The office was small and smelled of expensive coffee and old paper. Callum was leaning over a stack of papers, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He looked up when I walked in, his eyes showing a brief flash of surprise before they settled into that calm, mature neutrality.
"Blythe," he said, setting his pen down. "I usually prefer a knock, but you're here now. What can I do for you?"
I didn't answer right away. I walked closer, keeping my steps slow and deliberate. I stood right next to his desk, close enough that I could see the faint lines around his eyes. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I touched a book on his desk.
"I couldn't stop thinking about what you said," I whispered. I leaned in just a little. "It made me feel... seen. I don't think anyone has understood me like that before."
I looked up at him, trying to make my eyes look as dark and bottomless as possible. I wanted him to feel the weight of my attention. I wanted to see that handsome grin falter.
Callum didn't move away, but his expression hardened. He leaned back in his chair, creating a deliberate gap between us. He didn't look flustered; he looked disappointed.
"Blythe," he said, his voice dropping an octave. It was firm, the voice of a man who had set boundaries a thousand times before. "I'm going to stop you right there. I am your professor. I am also a married man. Whatever it is you think is happening here, it isn't."
The air in the room felt like it turned to ice. My face went hot, a deep, stinging red crawling up my neck. For a second, the rejection felt exactly like Vance's voice over the phone—cold and final.
But I couldn't let him win. I couldn't let him see how much it hurt.
I jumped back, my eyes wide with fake horror. I brought my hands to my mouth, let out a small, choked gasp.
"Oh my god," I stammered, my voice sounding small and terrified. "No. No, Professor, you... you misunderstood. I would never... I wasn't... I'm so sorry."
I let a tear escape, just one, as I looked at the floor. "I'm just struggling so much. My home life is... it's hard. I don't have anyone to talk to. I thought you were just being kind. I thought you saw how much I was failing your class and wanted to help me."
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, looking pathetically young. "I'm so embarrassed. Please don't hate me. I just need help with the work. I don't want to fail. I have nothing else but this class."
Callum watched me for a long beat. The silence was heavy. I could see him weighing my words, checking for the lie. He let out a slow sigh, his shoulders relaxing just an inch. The "Good Teacher" in him was winning.
"I'm sorry if I misread the situation, Blythe," he said, though he still sounded cautious. "It's been a long day. If you're truly struggling with the material, then that is what we are here for. But we need to keep this strictly about the literature. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir," I whispered, my voice thick with relief. "Strictly the work. I promise."
I sat down in the chair across from him, opening my notebook with shaking hands. I looked like the perfect, dedicated student. But underneath the desk, my fingers were digging into my palms.
He thought he had handled me. He thought he had set the rules. But I had seen the way his eyes lingered on my face for that one split second of doubt. He was a good man, and good men were always the easiest to ruin once you convinced them you were the one who needed saving.