Chapter Seventeen - Olivia Returns
956 Words
Olivia stepped into the lecture hall five minutes early.
It wasn’t like her. But today, she needed the stillness before everything started—the sound of her own footsteps on the floor, the weight of her bag on her shoulder, the controlled rhythm of her breath.
She wasn’t sure what to expect.
He walked in exactly on time.
Nick.
Eyes sharp. Jaw set. Every inch of him was intentional.
He scanned the room as he always did, but paused when he saw her. Something flickered in his gaze—something unreadable—and then he kept moving, walking to his desk like nothing had changed.
The class was normal. Or at least, it pretended to be. But the air between them? It was all wrong. Heavy, like an argument had happened silently in their absence and now neither of them wanted to be the one to break it open.
When it ended, Olivia packed slowly. She was the last to leave. She knew he’d wait. He always did.
“Olivia,” he said as soon as the last student slipped out the door.
She looked up. “Yes, Professor?”
He flinched slightly at the formality, then recovered. “Where were you Monday?”
She tilted her head. “Why do you care?”
His jaw ticked. “You were absent.”
“And you were at the beach,” she said flatly, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I didn’t ask where you were. Or who you were with.”
He stepped closer, his tone lowering. “I asked because I noticed. That’s all.”
“Did you notice me gone,” she murmured, “or did you just want to know if I noticed you?”
Nick’s expression darkened. “You’re acting like this is something it’s not.”
Her eyes met his. “Isn’t it?”
Silence. Thick. Loaded.
“Don’t do that,” he said finally. “Don’t twist this.”
“I’m not twisting anything. I stayed an extra day at home. That’s all. What does it matter?”
“It doesn’t,” he said, too quickly. Too sharply.
She blinked. “Okay.”
The coldness returned, subtle but real. The one she’d seen before. The one she hated.
He turned like he was going to leave.
And maybe he would have.
But then she said, quietly, “You didn’t even text.”
He stopped. Still. A long pause. Then he turned around.
Nick closed the door.
She didn’t move.
He came to her—measured steps, steady, deliberate. He didn’t touch her at first. Just stared down at her like he was deciding something in his head. Then his hand went to her chin, tilted it up slowly.
“You wanted me to text you?” he asked, voice low.
“I didn’t say that,” she whispered.
“But you meant it.”
She swallowed. Her pulse was all over the place.
He stepped in closer. “You said it didn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t,” she said, even though her voice trembled.
His thumb slid across her lower lip. “Then why are you shaking?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
He kissed her.
Hard. Quick. Like he was mad at her for not being able to stay distant, or mad at himself for caring whether she did. His hands didn’t go lower at first—just stayed at her jaw, her neck, holding her still while his mouth devoured hers.
She gasped into the kiss, and he took the opening, deepening it, his tongue teasing, demanding, claiming.
Then his hands finally dropped—to her waist, then her hips, then he spun her against the wall.
The bag slid from her shoulder. Her fingers fisted into his shirt.
His lips dragged to her neck, down the slope of her throat, his breath hot. She arched into him, and he groaned softly, like he hated himself for needing this.
But when she whispered his name—just barely—he pulled back.
His eyes burned into hers. “We keep doing this.”
She caught her breath. “Then stop.”
Neither moved.
Her lips were swollen. Her chest rose and fell, barely hidden behind that clingy shirt he told himself not to look at—and still looked anyway. Always.
Nick dragged his hand down his face and stepped back like her nearness physically hurt him.
“This…” he muttered, half to her, half to himself. “This is exactly why I left.”
Olivia blinked. “What?”
He shook his head. “It’s not about you. It’s me. It’s always me. I get close, I take what I want, and then I ruin everything.”
She didn’t say anything.
“You’re not like the others,” he added bitterly. “And I still can’t stop.”
He stared at her, like he was waiting for her to throw something—an insult, a slap, a truth he didn’t want to hear. But she stayed still. Quiet. Watching him like she was trying to understand a language he didn’t know how to speak.
That was worse.
Nick stepped away fully this time, running a hand through his hair.
“I hate this part of me,” he muttered. “The part that keeps dragging you into something I never should’ve started. You deserve someone who doesn’t confuse lust with loneliness.”
She stayed silent. Just stood there, her back still against the wall.
He met her eyes one last time. “Next time, don’t be late.”
It was all he could manage before walking out—leaving her behind, just like he always did.
And hating himself more than he ever had.
- Writer
