Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
KADE
I walk into her classroom early, wondering if she'll even be here today since she missed Monday and Tuesday.
Part of me thinks maybe she's hiding from me after what happened at the Gala—my hands on her body in that dark room, the heat between us, the way she kissed me back like she was drowning and I was air.
But I need to see her. Need to know she's okay.
The not knowing has been eating at me all weekend, questions circling like vultures.
The door's unlocked. I push it open and there she is—standing at the whiteboard erasing notes from last class, her back to me. Relief hits first, sharp and immediate. I walk over to her, footsteps quiet on the worn linoleum. "Where were you yesterday?"
She whips around to face me, eyes wide. Startled, like a deer caught in headlights.
And that's when I notice the sling cradling her right arm against her chest, the medical white stark against her dark blouse.
"What happened?" The words come out rougher than I mean them to, something dark and protective rising in my chest.
"Nothing. Just an accident." Her voice is too bright, too practiced, the kind of automatic response that's been rehearsed.
I've heard enough lies in my life to recognize one immediately. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." She glances toward the door, checking for witnesses, for anyone who might see us having this conversation. "You need to go sit down before students come in."
Then she turns her back to me again, raising the eraser to the board with her left hand, awkward and unnatural.
Dismissing me like I'm just another student asking about homework extensions or extra credit.
Like Saturday night didn't happen. Like she's not standing there injured and lying about it right to my face.
Fuck that.
My hand goes to her waist to turn her back around—gentle, just wanting her to look at me, to stop avoiding—but the second I touch her she hisses and flinches away like I've burned her. Like I've pressed on something broken.
"Fuck, I'm sorry." I pull back immediately, hands up, showing I'm no threat. "What happened?"
When she turns to face me again, her eyes are watery. Barely holding it together, tears gathering at the edges. The next words out of her mouth sound less like an answer and more like a plea.
"Nothing. I'm fine." Her voice cracks on the word fine, betraying the lie.
"I just... I just need to get through the day.
I don't want to talk about it." The last part comes out softer, desperate.
Like she's begging me to let it go, to not make her explain what's written all over her body in pain and fear.
She's holding back tears. I can see them gathering, threatening to spill over and destroy whatever fragile control she's clinging to.
And I don't know what the fuck to do. Every instinct screams to pull her into my arms, to fix whatever's wrong, to find out who hurt her and make them pay for it.
But I can also see she's barely keeping herself together, held together by nothing but willpower and the thin veneer of professional composure.
The last thing she needs is me pushing when she's this close to breaking completely.
On one hand, I want to comfort her. On the other, I don't want to make this worse. Don't want to be the thing that finally shatters whatever strength she's using to hold herself upright.
I don't get to make any decisions because voices come from behind me—students filing in, backpacks thudding against desks, conversations about weekend parties and Monday assignments filling the air with noise and distraction.
She gives me a pleading look. Not here. Not now. Please.
"This is not over," I say in a low voice so only she hears, letting her see the promise in my eyes. The certainty that I'm not letting this drop, not forgetting, not walking away.
Then I turn around and walk to my seat in the front row, dropping into the chair and pulling out my notebook like I give a shit about whatever lesson she's about to teach. Like I'm just another student ready to take notes.
The whole class I can't pay attention. She's talking about something—Romantic poetry maybe, or Gothic literature, one of those fucked-up love stories she's always analyzing with that professor voice she uses—but the words wash over me without meaning.
All I can focus on is the way she keeps her right arm tucked against her body, protected.
The careful way she moves, like every step requires conscious thought.
How she didn't turn around when she wrote on the board, just stood there sideways so she wouldn't have to lift her arm above shoulder height, working slowly with her non-dominant hand.
Why she flinched when I touched her waist.
Why she looks like she's going to cry if one more person asks if she's okay.
Why she wasn't here yesterday.
So many fucking questions run through my head, each one darker than the last, possibilities spiraling into terrible certainties.
Did her husband find out what I did to her? Did someone see us in that room, tell him about the guy with his hands on his wife? Is this my fault?
The thought makes my jaw clench so hard my teeth ache, hands curling into fists on the desk.
If he touched her—if he hurt her because of me—
I watch her move across the front of the classroom, noticing everything now that I'm looking for it.
The way she keeps distance between herself and the students, maintaining space like she's afraid of accidental contact.
How she doesn't lean against the desk like she usually does when she gets comfortable with her topic, just stands there rigid and controlled, every muscle locked.
