Chapter 4
Chapter Four
PENELOPE
What the fuck is he doing here?
I freeze halfway through taking notes on the syllabus, my pen hovering over the page. The guy sitting in the front—the one with the dark hair, the tattoos climbing up his arms, the glasses he pushes up with his thumb every few minutes…that’s him.
Talon.
The same Talon who was tied up and trembling under my voice less than forty-eight hours ago.
He can’t know it’s me. There’s no way.
I wore a mask. I always wear a mask with new clients until they earn more. The eyes are the thing I protect. Eyes give everything away if you let them. It keeps the worlds apart. It’s always been enough.
Except he’s looking at me like I’m not real, like I’m his leather-clad Cinderella and he’s just found the perfect glass toy to fit the fantasy. Want. Need. Hunger. It’s all there, written across his stupidly handsome face for anyone to see.
I grip my pen until the plastic creaks and keep my eyes on the attendance list. I read down the column like my life depends on it. Maybe he’s mistaken. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe I’m still carrying the club’s electricity, and everything looks like a spark.
Except I can feel it, his eyes on me. Every time I move, every time I shift in my chair, he follows.
Shit.
My weekend life cannot mix with this one.
I need this credit. I need this TA position.
If I lose it, I won’t graduate. And after my mom died, I promised I would finish.
I promised I’d get the degree and sit across from kids who’ve lost too much and tell them the truth.
That they can still build something. That grief is a shape you learn to carry, not a hole you fall into forever.
Social work isn’t a fallback for me. It’s my whole damn future.
So I ignore him. I keep my head down. I put a quiet smile on when Professor Brose starts with the welcome speech.
I write “Week One: deviance, social norms” at the top of my notes.
I try to be the girl who has the color-coded Google Drive and the attendance spreadsheet and the reminder to post readings before noon.
Brose leans on the desk and taps a stack of syllabi into a neat rectangle that will last two seconds.
He starts talking about the difference between folkways and mores.
He says something about how groups draw lines and how they defend those lines when they feel threatened.
He tells them how the study of deviance is really the study of power.
If he knew how strange it feels to sit here and listen to this with Saturday night still echoing in my head. Or knew how good control can feel when the person holding it cares about you, how carefully I keep my two lives in separate boxes that should never touch.
“Penelope,” Brose says, pulling me back. “Would you post the slides after the lecture and add the office hours link? Students always struggle to find my hours on the school’s site.”
“Of course,” I say, and I sound calm. My hand is steady as I write a note on my pad. Post slides. Add link. Check submissions.
I should not look at him. I know better but I do it, anyway.
He’s angled just enough to keep me in his peripheral while he listens.
His jaw is hard. His mouth keeps doing a slow grin when Brose makes a joke that’s not actually funny.
He looks restless in his seat, like he needs to move or he will crawl out of his skin.
When the class laughs, his eyes flick back to me instead.
I drop my gaze fast and feel heat crawl up my neck. I write “labeling theory” in the margin and put a box around it like I’m going to test them on it later. My mind won’t hold the information. I could’ve taught this lecture in my sleep yesterday. Today, it feels like a foreign language.
Brose moves from the desk to the whiteboard and starts sketching a simple diagram with three circles. “What is normal in one group,” he says, “looks like deviance in another. Context is everything. Who has the power to define it is everything.”
I take a breath and force my shoulders to relax, then reach for the Yeti on the corner of my desk.
I sip the cold coffee and pretend it tastes fine before pulling my phone out, slide it face up without unlocking it, and stare at the wallpaper like it has answers.
The lock screen is a photo of a lake at sunrise because my therapist once said I should look at water when I feel trapped.
I trace the edge of the screen with my thumb and count four breaths in, six out. It helps. A little.
My phone buzzes against the table.
Gideon: How’s the first day of class treating you? Work’s boring. Send me a picture so I can imagine what you’d look like bent over my desk.
I breathe out through my nose and lock the phone screen again. I’m not answering him or sending a picture from inside this room, where my worlds just collided.
“Okay,” Brose says, clapping once. “Logistics. Reading schedule on the site. Office hours posted. TA hours will be updated by the end of day. Penelope?”
“I will update everything by lunch,” I say.
He nods. A boy in a backwards hat raises a hand and asks about late work. A girl in a denim jacket asks if we can move the quiz date because of a game. I answer what I can and point the rest to the syllabus. I do the job well enough that no one sees how inside I’m losing it.
Brose lets them go. I wait until every student files out before I stand.
“Thank you,” Brose says when the room is empty. “You’re a lifesaver. If you have time later this week, I’d love your opinion on the new exam.”
“Happy to help,” I say. “I have office hours Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Perfect.” He gathers his notes. “And your practicum paperwork looked great. You’re almost there.”
Almost there. The words loosen something at the base of my throat.
I slide my crossbody strap over my head, tuck my hair behind my ear, and do a fast mental check.
Laptop. Notes. Grade sheet. Mug. Phone. All there.
I straighten the chairs in the front row without thinking and line the dry erase markers in a neat row because order is a small kindness I can give myself when the rest feels like it’s imploding.
