Chapter Three
Erica's POV
I walked into class the next morning already losing a battle I hadn't agreed to fight.
Sleep had come in pieces, broken by thoughts I didn't invite. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him, not his face exactly, but the way his attention felt. Steady. Unavoidable. Like standing too close to a fire you swear you won't touch.
I told myself I was imagining things.
I told myself he was just a lecturer.
But my body didn't believe me.
The lecture hall buzzed softly as students settled in. Laughter. Phones. The scrape of chairs. I took my usual seat, spine straight, movements careful, too careful. I had learned early that when people already think you're perfect, any crack becomes a spectacle.
I hated how people watched me walk.
Hated how they whispered that I was "too put together," "too quiet," "too flawless to be real."
Perfection was lonely.
Then Jackson Hale walked in.
The room changed. It always did.
He didn't demand attention. He didn't need to. He simply existed in a way that made noise unnecessary. His sleeves were rolled up today, forearms exposed, veins faint beneath the skin. He placed his notes on the desk, adjusted the marker, and looked up.
Our eyes met.
Just briefly.
But it felt like too much.
I looked away first, my pulse betraying me.
The lecture began. His voice was calm, even, threaded with patience. I listened, truly listened, but I refused to engage. No raised hand. No comments. No spark. I kept my head down, scribbling notes I didn't need.
I could feel him noticing.
"Erica," he said eventually.
My stomach flipped.
"Yes?"
"You've been quiet today."
Every head turned slightly. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to feel exposed.
"I don't have anything to add," I replied.
It wasn't true. It was never true with him.
He studied me for a moment, eyes thoughtful, sharp. Not annoyed. Not pleased. Just… attentive. Then he nodded and turned back to the board.
But something had shifted.
I felt it like a wire pulled too tight.
When class ended, I packed my bag quickly. I didn't want him near me. I didn't trust myself when he was.
"Erica," he said.
My name sounded different in his voice. Too steady. Too familiar.
"A moment."
The room emptied slowly, every step of every student dragging the moment out longer than necessary. I stayed seated, pretending to organize my bag.
When he reached my desk, he held out my pen.
"You dropped this."
Our fingers brushed.
The contact was brief. Innocent. It still sent a jolt through me.
"Thank you," I said.
He didn't move away.
"You asked about private tutoring," he said. "I've considered it."
My heart stuttered. "And?"
"I'm willing."
Hope bloomed too fast, too bright.
"But," he added, gently but firmly, "only if I speak with your guardian. Just to establish boundaries."
The word guardian felt like a door slamming shut.
"No," I said.
He blinked. "No?"
"I can't do that."
"Then I can't tutor you privately."
The disappointment hit harder than I expected, sharp and humiliating.
"So you're saying you won't help me," I said, heat rising in my chest.
"I'm saying I won't do this irresponsibly."
I laughed, but it came out wrong. "Of course. Responsibility."
"Erica," he said, lowering his voice, "this isn't about rules for the sake of rules. It's about why you're asking."
The air felt thinner.
"You don't care," I said, the words slipping free before I could stop them. "If you did, you wouldn't make it so difficult."
He went still.
Very still.
Then he said, slowly, clearly, "You're wrong."
My throat tightened. "You don't love me."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush me.
Jackson stared at me, disbelief flickering across his face, not anger, not disgust, but shock.
"I don't even know you," he said. "And that's exactly why you need to slow down."
The truth of it burned.
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean..."
"I know," he said, softer now. Then his tone shifted, firm but controlled.
"If you want tutoring, we'll do it the right way. But if you're running from something… don't run into me."
The words lodged themselves somewhere deep.
I realized then, with a sick twist in my chest, that he saw me.
Not the perfect student. Not the quiet girl. Not the untouchable image.
Me.
"I had asked him to teach me," I thought.
"I hadn't expected him to read me."
I nodded, stiff and embarrassed, and left before he could see how badly my hands were shaking.
After that, I became someone else in his class.
I stopped answering questions I knew the answers to. When he praised my work, I shrugged. When he corrected me, I bristled. I kept my distance, my tone clipped, my eyes cold.
It was childish.
I knew it.
But it felt safer than wanting.
By the third lecture, the tension between us was undeniable. Sophie noticed. Everyone did.
When class ended, his voice cut through the noise.
"Erica. Stay behind."
My heart sank straight to my stomach.
Students filed out slowly, curiosity thick in the air. When the room was empty, Jackson turned to face me fully.
"You're pushing back," he said. "And you don't even know why."
"I'm fine," I said.
"No," he replied. "You're not. And I won't let whatever this is bleed into the classroom."
I crossed my arms. "You told me to take it easy. I am."
"You're building walls," he said quietly. "And you're doing it badly."
I hated that he was right.
"Come to my office," he said after a pause. "Now."
"Why?"
"Because whatever you're trying to outrun," he replied, "you don't get to do it here."
I followed him down the corridor, every step heavy with awareness.
Somewhere deep inside me, a terrifying truth took shape.
Jackson Hale wasn't dangerous because he crossed lines.
He was dangerous because he saw them.
And somehow, without meaning to…
I had already crossed one.