The smile she forces onto her face doesn't reach her eyes, and her voice has that careful, measured quality people use when they're terrified of falling apart, when every word requires conscious effort to keep steady.
She's in pain. Physical, yeah, but something else too. Something that goes deeper than her arm and a sling, something that lives in the way she holds herself like she's waiting for the next blow.
My hands curl into fists under the desk, knuckles going white.
Twenty-three more minutes of this class. Then I'll get answers.
The bell rings and she dismisses everyone, already turning back to the whiteboard before students have finished packing up their things.
Avoidance, clear and obvious. She knows I'm going to stay, knows I'm not letting this go, and she's trying to delay the inevitable conversation we both know is coming.
Students file out. The room empties, voices fading down the hallway.
I don't move from my seat. Just wait, watching her pretend to be busy at the board.
"Kade." She doesn't turn around, voice tight. "You should go."
"No."
"I have another class—"
"Not for fifteen minutes." I stand up, moving toward the door to shut and lock it, the click of the mechanism loud in the quiet room. Then I'm making my way to her, footsteps deliberate, giving her time to hear me coming. "Plenty of time."
She finally turns to face me, and I see it clearly now without the distraction of other people in the room, without having to hide my staring.
The exhaustion written in every line of her face.
The pain she's trying so hard to mask. The fear she's working to hide behind that teacher smile, the one that's supposed to say everything's fine when everything clearly isn't.
"Tell me what happened."
I walk up to her, close enough that my chest brushes hers. I don't know where to touch—everywhere seems dangerous, like I might press on something broken. Then I see one tear escape, tracking down her cheek in a wet line that catches the fluorescent light.
My hand comes up without thinking, thumb brushing the tear away. Her skin's warm under my touch, soft.
She breaks.
Her face presses into my chest and the sobs hit—body shaking, fingers clutching my shirt like I'm the only thing keeping her upright.
I wrap my arms around her, careful of the sling, mindful of her right side.
One hand strokes her back in slow circles while I press kisses to the top of her head.
"It's okay," I murmur into her hair. "I got you. "
She cries harder, the kind of sobbing that tears through a person's whole body.
"I lost the baby."
The words hit like a punch. I hold her tighter, jaw clenching against the rage and helplessness warring in my chest. She's hurting and I can't fix it. Can't punch this problem. Can't rebuild it like a broken engine. Just have to stand here feeling useless while she falls apart in my arms.
Questions crowd my mind—what happened, who did this, why her arm's in a sling, whether her husband knows about me. But she doesn't need fifty questions right now. She needs someone to hold her, to let her break without making her explain the pieces.
So I do. Just hold her while she cries, stroking her back and pressing kisses to her hair, anchoring her through whatever storm's tearing her apart inside.
Eventually the sobs slow. She pulls back, wiping her eyes with her left hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break down on you." She looks at my shirt, at the wet spot her tears left. "Oh god, I made your shirt wet. I'm so sorry." Her hand moves to wipe at the fabric.
I catch her hand, pressing it flat against my chest over my heart. "I don't care about my shirt." My other hand comes up to cup her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone. "And you can break on me anytime you need to. That’s what I'm here for."
She looks up at me with those wet eyes, cheeks pink and blotchy from crying. Something shifts in my chest—something I don't have words for, something that makes me want to destroy whoever hurt her and protect her from everything else that might.
She pushes up on her toes and kisses me. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperate heat from Saturday night. Just lips pressed to mine, sweet and grateful.
"Thank you," she whispers against my mouth.
Then she's pulling back, creating distance. "You have to go before my next class comes in."
I grip her tighter, not wanting to let go. But voices echo in the hallway—students approaching, reality intruding. If I stay I'll get her in trouble, make this harder than it already is.
Fuck.
I force myself to release her and walk to her desk. Grab a pen and her stack of Post-its, scrawling my number in quick digits. Hand it to her. "You can call or text me anytime."
"I can't—"
"If you ever need anything or just want to talk, I'm here." I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, breathing in her scent one more time. Then I'm walking to the door, unlocking it, stepping into the hallway where students mill around waiting for their next class.
I leave her there with unanswered questions still burning in my head.
When did this change? When did it stop being about wanting to fuck my teacher and become this—this craving, this need to protect her, to be there when she falls apart?
When did I start caring like this, like she matters more than anything else?
I don't have answers. I just know that somewhere between Saturday night and now, everything shifted.
And I'm in deep.