I wait one extra beat, then step into the hallway.
Four steps out of the classroom. That’s as far as I get.
A hand closes around my arm, and I’m pressed back against the wall before I can react.
“Talon,” I snap, keeping my voice low enough not to echo down the hallway. “Have you lost your mind?”
He smirks, leaning in close enough that I catch the faint smell of his cologne; cedar and citrus, sharp enough to make my pulse skip. “So you do recognize me.”
“Don’t be daft,” I hiss, shoving at his chest. “Of course I do.”
His smile widens, lazy and infuriating. “Then I’m not crazy.”
“You are if you think this is okay,” I say. “Don’t touch me like that again.”
He lifts his hands like he is surrendering even though he is not. “Fine. Then let me make it up to you. Go out with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dinner, then,” he says, as if that is somehow different.
“Talon.” I set my palm against his sternum and push. He barely moves. “What part of no are you not understanding? I do not date students. I do not date club visitors.”
He tips his head, studying me like I am the lecture and he is trying to catch up. Something flickers behind his eyes. Mischief. Challenge. Need. “Does Professor Brose know what you do on weekends?”
The floor tilts for a second. Cold runs under my skin.
“Keep your mouth shut.”
He grins, dragging his thumb across his lips like he’s zipping them. “Relax, babe. I won’t tell a soul. Our little secret.”
I narrow my eyes, forcing my voice to stay calm even though I want to scream. “You have no idea what you’re playing with.”
“Guess I’ll find out,” he says, stepping back just enough to let me go.
I push past him, heels clicking against the tile, every nerve burning with frustration.
He laughs softly behind me, a cocky, careless sound that makes my skin prickle. It’s the kind of laugh that says he knows exactly what he’s doing—getting under my skin on purpose.
I don’t look back. Not once.
I turn the corner and keep moving until the hall bends again, and he is gone.
The nearest bathroom is empty. I lock myself in the last stall and press my palms to my forehead as I pee.
When I’ve done my business, I step out and face the mirror.
The fluorescent light is not kind. My reflection looks fine.
Polished. Professional. The kind of woman who files forms on time and gets recommendations on letterhead.
No one would guess my pulse is doing that hummingbird thing.
No one would guess that a nineteen-year-old boy with a smirk that looks like sin incarnate has rattled my bones.
“Pull yourself together” I whisper.
I reapply my lipstick, smooth my blouse, and fix the little flyaways at my temple that always escape when I'm stressed. I stare at my eyes and remind myself why the mask exists. Not because I’m ashamed.
Boundaries keep you safe. Because I worked too hard to let a look across a classroom tear a hole in the plan.
I splash water on the inside of my wrists and breathe until the last of the adrenaline burns off. When I can hear my own voice in my head again, I leave the bathroom and head for the stairwell.
My office hour slot is not until afternoon, but I hide in the TA room, anyway.
It’s a small space with two desks, a microwave that smells like popcorn, and a window that faces a line of scraggly trees.
I set my bag down, pull out my laptop, and post the slides.
I link the office hours, update the deadlines, small tasks, and click save.
Done. Each checkmark returns a little piece of myself.
I think about asking Brose to move me to a different lecture. The idea makes me angry. I will not run from my own place of work. I will not reroute my degree around a nineteen-year-old with a grin and a habit of ignoring the word no.
So I make rules.
I will not engage him outside professional needs.
I will not be alone with him in enclosed spaces.
If he crosses a line again, I will put it in writing and loop in Brose.
I will not go to Velvet House until the weekend. I will not use the club to bury stress.
I write the rules on a sticky note because ink makes things real. I stick it to the top of my laptop where it can glare at me when my resolve gets soft.
At noon, I push open the door to head back, and I almost collide with Talon. He stops short. His hand rises, reflexes fast, like he might steady me. I step sideways, and he drops it. We look at each other for a second that feels longer than it should.
“Penelope.”
“Talon,” I say, even and cool.
“You didn’t answer my invitation,” he says, smiling like he knows exactly how arrogant that sounds but doesn’t care.
“I did,” I say. “I answered with a no.”
He bites back a laugh. “You’re going to make this very hard, aren’t you?”
“I’m going to my next class,” I say. “And you’re going to yours.”
He leans back a little and studies me. “I’ll see you next lecture,” he says, and he sounds certain in a way that makes me want to pull the fire alarm just to break the moment.
“Do your reading,” I tell him, stepping past.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says softly, and my body remembers Saturday in one bright, unwelcome rush.
I take the long way around the quad, past the library and the fountain where someone has dyed the water pink. By the time I reach the building for my next class, my resolve is back with a vengeance. I take a seat in the back row, pull out my notebook, and write the date and the topic.
I let my hand fall, open my laptop, and add one more line to the sticky note rules.
5. I will not let a boy I met on a Saturday night decide who I get tobe on a Monday morning.
I will graduate.
I will get out.
I will help kids who are standing where I stood.
And Talon can sit in the front row and try to make me flinch all he wants.
He’s not the one who decides what I do next. I am.