The morning light felt like an accusation. I woke up tangled in my silk sheets, the soft warmth of the bed a sharp contrast to the cold memory of falling asleep on the kitchen table. For a few seconds, I was disoriented. I remembered the ticking clock, the scent of bourbon, and the low, velvet vibration of a voice telling me to go to bed.
Then, it hit me. I hadn't walked here.
The memory of being lifted—of the sheer strength in Alex's arms and the way I had tucked my face into his neck—made my face burn with a heat that had nothing to do with the sun. He had carried me. Again.
I scrambled out of bed, my heart already racing. I couldn't let the day start like yesterday. I hurried through my morning routine, the steam from the shower doing little to calm the knots in my stomach. I dressed quickly in a simple cream blouse and skirt, wanting to look every bit the diligent student he expected.
I practically ran to the kitchen, stopping short at the doorway.
Alex was there. He was standing by the counter, his back to me, dressed in a sharp navy suit that made him look like a king surveying a conquered territory. The scent of fresh coffee and expensive cologne filled the air, but the atmosphere was as cold as a mountain peak.
"Professor," I whispered, my voice trembling.
He didn't turn around. He simply placed a plate of toast and eggs on the island.
"Eat," he said. One word. No emotion.
I stepped forward, my hands clenched at my sides. "I'm sorry. About the party. About being... immature. It won't happen again. I didn't mean to make you stay up late waiting for me."
The silence that followed was deafening. Alex finally turned, his silver-grey eyes scanning my face with a look that was entirely unreadable. He didn't accept the apology. He didn't reject it. He simply picked up his briefcase.
"The cab is canceled," he said, his voice flat. "You're coming with me. Finish your breakfast in two minutes."
The drive to the university was a nightmare of unspoken words. The interior of his sleek car felt smaller than usual, the leather seats trapping us in a shared space that felt like a pressure cooker.
I looked at his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his long fingers gripped the steering wheel. He looked perfectly composed, but I could feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
"The weather is... nice today, isn't it?" I tried, my voice cracking.
Silence. Only the hum of the engine answered me.
"I stayed up late catching up on the reading for your lecture," I tried again, desperate to hear him say anything. "The chapter on psychological boundaries was very interesting."
Alex's grip on the wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white, but he didn't even blink. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, treating me as if I were invisible.
"Professor, please," I finally blurted out, my eyes stinging. "Say something. Scold me, yell at me... just don't do this."
We pulled up to the red light a block away from campus. Alex finally turned his head. He didn't look angry; he looked controlled. Which was much, much scarier.
"You want me to speak, Luna?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Be careful what you wish for. Because if I start speaking, I might say things that will make it impossible for you to ever look at me as just a 'Professor' again."
The light turned green. He accelerated before I could breathe, leaving me trapped in the echoes of his warning.