The campus library at dusk was quiet, bathed in the soft light filtering through tall arched windows. The glow scattered across the heavy bookshelves and wooden desks, mingling with the faint scent of paper and ink and a trace of cool evening air.
Manida adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses on her nose and set down a stack of graded papers with deliberate precision. Her expression, as always, was calm and composed—almost distant. Known across the faculty for her strictness, she had long since mastered the art of using restraint and indifference as armor to conceal her own fragile places.
And yet, Parin was like an unexpected gust of wind—constantly unsettling her well-ordered world.
"Professor Manida, your students' papers are just as neat as always," Parin said suddenly, appearing beside the desk, her tone laced with teasing amusement.
Manida frowned and looked up. In that moment, the light struck Parin's face just so, tracing the gentle curve of her cheek, her confident gaze shimmering with unspoken challenge.
"I don't recall asking you to review my grading methods," Manida replied coolly, her tone edged with frost.
Parin didn't seem the least bit offended. Instead, she pulled out a chair and sat down across from her.
"I was just wondering—don't those glasses feel a bit heavy to wear all the time? You should try a different look. It might suit you better."
Manida gave a soft, dismissive snort. "Style is something for people who enjoy drawing attention. A professor's duty isn't to be approachable—it's to be respected."
Parin rested her chin on one hand, a knowing smile playing at her lips.
"Respect and distance… there's only a thin line between them. Don't you think you rely a bit too much on keeping people away to protect yourself?"
The words struck deep—sharp as a needle beneath the skin. Manida's hand tightened around her pen until her knuckles whitened. After a pause, she said coldly, "You don't know me."
"Then let me get to know you," Parin said softly, her tone calm but resolute.
A flicker of something broke through Manida's composure. For an instant, she felt the walls she had built begin to crack. She wanted to push back, to say something sharp, but her throat felt tight, and all she could do was avert her eyes from Parin's burning gaze.
The air between them grew heavy.
Changing the subject, Manida said quietly, "How's your research coming along? I heard the faculty committee's been impressed with your recent work."
Parin's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Is that concern I hear in your voice?"
Manida snapped her head up, her face hardening. "I'm merely fulfilling my duty as a colleague."
"Duty…" Parin echoed, her tone low, almost a whisper. Then she smiled again, a little more daring this time. "Funny. It didn't sound like duty to me."
Her voice dipped lower—soft, intimate, tinged with an unmistakable trace of flirtation. The subtle provocation sent a jolt through Manida; she took half a step back without meaning to. Her pulse quickened in her chest, pounding in rhythm with something she didn't want to name.
The edge between tension and tenderness—between danger and desire—had begun to blur.
"Parin," Manida warned, her tone sharp though her voice trembled slightly, "I suggest you not cross the line."
Parin only smiled wider. Standing, she leaned in close—so close that Manida could see the faint tremor of her eyelashes.
"Lines," she murmured, "are meant to be crossed."
The air froze. Manida could smell the faint trace of sandalwood from Parin's perfume, and it sent her thoughts into disarray.
Just then, a sudden blare of car horns echoed from outside the building—loud, jarring, intrusive in the silence of the library. Manida flinched, her eyes flashing with something like unease.
Parin noticed immediately; her smile softened. "Don't worry," she said gently. "Probably just someone driving carelessly."
Manida didn't answer. Her hand had tightened again around her pen. That harsh sound still echoed in her chest, carrying a strange, foreboding weight.
Parin, unbothered, turned to leave. As she moved past, the hem of her blouse brushed lightly against Manida's hand. The faint contact made Manida's fingers tremble—but she didn't pull away.
The distance between them had quietly disappeared.
Ambiguity and defiance—two converging lines—had begun their slow, inevitable approach.
And somewhere beyond that fragile calm, a coming storm was already taking shape.