The door to my office slams shut with enough force to rattle the shelves behind me.

I jolt, startled. My hand flies to my glasses, adjusting them instinctively, as if clear vision will help me make sense of the storm about to descend.

Harry.

He crosses the room with quick, furious steps, planting both palms flat on my desk like he's trying to keep himself from exploding.

"What was that?" he demands, voice low and sharp—deadly calm in a way that makes my stomach knot.

Before I can form words, he barrels on.

"Why did you have to shoot down all her suggestions, Ashley? Every single one."

It takes me a beat to process. He's talking about Rebecca Phillips—his partner for the assignment—who had just left my office minutes ago, cheeks slightly pink and smile a little forced.

"I—what do you mean I shot—" I start, still piecing together the thread he's yanking on, but he cuts me off.

"I mean, you rejected every single idea she brought to the table, Ashley." His tone sharpens around my name, slicing it in half.

I blink. Did I? I fumble through my mental replay of the meeting. I didn't... dismiss her ideas, not entirely. I just redirected. I... critiqued. I was constructive. Wasn't I?

"She kept circling back to postnatal depression," I say finally, trying to defend myself. "I merely pointed out that the topic is meant to be broader, and—"

"You literally said," he interrupts, mocking my voice with clipped precision, "'Whether you do a highly focused or general research paper, you'll learn something useful.' Highly. Focused. Ashley."

He pronounces each syllable with the kind of theatrical enunciation that would earn applause on stage. It burns.

"I'd say postnatal depression qualifies, wouldn't you?" he adds, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I inhale deeply, squaring my shoulders. "I simply suggested you two consider exploring other areas—"

"You told her she was missing the point," he snaps, pacing now, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Three times. When she was spot on."

His hands fly in the air again, exasperated.

"Becca was just—"

"Becca?" I echo, my brow lifting involuntarily. Why does hearing him say her name like that make my spine stiffen?

"Yeah, Becca. Problem with that, Ash?" He tosses the nickname at me like a dart, and I feel the sting.

"I think I don't like your tone, Mr. Styles," I say, the title landing like a slap between us.

"And I think you're being a tad unfair, Mrs. Cameron," he shoots back, mocking the formality, his jaw tight.

He pauses, then tilts his head, voice suddenly more measured, but no less cutting.

"Is Becca making you uncomfortable?"

I stare at him, stunned. "Of course not! Why would she?"

He gives a short, bitter laugh. "Just asking. Out of curiosity." He takes a step closer to the door, then spins back. "By the way—Postnatal Depression will be our topic. It fits the assignment perfectly. And I expect you'll treat us with the fairness I know you're capable of. Professor."

I blink. "I don't follow."

"Oh, you do." He gestures vaguely around the room. "And while we're at it? I've got a suggestion for next year's topics."

I cross my arms, already dreading what's coming. "What?"

He smirks, all teeth and vengeance. "Add Jealousy. I think it would make for a fascinating paper."

And with that, he turns on his heel, strides to the door, and slams it shut—again.

The silence he leaves in his wake is deafening.

I drop into my chair like the air's been sucked out of the room. My pulse is racing, my cheeks flushed, my heart still pounding from the confrontation. I lean forward, elbows on the desk, and bury my face in my hands.

Was I being unfair?

God. I was.

The moment she walked in—Rebecca, with her perfect skin, her camera-ready smile, her natural charm—I saw her as a threat, not a student. Her youth was effortless, and she had the audacity to pair it with intelligence. And Harry—he hadn't taken his eyes off her once.

The guilt creeps in, sticky and humiliating.

What the hell was that in there?

I acted like someone I don't even recognize. Someone petty. Defensive. Someone who let jealousy override their judgment. Someone I've spent my entire career trying not to be.

A teacher who diminishes a student out of personal insecurity? That's the kind of academic I've warned others about. That's the kind of woman I've never allowed myself to become.

Until now.

I reach for my phone, hands slightly trembling. I need someone who knows exactly how messy I am but still answers my calls.

I hit dial.

"Liz," I manage, my voice cracking the moment her sunny tone reaches my ears. "I messed up."

And of course, she already knows something's wrong.

"Talk," she says. "From the beginning."

+++

"I'm not sure this is the place for me, not with the way I'm feeling," I mutter as Liz drags me into the local bar.

"When people feel like shit, they drink," she shrugs like she's just cracked the code to the universe. "It's basic chemistry."

"Alcohol isn't the answer, Elizabeth. It's a temporary escape. It delays the—"

"Use of my full name, Professor? Ooooh. Intimidating," she mocks, fluttering her eyelashes in mock terror.

