Chapter 2 : First Words
785 Words
Lily walked into the lecture hall the next morning with her heart doing something strange—too fast, too light, like it was running toward a truth she wasn’t ready to face.
She chose her usual seat, the one near the middle, not too close, not too far. Safe. Invisible. At least… she used to be.
She felt him enter before she even looked up. Professor Hale’s presence had a weight to it—calm, controlled, but impossible to ignore. The soft thud of his steps crossed the room, and Lily kept her eyes on her notebook, pretending to write, pretending she wasn’t suddenly warm.
Don’t look at him yet. Don’t.
But she did.
And there he was, standing at his desk, already watching her.
Not by accident.
Not in a casual sweep of the room.
His eyes were already on her the second she raised her head, like he had been waiting.
Something inside her tightened, the air around her feeling like stretched silk.
He turned away quickly this time, as if he wasn’t supposed to be caught staring. He cleared his throat, opened his notes, flicked through slides—but she’d memorized this already. He only ever rushed when he was trying to hide something.
Class began, but Lily barely heard any of it. Because today… the way he looked at her felt different. There was a controlled tension in it, like something he was trying not to let slip.
Was she imagining it?
Was she wanting it too much?
Every time she glanced up, his gaze met hers—never fast enough to feel accidental, never slow enough to feel intentional. A quiet tug, a silent “look at me.”
By the last fifteen minutes, her pulse was wild.
She was writing absolutely nothing.
He was teaching absolutely fine—but his eyes kept finding her.
When class finally ended, she waited for the usual routine: his polite goodbye, his brief smile to the room, the way he always avoided looking too long at anyone.
But today… he didn’t look away.
Students filed out, chatter echoing down the hall, but his focus stayed locked on her as if everything else had dissolved.
Lily felt her throat tighten.
Leave. Move. Stand. Do something.
Yet her body refused to obey.
When the last student walked out, the door clicked softly shut.
He stepped down from the platform slowly. Not approaching her—just reducing the distance enough for her to feel the shift in air, the heat of being noticed too clearly.
He stopped a few feet away.
Close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw.
Close enough that she knew he was thinking before speaking.
Close enough that her pulse drummed in her ears.
“Lily.”
Her name left his mouth like a quiet discovery.
It was the first time he had ever said it.
Her breath caught. “…Yes?”
He studied her face, not with the formality of a professor, but with a careful intensity—as if he had been waiting to speak to her, waiting too long.
“I’ve noticed,” he said softly, “you haven’t been participating.”
Participating.
The word sounded wrong, like he chose it only because he couldn’t use the one he really meant.
“I—sorry,” Lily whispered, heat rising under her skin. “I just get nervous.”
He exhaled once, quiet, almost like a laugh he couldn’t let escape.
“You don’t have to be,” he said. “Not with me.”
Something in his voice wasn’t academic.
Something in his eyes wasn’t professional.
Lily’s heartbeat stumbled.
He realized it. She saw the flicker of restraint snap back into place, the moment he remembered himself—remembered what he was supposed to be.
He straightened slightly.
“Just… try to participate a little more,” he added, voice steadying. “You’re—” He paused again, choosing another safe word. “You’re capable.”
She swallowed. “Okay.”
But neither of them moved.
It was one of those suspended moments—quiet, charged, heavier than it should be. He looked like he wanted to say more. She looked like she wanted to hear it.
Finally, he stepped back.
“Have a good day, Lily.”
His tone was polite.
His eyes were not.
She grabbed her notebook, her hands trembling, and walked toward the door. When she glanced back, he was watching her again—openly this time, no pretense, no disguising it.
Their eyes held.
And something unspoken passed between them—
something that felt like the beginning of a line neither of them were supposed to cross…
but already had.
- Writer
