Jackson's POV
The lecture hall should have been familiar ground.
Rows of seats. Whiteboard. Projector humming softly. The same space I had commanded for years without hesitation, without fear. A place where I knew who I was and what I was supposed to be.
Today, it felt unfamiliar.
Unsteady.
I stepped inside, adjusting my jacket out of habit, my mind already half on the material, half on everything I was trying not to think about.
And then I saw her.
Erica.
She was seated where she always sat, posture straight, notebook open, pen aligned carefully at the top of the page. She looked composed, calm, almost distant. Like someone who had decided to put herself back together and pretend nothing had happened.
The sight of her hit me harder than I expected.
My steps slowed.
Not enough for anyone to call it out. But enough.
Enough that my body betrayed me before my discipline could step in.
I stopped walking.
Just for a second.
The room continued buzzing around me, chairs scraping, low laughter, phones being silenced, but I stood there, staring at her, aware of a tightness settling deep in my chest.
This was a mistake.
Not her.
This.
The situation. The way I was already reacting to her presence like I didn't know how to separate my roles anymore.
I forced myself forward, placing my notes on the podium, turning to face the class.
"Good morning," I said.
My voice sounded steady. Controlled. Professional.
Thank God.
The lecture began the way it always did. I explained the topic, outlined the objectives, wrote key terms on the board. My body moved on muscle memory alone, years of teaching carrying me forward while my mind lagged behind.
I kept telling myself not to look at her.
I failed almost immediately.
Every time her pen moved. Every time she shifted in her seat. Every time she looked up.
I was hyper-aware of her in a way that frightened me. Not because of desire alone, but because of how visible it made my distraction feel.
When her hand rose, my stomach tightened.
I didn't plan to call on her first.
I really didn't.
But the moment her fingers lifted into the air, my attention snapped to her like she'd pulled on something inside me.
"Yes," I said, already looking at her.
Too quickly.
I saw it then, the way a few students glanced between us. The way someone in the second row raised an eyebrow.
Erica asked her question clearly, intelligently, her voice steady despite the tension I knew she felt. It was a good question. A very good one. The kind lecturers secretly hope for because it shows engagement, thought, effort.
I answered her carefully.
Too carefully.
I slowed my pace. Explained the concept from multiple angles. Used her wording to frame the discussion, turning her question into the foundation of the next section.
"As Erica pointed out," I said, gesturing lightly, "this is where most interpretations fail. What matters is how you define the variable, not just how you apply it."
I heard my own tone shift.
Softer. More focused. Almost… proud.
That was when I knew I'd made another mistake.
The room reacted before Erica did.
A quiet ripple moved through the class, looks exchanged, whispers forming and dying quickly. Someone in the back leaned over and muttered something that made their friend snort under their breath.
Sophie didn't whisper.
She stared.
I felt her eyes on me, sharp and unblinking, assessing something she didn't yet have proof of but already suspected.
Erica noticed the attention a second later.
I saw it in the way her shoulders tensed, the way she lowered her hand and focused too hard on her notebook. When I finished answering, she didn't ask a follow-up question like she normally would.
She stayed silent.
The rest of the lecture should have flowed smoothly.
It didn't.
I lost my rhythm. My thoughts scattered more easily. I had to glance at my notes more often than usual, grounding myself, reminding myself where I was.
Still, our eyes met.
Again. And again.
Not by accident.
Each time felt like standing too close to an edge.
Once, mid-explanation, my mind went completely blank.
I stopped talking.
The silence in the hall was immediate and heavy. Dozens of faces stared back at me, waiting.
I blinked, heart pounding, and forced the next sentence out of my mouth. My ears burned. I could feel my composure cracking, just slightly.
This had never happened to me before.
I was not this lecturer. I was not this careless.
Erica looked away first.
I wished she hadn't.
When the lecture finally ended, relief washed over me far too intensely. I dismissed the class, gathering my notes with hands that felt unsteady despite my best effort to appear normal.
As students filed out, I heard it.
Quiet. Sharp. Close enough.
"Why does she always get special treatment?"
The words landed harder than they should have.
I didn't turn around. Didn't respond.
I watched Erica stand quickly, sling her bag over her shoulder, and leave without a backward glance. She didn't wait for friends. Didn't linger the way she used to.
She was running.
From me.
From the attention.
From something she didn't know how to stop.
The next lecture, she changed seats.
That alone unsettled me more than I expected.
She sat farther back, closer to the aisle, her body angled slightly away from the center of the room. She kept her eyes down, her pen moving quickly, efficiently.
She didn't raise her hand.
Not once.
Her silence was loud.
I found myself pausing instinctively, waiting for her input, catching myself every time. The absence of her voice felt like a missing piece I couldn't stop noticing.
She left immediately after class.
Every time.
No eye contact. No hesitation. No acknowledgment.
And still, everyone noticed.
Including me.
One day, halfway through an explanation, I made the mistake I'd been dreading.
"Erica"
The name slipped out before I could stop it.
The room froze.
I corrected myself instantly, but the damage had already been done. Every head turned toward her. She looked up, startled, her face flushing faintly before she looked back down.
The silence stretched painfully long.
I finished the lecture on autopilot after that, my chest tight with frustration and something dangerously close to guilt.
After class, I saw Sophie approach her.
Erica shook her head almost immediately, her body language closed, defensive. Sophie didn't look satisfied. She watched Erica walk away with narrowed eyes.
I stood alone at the front of the room long after everyone had gone.
My notes lay untouched.
My thoughts were anything but quiet.
Erica had tried to fix it. To create distance. To protect both of us.
And somehow, that had made everything worse.
I rubbed a hand over my face, exhaling slowly.
This wasn't desire anymore.
This was risk.
And the tension was no longer just between us.
It was in the room. In the whispers. In the pauses.
And I didn't know how long I could keep pretending everything was under control.