Chapter 5 The Line Between Yes And Nothing

• He didn’t ask me to leave.
• Not right away.
• That was the worst part. The silence. The not asking. The letting me stay. As if I’d already made the choice and he was only giving it breath.
• I held the apple in both hands, gripping it too tightly. The skin was cool, almost slick. I imagined sinking my teeth into it—imagined the sound it would make, the flush it would bring to my face. It would be loud. It would echo in this room. It would feel too much like saying yes.
• “I should go,” I said finally.
• But I didn’t stand.
• “You say that,” he murmured, “like you’re waiting for permission.”
• I looked at him.
• He was still close. Not invading. Not touching. But present. Anchoring.
• And his eyes—God, his eyes—they didn’t drift. They held.
• That look alone made me feel naked.
• “I don’t know what I’m waiting for,” I admitted.
• He nodded once, like that pleased him. Or disappointed him. I couldn’t tell which, and I think he wanted it that way.
• “The world has always told girls like you what to wait for,” he said. “Good grades. A good husband. A quiet life.”
• My throat tightened. “And you think I’m that girl?”
• “No,” he said. “I think you’ve spent years pretending to be her.”
• My breath caught. I looked down at the apple again. My hands were shaking.
• He stepped behind his desk, finally breaking the moment. The spell. I almost hated him for it. But I also needed the distance. Needed to breathe again.
• He pulled a sheet of paper from a drawer and set it on the desk.
• “I was going to wait,” he said. “But you don’t strike me as someone who wants safety.”
• “What is it?”
• He tapped the page once with a fingertip. “A reading list. Private works. Not part of the curriculum.”
• I hesitated. “You want me to study them?”
• “No,” he said simply. “I want you to feel them. I want to know what they do to you.”
• “That’s not academic.”
• “Exactly.”
• I stood then. Too quickly. My knees wobbled, still faint from earlier.
• He noticed.
• “Slow,” he said. That word—spoken softly, but with command—it did something to me. Made me feel seen again. Undressed in a way no one had ever dared.
• I took a step back, needing air.
• And he followed.
• Not a full step. Just enough to close the space again. Subtle. Deliberate.
• I could smell his cologne now—amber, paper, rain. Like memory soaked in ink.
• “You should be careful,” I said. It came out more like a breath.
• His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. A warning in reverse.
• “Why?”
• “Because I’m not as composed as I look.”
• That earned me silence.
• But then he reached out—slow, slow—and brushed a stray curl from my cheek. Barely a touch. His knuckle grazed my skin, featherlight.
• I froze.
• Not in fear.
• In anticipation.
• “Neither am I,” he said.
• My legs almost buckled again.
• “Are you going to kiss me?” I whispered.
• “No.”
• A pause. Too long.
• “But you want to.”
• His voice didn’t waver. “Yes.”
• I felt my body betray me. The way my thighs pressed together. The way my breath came fast and shallow.
• “Then why won’t you?”
• His gaze was fire now. Slow-burning. Consuming.
• “Because,” he said, “once I do, there’s no pretending I don’t know what you taste like.”
• I swallowed hard.
• “And right now…” he added, voice dropping into something primal, “…I still enjoy imagining it.”
• I was trembling again. But not from weakness.
• From restraint.
• “Can I go now?” I asked, barely able to speak.
• “You can always go,” he said. “That’s the difference between us.”
• I took a step toward the door. His eyes followed me, every inch.
• But he didn’t stop me.
• And I hated how much I wanted him to.
• Just before I opened the door, I turned back.
• He was still standing there. Watching. Like he already knew the ending to a book I hadn’t started writing.
• “I’ll read your list,” I said. “But don’t expect obedience.”
• His mouth curved—just slightly.
• “Good.”
• Then I walked out.
• And I didn’t take the apple.
• But the echo of his touch stayed with me the whole way back.