"Just shut up and pay for the first round," she adds, cutting me off completely as she waves down the bartender like a woman on a mission. "Two vodka limes, please."

I don't even get to protest—I'm already halfway inside my own head, neck-deep in guilt and regret. I reach into my bag and toss some cash onto the bar without thinking.

Soon enough, I'm on my second drink, and all I can think about is his expression earlier. That flash of disappointment in his eyes—not just disappointment, but betrayal. He looked at me like I wasn't who he thought I was. And maybe, in that moment, I wasn't.

I finish my drink in one long gulp but shake my head when Liz offers me a third. She's already moving to the music, swaying her hips to Jessie J's cover of "Stay With Me," clearly having a much better time than I am.

This is a local bar, probably filled with students—my students. I need to keep the squeaky-clean reputation I've somehow held onto all these years. Well, minus today's emotional nosedive.

I close my eyes, letting the warmth of the alcohol settle over me, the vocals washing through me like a brief anesthetic. But when I open my eyes again, the spell shatters.

There she is.

Rebecca Phillips.

My own personal Nemesis. The girl who has everything I used to—before life scraped me raw. She's radiant, laughing with friends, her long blond hair glowing in the soft light. Youth clings to her like perfume. Ambition. Dreams. Excitement. Everything I buried under loss and guilt.

My throat tightens despite the vodka. I signal to Liz that I'll be back in a minute. She raises a brow but nods, too deep into her groove to object.

I approach the group. I can tell Rebecca sees me coming—her smile falters for a split second. She's polite, though clearly unsure.

"Miss Phillips. Rebecca," I say gently.

"Mrs. Cameron," she replies cautiously, guarded.

There's a moment between us, heavy with the weight of the afternoon. I look at her, really look. She's bright. Present. She didn't deserve what I dumped on her.

"I just wanted to say..." I pause, steadying my voice. "That I think your ideas were brilliant, sweetheart. And I really appreciated our discussion earlier today."

Her eyes widen. Her shock is almost funny, and painfully deserved.

"I think you're a bright young woman, and I'm absolutely sure you'll do an amazing job on this assignment. If I came across as... sharp, it was only meant to push you, to challenge you. Not... not to tear you down. And if I did that, I sincerely apologize."

She softens immediately. "Thank you, Mrs. Cameron. Honestly, I thought you hated everything I said."

I shake my head. "I was dealing with some personal stuff. That's not an excuse, but it is the truth. I took it out on you, and I shouldn't have. It won't happen again."

I touch her arm gently, a gesture of peace. "Tell Harry the two of you can hand in the first draft next week. I look forward to reading it."

She beams. "Sure thing. Don't be so hard on yourself, though. Everyone has bad days."

"No, not when you're responsible for your students. But thank you for your kindness."

I pull her into a hug, one that she returns without hesitation, and I feel a little of the shame lift off my chest.

"Have fun tonight," I tell her as I wave to the bartender. "Next round's on me."

Her friends whoop like I just declared a holiday.

"Thank you, Professor! You're awesome!" Rebecca laughs, high-fiving me.

"I am so not," I say, smiling anyway. "But I'll take it."

I return to the bar where Liz is now doing a hybrid of a shimmy and a body roll that might get her banned in some counties.

"Ready to leave, Lizzy?" I ask, lighter now.

She rolls her eyes and slings her bag over her shoulder. "No, but clearly you are."

I hand the bartender my card, paying for Rebecca's group before he's even finished mixing the drinks. One good deed down. One less thing weighing me down.

As we head to the door, I catch movement near the entrance.

He's here.

Harry.

Seated in a dimly lit corner with another one of my students—the same one who asked for concert tickets. Of course. His eyes are already on me, like he's been watching this whole time.

"Isn't that—?" Liz starts.

"Yeah," I say quickly, stopping her from finishing the thought. My heart is hammering.

"Shouldn't we—?" she tries again.

"No. He's with his friends."

"But—"

"Another time, Liz."

Still, I turn to look. Just once more.

He's still watching me. I can't read his expression in the shadowed light, but I feel it. The burn of it. Like it's inked into my skin.

Outside, the cold air rushes over me and I breathe it in, feeling... strangely alive. Not fixed. Not healed. But like maybe I'm on my way back to being myself.

Liz is already half-asleep in the uber, her head leaning against the window.

I, on the other hand, am buzzing.

Then my phone pings.

I dig it out, expecting Anzee to check in.

But no.

Harry:
You did well, Ash.
Btw... you look so hot when you're jealous. xx

I slide the phone back into my bag.

And even though I know it's wrong, a smile curls across my lips.