Chapter 7 Shelter From the Storm #2
I took a sip, trying to focus on the tea rather than on how aware I was of him. The way he sat, one arm stretched along the back of the couch, close enough that I could feel the weight of it there. The steady rhythm of his breathing. How his thigh was mere inches from mine.
This is my professor, I reminded myself. But my body didn’t seem to care about propriety.
“Over the years,” I echoed. “You say that like you’re older.”
His lips quirked. “Sometimes I feel that way.”
“You can’t be more than… what, thirty-seven?”
“Something like that.”
The evasiveness should have bothered me. Instead, I was distracted by how the firelight played across his features and how his eyes seemed to darken when he looked at me.
Why does he affect me like this?
Bran’s snoring provided a gentle rhythm in the background. The fire crackled softly. Rain continued its steady percussion against the windows. But all I could focus on was the man beside me and the inexplicable pull I felt toward him.
We were quiet for a long moment, watching the fire in a comfortable silence.
“You’re not going crazy,” Professor Ward said finally. “That feeling you have, like something’s stirring under your skin? It usually means you’re paying attention.”
I set my mug down on the coffee table. “It feels like I’m being haunted,” I said, touching the journal, “but the ghost is… me.”
He looked at me, and the understanding in his gaze made my stomach flutter.
“Memory can be strange,” he said, shrugging. “The past has a way of insisting on the present.”
I frowned. “That’s extremely cryptic.”
A tiny smirk stretched the corner of his lips. “I’m a cryptic kind of guy.”
That earned a shaky laugh from me. His expression softened in a way that made my chest ache. I pulled my knees up, curling into the corner of the couch.
“Do you believe in fate?” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “Like… people being drawn together for a reason?”
He was silent for so long I thought he wouldn’t answer.
“I believe some connections transcend time. That souls can recognize each other across lifetimes.” He paused. “Whether that’s fate or not, I’m not sure.”
“But you’ve felt it?”
“Yes.”
The single word hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. Warmth rose in my chest. I looked away, my face burning. When I glanced sideways at him, my breath caught. His hand rested on his knee, sleeve pushed up slightly.
And there, on his wrist, was a mark.
I couldn’t see it clearly. Before I could ask about it, he adjusted his sleeve and pulled his arm closer to himself. I chose not to push. Instead, my gaze flicked to the worn journal on the table.
“I’ve been writing things down. Dreams. Memories, maybe. I thought I was imagining it all, but now…” I hesitated, glancing back towards him. “What if all of this means something?”
He studied me with an intensity that pinned me in place. His eyes softened, yet there was a weight in them, centuries heavy. “Sometimes meaning hides in plain sight. Sometimes it follows us.”
My chest tightened. “You really don’t think I’m crazy?”
He gave the faintest shake of his head. “No. I think you’ve seen more than most dare admit.”
The fire popped, echoing in the quiet. I realized then how close we’d drawn, knees almost brushing again.
“I don’t understand any of it. But when you look at me like that…” My breath hitched. “It feels like you do.”
His hands clenched, and I thought he might close the space between us. But he cleared his throat and looked away. Uncomfortable silence stretched between us. Outside, the wind howled louder, slanting rain against the windows. Thunder rolled across the city.
The Professor moved to the window, looking out at the storm. “The storm’s getting worse. The low roads will flood.”
I looked toward the door, then down at my damp clothes. I was exhausted, shaken, and confused. The thought of going back out into that storm…
“I have a guest room,” he said, not looking at me. “No expectations. Just… somewhere warm and safe. You can stay until the storm passes, if you want.”
I should have said no. Every rule of propriety, every boundary we were supposed to maintain, said I should call Amy and have her pick me up.
But I was so tired, and I felt more secure here than I had anywhere in days.
“Okay,” I heard myself say. “Thank you.”
Relief flickered across his face, subtle but there.
I pulled out my phone and typed:
Me: Staying at a friend’s. Will explain later. <3
Me: Please don’t freak out.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Luz: U R killing me. But ok. You owe me WILD DETAILS.
Me: I know. I promise.
Luz: you better be safe wherever you are
Luz: or i will find you and kick your ass
I smiled.
Me: I’m safe. I promise.
When I looked up, he was watching me with that soft expression.
He nodded, then gestured down the hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”
The guest room was spare but deliberate—charcoal walls, a low built-in bookshelf lined with worn volumes, and a window overlooking the rain-soaked courtyard below. Cedar and old paper hung in the air, the ghost-scent of his building’s bones.
“Bathroom’s just across the hall,” The Professor said, setting fresh towels on the dresser. “There are extra linens in the cabinet if you need them.”
He handed me one of his old t-shirts and a pair of drawstring pajama pants.
“These should be more comfortable than the hoodie to sleep in,” he said. “Though you can keep wearing it if you want.”
“Thanks.” I took them, acutely aware of how intimate this felt.
He lingered in the doorway, one hand on the frame. The hallway light behind him cast his face in half-shadow, making him look both familiar and strange.
“I’m not great at hospitality,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re safe.”
Something in the way he said “safe,” like he’d been worried about more than just the rain, made my chest tighten.
“Thank you,” I managed. “For everything.”
His expression softened. “Of course, Ms. Blumenthal.”
“Melanie,” I said, a blush creeping into my cheeks. “You can call me Melanie, Professor.”
His gaze warmed, a small grin stretching his lips.
“Then you may call me Kian.” He responded. He hesitated, the air thick between us again.
“I should let you rest,” he said, but he didn’t move. Just stood there, looking at me like he was trying to memorize something he was afraid of forgetting. “Good night, Melanie.”
The way he said my name, careful and deliberate, like he was tasting it after years of silence, sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with cold.
“Good night.” I hesitated, then added softly, “Kian.”
Something like pleasure and pain flickered in his eyes.
He reached for the door, then paused. “If you need anything, anything at all, I’m just down the hall.”
“I know.”
He held my gaze for one more heartbeat, then pulled the door most of the way closed, leaving it just slightly ajar, in case I needed him.
I stood there in the dim room, processing.
What just happened?
I changed into the t-shirt and pajama pants, both comically oversized but clean and soft. Then I crawled under the covers, the journal on the nightstand beside me. Outside, thunder rumbled. Rain tapped against the window. I fell back into the bed with a heavy sigh.
And for the first time since this all began, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.