Chapter 4 The Apple On His Desk

• I didn’t mean to fall asleep in his office.
• That’s what I told myself later. But I think I did. Somewhere deep down, I wanted to. I wanted to know what it felt like to be still in his space. To leave a part of me there, without asking permission.
• I knocked. The door creaked open an inch. No answer.
• “Professor Voss?” I said it softly—testing. Nothing.
• So I stepped in.
• His office smelled like dust, old books, and something sharper—like ink or whiskey or him. The room was warm, darkly lit. Shelves pressed in from all sides, full of titles with names I didn’t dare pronounce out loud. His desk sat like an altar—papers perfectly arranged, a single untouched apple glinting under the lamplight.
• I waited.
• Ten minutes. Then twenty.
• I sat. I stayed.
• Then I stopped trying to stay awake.
• My head dropped to my arms, resting on my bag. I could feel the slope of my spine curl in. The apple sat silently on the desk beside me like it knew something I didn’t.
• And then—I heard the door.
• Footsteps. Slow. Stopping.
• A pause.
• Then—
• “Elle.”
• His voice, low. Not surprised. Just... observing.
• I sat up too fast. Everything tilted. My chest tightened. The room stuttered.
• And then I blacked out.
• When I came to, I was in his arms.
• No—not quite. He wasn’t holding me. Just catching me. Supporting.
• His hands were under my shoulders. One pressed to my back, the other steadying my cheek with a gentleness that knocked the air from my lungs harder than the fall.
• My face was against his chest.
• I could feel the rise and fall of his breath. Slow. Controlled.
• My own breath was shallow. I was shaking. Not from fear.
• “Easy,” he said.
• I closed my eyes. His voice was in my ear now, velvet wrapped around iron.
• “I’m—fine,” I whispered.
• “Mm,” he murmured. “You passed out in my office. That suggests otherwise.”
• He helped me sit. Slowly. Deliberately. He didn’t let go right away.
• When he did, my body missed him before I could even pretend not to.
• His jacket was suddenly around my shoulders. I hadn’t even seen him move.
• I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw something shift in his face. Not concern. Not quite. Something darker. Like he was calculating the distance between restraint and risk.
• “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I said, voice too thin, too raw.
• “You needed rest,” he said simply.
• I looked at the apple still on the desk. Untouched.
• “I thought about taking it,” I whispered. “I wanted to know what it tasted like.”
• His eyes didn’t move from mine. “And why didn’t you?”
• “Because I wasn’t sure what it meant.”
• He stepped closer.
• He didn’t touch me. But I felt him—heat, presence, attention. He was watching my mouth when he spoke.
• “Not everything has to mean something, Elle.”
• “Doesn’t it?” My voice was shaking. “In your world?”
• His lips twitched. A breath. Not a smile.
• Then he lifted the apple and held it out to me.
• I reached for it.
• He didn’t let go.
• Our fingers touched—slow, warm, deliberate.
• It wasn’t a pass.
• It wasn’t an accident.
• It was a test. One I didn’t know how to pass without giving something away.
• “You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said softly.
• “I wasn’t,” I whispered back.
• He let the apple go.
• I didn’t bite it.
• Not yet.
• But I could still feel the pressure of his fingers on mine long after the fruit was in my hand.
• And I wasn’t tired anymore.
• I was wide awake.