Erica's POV
My footsteps echoed in the hallway, too loud in the quiet, like the building itself was counting each step I took toward trouble.
Jackson Hale walked ahead of me.
He didn't look back. Didn't slow down. Didn't rush. He moved with calm authority, like he already knew where this was going and didn't need my confirmation. His presence filled the space in front of me, broad shoulders steady, controlled, untouchable.
No one whispered as we passed.
No curious stares. No raised brows.
It was normal for a lecturer to call a student to his office. Everyone knew that. And yet my heart was beating as if I was doing something forbidden.
He stopped in front of a simple wooden door.
J. Hale — Adjunct Professor.
The nameplate caught the light. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for me with one hand.
Polite. Professional.
I hesitated anyway.
This wasn't just an office. It felt like crossing into his territory. A place where he made the rules. Where I would either be seen clearly, or completely undone.
I stepped inside.
The door closed behind me.
He didn't lock it.
That small detail stayed with me.
The office was neat. Cold. Controlled. A large desk sat in the middle, books stacked carefully, a laptop placed just right. Shelves of academic texts lined the walls. No photos. No personal items. Nothing soft.
The room felt like him.
"Sit down, Erica," he said.
I sat, folding my hands in my lap so he wouldn't notice they were shaking.
He didn't sit. He leaned against his desk instead, arms crossed, watching me like he was studying something far more complicated than coursework.
"Tell me what you're struggling with," he said. "Your grades."
I explained. Numbers. Subjects. Distractions I didn't name.
When I finished, he was quiet.
Then he said, "You're not struggling academically."
My chest tightened. "I..."
"You understand the work," he continued calmly. "Your issue isn't intelligence."
He shifted, uncrossing his arms, palms resting on the desk.
"It's control."
The word hit me hard.
I stiffened. "You don't know that."
"I do," he said simply. "People who need tutors usually want help with the material. You're not asking for help."
I stood before I could stop myself.
"You're asking for relief," he continued, voice lower now. "For someone else to hold things steady for a while."
I was too close to him now. Close enough to smell his cologne. Close enough to feel the tension rolling off him, quiet but dangerous.
"You don't even know me," I said.
"I know enough," he replied. "You're not careless. You're cornered."
Something inside me snapped.
I closed the distance between us and kissed him.
Not softly. Not carefully.
I pressed my mouth to his like I'd been holding it back for weeks, like if I didn't do it now I never would. For a second, he didn't move. Then his body reacted before his mind caught up.
His hands came to my waist.
He broke the kiss just long enough to undo the buttons of his shirt, one after another, exposing his chest. Then he turned me, fast and controlled, pressing my back against the wall beside the door. The cool surface hit my skin as his body closed in, his knee sliding between my thighs, forcing them apart slightly.
His mouth was on mine again, deeper this time. Demanding. His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head the way he wanted. My fingers grabbed at his open shirt, nails scraping against his skin as heat flooded through me.
Then...
A knock.
Sharp. Loud. Real.
Jackson froze.
He pulled away immediately, stepping back like a man waking from something dangerous. His breathing was heavy, his jaw tight as he buttoned his shirt with quick, controlled movements.
"Don't," he said quietly, voice low and firm.
"Don't ever do that again."
The knock came again.
He opened the door slightly, spoke calmly to whoever was outside, dismissed them. When the footsteps faded, he turned back to me.
The room felt different now. Charged. Broken open.
"This ends here," he said.
I nodded, my body still buzzing, my lips still burning.
"You say things you don't mean when you feel cornered," he added.
"So what if I meant it?" I asked.
That stopped him.
Just for a second.
His jaw tightened. His hands curled slightly at his sides.
"Then you're standing at the wrong door," he said.
I pushed off the wall, my legs weak, my thoughts spinning.
As I reached for the handle, the truth settled heavy in my chest.
I hadn't asked Jackson Hale to teach me.
I had asked him to see me.
And the most dangerous part?
He already had.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
That sound followed me down the hallway.
I walked away from Jackson Hale's office slowly, my steps steady even though my chest felt anything but. My lips still burned, my pulse still loud in my ears. And beneath all of it, heavy and unwelcome, was regret.
I shouldn't have kissed him.
No matter how it felt in that moment, no matter how badly I wanted to believe it was inevitable, it wasn't right. He was my lecturer. He had drawn a line, and I had crossed it without permission. The realization sat in my stomach like a stone.
I had wanted him to see me.
I hadn't expected him to stop me from falling further.
I turned the corner, and froze.
Sophie stood by the lockers, pretending to scroll through her phone, pretending she hadn't been waiting. Her eyes lifted the moment she saw me, sharp and curious, missing nothing.
"There you are," she said lightly. "That was fast."
I forced a calm smile. "It was nothing."
She tilted her head. "Nothing?" Her eyes flicked behind me, toward his office. "You went in there looking like you were about to confess a crime."
"I didn't," I said quickly.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "So? Gist me. What happened inside?"
"Nothing," I repeated.
Sophie's lips curved into a grin. "That's not an answer."
She glanced down the hall again. "I'm going to his office."
My heart dropped.
"No," I said, grabbing her wrist without thinking.
She blinked at me. "Why?"
"He's not in a good mood," I said. The words came fast now. "He raised his voice at me."
Her eyes widened. "Jackson Hale? Raised his voice?"
"Yes," I lied smoothly, the guilt pricking at me but not enough to stop. "I think he's stressed. You really don't want to go in there."
Sophie studied my face. "What really happened, Erica?"
I hesitated.
Then I did something I wasn't proud of.
"He said he likes me," I said quietly.
Her smile vanished.
"He said he likes me so much," I continued, my voice steady, controlled, "that he doesn't know how to teach properly when I'm around. That he can't focus when he looks at me."
Silence.
Sophie stared at me like I had slapped her.
Then she laughed.
A loud, exaggerated laugh that echoed down the hallway. "You're joking," she said. "That's crazy. Absolutely crazy."
"I know," I said softly.
She laughed again, waving a hand like she was brushing it off. "Please. Lecturers don't talk like that."
But her eyes betrayed her.
The excitement was gone. Replaced by something tight. Something wounded.
"Well," she said after a moment, forcing a grin, "good thing I don't want him that badly."
I nodded, even as my chest ached.
She leaned in closer. "Still," she added, lightly, "if he really said that, that's… messy."
"It is," I agreed.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and straightened. "Come on. Let's go before I change my mind and confront him anyway."
As we walked away together, I felt it settle deep inside me.
I had crossed a line twice today.
Once with a kiss.
And once with a lie.
And the worst part, the part I didn't want to admit even to myself, was that I didn't regret stopping Sophie.
Not even a little.
Because whatever this thing was between me and Jackson Hale…
I wasn't ready to share it.
And I was already too deep to pretend otherwise.