Midnight fibres

The engineering building feels completely different at night.During the day it's full of noise—students rushing, machines humming, lectures echoing through halls. At midnight, it's almost peaceful. Fluorescent lights buzz softly overhead, and long hallways echo with every step.Technically, students aren't supposed to be here this late. But Maisie gave me the after-hours code for the textile lab. "Creative emergencies," she called it.Tonight qualifies.Because I can't stop thinking about the assignment. Or the emails. Or the way Professor Adrian Hale said he was "looking forward" to my approach. That single line has been replaying in my head all evening.Not because it was flirtatious. It wasn't. It was simply interested. Curious.And curiosity from a man like him feels strangely intoxicating.I push open the lab door.Inside, the room smells faintly of cotton fibres and machine oil. Large testing eq

lines that must not be crossed

Adrian's POVThe moment I leave the lab, the cold Edinburgh air hits me like a reprimand.Good. I deserve it.The university courtyard is nearly empty at this hour. Rain drifts lazily through the yellow glow of streetlamps, and the ancient stone buildings loom like silent judges. Inside one of those buildings is a student. A brilliant, curious, dangerously captivating student.And I just spent twenty minutes watching her weave silk like it was second nature.I walk faster. Distance. That's the only sensible strategy now.Because the problem isn't simply that Céline Laurent is attractive. Universities are full of attractive people. The problem is that she is fascinating. And fascination is much harder to control.By the time I reach my flat, the rain has soaked through my coat. Perfect. A cold shower for the brain.Inside, the apartment is dark and quiet. I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and stare

jealousy is a poison

Céline’s POVThe pub is louder than it should be. Or perhaps my head is simply louder tonight.Music pulses through the crowded room, laughter bouncing off the walls, glasses clinking. My classmates are everywhere—shouting, joking, already several drinks ahead of good judgement.This was supposed to help. A distraction. A way to prove the universe contains more than one dangerously intelligent man with grey eyes and a voice that lingers in my thoughts like silk slipping through fingers.So far, the plan is failing. Spectacularly."Another round?" Callum asks, appearing beside me with two pints already in hand.He's handsome in the effortless way confident men tend to be—tousled hair, mischievous grin, easy charm. Tonight, he is clearly trying very hard."Why not," I reply, accepting the drink. The beer is cold and slightly bitter. I take a generous sip.Across the table, Priya is laughing so hard she nearly knoc

A Drunken Confrontation

Céline's povThe cold air outside the pub should sober me.It doesn't.My steps across the street are uneven, cobblestones tilting beneath my boots like the entire city is gently rocking. Or maybe that's just the beer.Adrian notices me halfway across the road. I see the exact moment recognition hits him. His posture stiffens. His shoulders straighten. Professor mode.But it's too late for that now.Because I'm already standing in front of him. Too close. Close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough to remember exactly how that jaw felt beneath my fingers in the rain.Sienna's eyes flick between us with unsettling sharpness."Céline, isn't it?" she says smoothly. Her voice is pleasant. Too pleasant."Yes," I reply, trying—and failing—to sound completely sober.Adrian clears his throat. "Miss Laurent."The formality lands between us like a slap.I

The sewing room confession

Céline's povSunday mornings in the flat are quiet. Almost sacred.Sunlight filters through the tall Edinburgh windows, pale and gentle against the wooden floors. The city outside is still waking up—distant buses, the occasional gull crying above the rooftops.Inside, the world smells like coffee and fabric.I sit cross-legged on the floor of the small sewing room we claimed as a "creative space," surrounded by spools of thread and scraps of silk I brought from Lyon. A soft French folk song hums under my breath as my fingers guide the needle through pale ivory fabric.It's calming. Predictable.Unlike the rest of my life lately.Because every time my mind goes quiet—it returns to him. His voice. His eyes. The way he said my name last night. Goodnight, Céline.I stab the needle a little harder than necessary.Focus. Thread. Fabric. Precision. This is something I understand.The door creaks open

All Chapters of Seams of Obsession : Chapter 11 - Chapter 15

Midnight fibres

lines that must not be crossed

jealousy is a poison

A Drunken Confrontation

The sewing room confession