, elbows on the table, his eyes locked on mine. "So what do you say, Mali? Think you can handle being my student?"

The question landed like a physical blow. Because we both knew he wasn't talking about business classes. He was talking about that night. The night I'd learned things I couldn't unlearn, wanted things I had no right to want.

The night that everything between us had changed.

"I need some air," I managed, pushing back from the table.

"Maliya, we're not done with dinner—"

But I was already moving, heading for the doors, desperate to get away from Micaiah's knowing smirk and my mother's oblivious chatter and the weight of whatever game he was playing.

I made it outside before my hands started shaking.

The desert night was cool, clear, stars scattered across the sky. I braced my hands on the railing of the deck, trying to steady my breathing.

This couldn't be happening. I'd been so careful. I'd checked everything, made sure there was no chance of running into him anywhere that mattered. But somehow he'd outmaneuvered me, and now I was trapped. Living in his house. Going to his university. Taking his class.

The door opened behind me. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"You ran away before dessert," Micaiah said softly. "Mom made your favorite. Tiramisu."

"I'm not hungry."

"You weren't hungry for dinner either." His footsteps came closer. "Want to tell me why?"

"I'm tired."

"You're scared."

I spun around. "I'm not—"

"You checked," he said, cutting me off. It wasn't a question. "Before you agreed to come back. You looked me up, made sure I wouldn't be anywhere near ASU."

I closed my eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me, Mali. You're terrible at it."

"Then what do you want me to say?"

He moved to stand beside me at the railing, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body in the cool night air. Too close. Not close enough. I hated that I even noticed.

"I want you to tell me why you really left," he said quietly. "I want you to tell me what you're so afraid of."

Everything, I thought. I'm afraid of everything.

But what I said was: "You already know."

"Do I?"

I finally turned to look at him.

"Two years ago," I said, my voice shaking, "something happened. Something that should never have happened."

"Something?" He stepped closer, backing me against the railing. "Say it, Mali. Stop dancing around it."

"Micaiah—"

"Say it."

My heart was going to explode. I was sure of it. "I can't."

"Why not? Because Mom's inside? Because Dad might hear?" His hand came up to rest on the railing beside me, caging me in. "Or because saying it out loud makes it real?"

"It's not real. It was a mistake."

"Was it?"

The question hung between us, loaded with two years of silence and distance and everything we'd left unsaid. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to pull him closer. I wanted to rewind time and make different choices.

I wanted him to stop looking at me like he could see straight through every defense I'd built.

"I need you to stay away from me," I whispered.

His laugh was low and dark. "We're living in the same house, Mali. You're going to be my student. How exactly am I supposed to stay away from you?"

"I don't know. But you have to."

"And if I don't want to?"

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I stared at him, trying to understand what he was saying, what he wanted, what game he was playing.

"What do you want from me?" I asked.

He leaned in close enough that I could smell his cologne, feel his breath against my ear. "I want the truth. I want to know if you think about it as much as I do."

Oh God.

"I want to know," he continued, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper, "if you still wake up in the middle of the night remembering the way I—"

The door slammed open. We sprang apart as Mom stepped in, smiling obliviously.

"There you two are! Come inside, we're opening another bottle of wine and Richard wants to show you the plans for the European trip."

She disappeared back inside, leaving the door open behind her.

Micaiah straightened his shirt, composing himself with maddening ease. Then he looked at me, and the smirk was back.

"We're not done with this conversation," he said.