Four
1052 Words
Emma
I am doing so good at avoiding him.
Truly.
Exceptional.
Gold-medal worthy avoidance.
For forty-eight hours, I’ve lived like a cryptid—rarely seen, deeply mysterious, probably living off granola bars and spite. I’ve taken alternate routes to class. I’ve used a bathroom on the business floor even though it smells like printer ink and sadness. I’ve ducked behind bushes three separate times.
I’m not proud, but I am dedicated.
So when Tessa begs me to go to the English building to print something for her because she “accidentally used her last sheet of paper as a makeup blending pad,” I agree ONLY because Wright never leaves his office at this time of day. He’s always in class across campus.
Statistically, this should be safe.
Statistically.
But the universe does not believe in statistics for me. The universe believes in chaos.
Which is how I end up walking straight into his chest.
Like, full-body.
Face-to-chest.
Bone-to-muscle.
Heart-to-heartbeat.
The impact jerks the breath out of me. My phone launches from my hand like it’s fleeing the scene.
Strong hands catch me instantly—one on my elbow, one on my waist.
Warm hands.
Familiar hands.
Hands I remember grabbing sheets, skin, me.
“Careful—” he starts, then his voice breaks, softening into something that electrifies every nerve ending I have. “Emma.”
My name. On his lips.
I’m not okay.
I look up.
His face is so close I can see the tiny, sleep-deprived lines under his eyes. The stubble shadowing his jaw. The way a loose strand of dark hair falls over his forehead.
And his eyes—those stupid, beautiful, too-blue eyes—widen the second they meet mine.
Something hits him.
Hits me.
Recognition.
Memory.
Heat.
His fingers tense on my arms before he forces himself to drop them, like touching me is dangerous and he knows it.
“Are you hurt?” he asks.
Not breathlessly. Not casually.
Worried.
My heart does a gymnastics routine.
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, maybe emotionally? But physically I’m good.”
A flicker of something—almost a smile, almost pain—touches his mouth.
He bends to pick up my phone. His shoulder brushes my hip. Warm. Familiar in a way it absolutely should not be.
When he stands, he hands the phone back, and when our fingers graze, my lungs forget their job entirely.
He swallows. Hard.
He looks around the stairwell. Empty.
Too empty.
“I didn’t expect to run into you,” he says quietly.
“Me neither,” I say. “Actually, I’ve been aggressively avoiding everything within a one-mile radius of your existence.”
His lips part—surprise first, then a soft exhale that might be a laugh. He looks at the ground like he’s trying not to show it.
“That’s probably smart,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging, “I’m not usually known for my smart decisions. Exhibit A: last weekend.”
His jaw flexes.
He steps back like he needs physical distance to think straight.
“Emma,” he says, voice low and strained. “We shouldn’t be talking here.”
“Right,” I whisper.
But neither of us moves.
He shifts his weight, staring at the floor. Then—slowly—like he already knows it’s a mistake, he looks up at me again.
It’s subtle. Quick. But it hits me like gravity shifting.
He missed me.
Just a fraction. Just enough that he’s mad about it.
“This is… complicated,” he says.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “I got that memo.”
“More complicated than it should be.”
“I know.”
He runs a hand through his hair, and the motion pulls his shirt slightly, revealing the edge of a tattoo curling over his collarbone. Heat pulses through me so fast I almost sway.
He notices.
His throat works. “Emma…”
I fold my arms because I suddenly don’t know what to do with my hands. “Look, I’m trying. I promise. But you’re—”
He lifts a brow. “I’m what?”
Shit.
“—you’re making this extremely difficult by, um… existing in physical form.”
His eyes close, like he’s trying very hard not to react.
When he opens them, they’re darker. He steps closer without meaning to.
Just an inch.
Just enough to feel the warmth between us.
“Emma,” he warns.
“What?” I whisper.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like you did the other night.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
He takes another half-step back, but it doesn’t help because the stairwell feels too small, the air too thick, and the space between us too charged.
He’s staring at my mouth.
I’m staring at his hands.
Disaster.
Absolute disaster.
Then footsteps echo above us.
We jump apart like guilty teenagers.
A student walks down the stairs. Wright nods at him with all the stiffness of someone who is trying very, very hard to look normal.
When the student reaches the landing, Wright’s tone switches—clean, professional, a mask sliding into place.
“Miss Hart,” he says in a voice loud enough to echo, “please remember to check the syllabus before next class.”
The student glances at me, uninterested, then keeps walking.
My cheeks burn.
When the student disappears, Wright exhales shakily. He looks at me again—really looks—and something unravels in his expression.
Something he’s trying to shove down.
“I should go,” he says.
“Okay.”
He turns to leave, but stops. Just before the stairs.
He doesn’t look at me, but his voice is raw when he says:
“Emma… be careful. Please.”
Careful of what?
Him?
My feelings?
His?
I don’t ask.
I can’t.
He walks down the steps slowly, deliberately, like he’s holding himself together with willpower alone.
I watch him go.
Every step echoes in my chest.
And for the first time since the night I met him, it hits me—real and terrifying:
I’m not done with him.
He’s not done with me.
And whatever this is?
It’s not fading.
- Writer
