There is a particular kind of dread that settles in the stomach like wet cement, and I have been carrying it since three o'clock.
The classroom is empty except for me. Late afternoon light slants through the tall windows. I have arranged my materials—the book, my notes, a list of discussion questions designed to drag even the most reluctant student into engagement.
The book is Julian Reyes' The Cartography of Want—a novel about a Mexican-American man who abandons his family's expectations to pursue art and forbidden love. Kai is supposed to write a thesis on it. According to his file, he has not even finished reading it.
He is late. Of course he is late.
When Kai finally arrives, he does not apologize. He drops into the chair across from me, uniform worn carelessly—collar open, tie loosened, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that I absolutely do not notice.
I begin the session.
"Marco abandons his engagement party in chapter three," I say, tapping the page with more force than necessary. "Leaves Ana, leaves his father's business, boards a bus to New York. Why do you think he makes that choice?"
Kai tilts his head, considering me instead of the question. "Do you always sit like that?"
"Like what?" I know I'll regret asking.
"Like someone shoved a ruler up your spine." His mouth curves with amusement. "Is it a teacher thing, or is it just for me?"
I ignore him with every ounce of professionalism I possess. "Marco. Chapter three. His choice to leave."
"I think he was bored." Kai leans back, balancing on two legs. "His family was suffocating him and he wanted to breathe. He looked at his future and saw nothing, so he decided he'd rather be a terrible person than a dead one."
The answer catches me off guard. It is — good. Insightful, even.
"Also," Kai adds, "I haven't read chapter three. I'm just guessing based on your face when you asked the question."
My jaw tightens. "You haven't read any of it, have you?"
"I skimmed the back cover. Very moving." He props his feet on the desk, ankles crossed, watching for my reaction.
"You're supposed to write a thesis on this book," I say as I push his feet off the desk.
"And you're supposed to help me do that." His smile sharpens. "So help me."
The session deteriorates from there. Kai abandons even the pretense of engagement, standing to wander the room, trailing his fingers along the windowsill, examining book spines like he has all the time in the world.
"Sit down," I say.
"I think better on my feet." Kai stretches, arms above his head, shirt pulling tight across his chest in a way that's absolutely calculated.
I wonder if "he needed strangling" would hold up as a defense in court.
"You're not thinking at all. You're avoiding."
"Maybe I'm avoiding because the alternative is sitting across from you while you look at me like I'm something you stepped in."
He slowly circles behind my chair. I feel the heat of his presence and force myself to keep my eyes on the book.
He bends down, his mouth close to my ear.
"Marco's real problem," he murmurs, breath warm against my neck, "is that he wants something he's not allowed to want. That's the whole book, isn't it? Desire versus expectation."
Every nerve ending along my neck lights up like a warning flare. I can feel the shape of each word against my skin.
"Is that why you won't look at me right now?" he asks. "Because you're thinking about things you're not allowed to want?"
I keep my eyes forward. "I'm thinking about how satisfying it will be to fail you."
He laughs—low, delighted—and returns to his seat.
"You're fun," he says. "I didn't expect you to be fun."
"I'm not here to be fun. I'm here to teach you." I say it like I'm reading from a script.
"And yet you're failing spectacularly at one and succeeding wildly at the other." His tongue drags across his bottom lip, and I want to throw my book at his head.
My patience snaps. "Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?" He raises an eyebrow.
"This." I gesture between us. "The deflection. The performance. You're not stupid—I've seen your file. So why won't you let me help you?"
"Maybe I don't want your help."
"Then why are you here?" I ask.
"My father made it mandatory."
The smirk stays in place, but his eyes go flat for just a moment. I lean forward. "What are you so afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid of anything," he says as his smirk slides back into place.
"Bullshit." I watch his face and see it—the micro-flinch he thinks he's hiding.
Oh, I got you.
"You're afraid I'll figure out that the charm and the arrogance and the fucking teacher routine is just—what? Smoke? A distraction? Something to keep people from noticing there's nothing underneath?"
The playfulness drains from his face.
"Careful," he says quietly.
"Why? Did I hit a nerve?" Thrill sings through my veins like electricity.
"You're hitting a lot of things right now. Not all of them are nerves." His voice drops low, and his eyes—God, his eyes rake down my body with such blatant hunger that my skin burns everywhere his gaze touches.
"Oh, go fuck yourself." I spit the words at him.
"I'd rather fuck you, but something tells me you won't be happy about it just yet." He shrugs, like he's discussing the weather.
The air crackles. Kai stands, and I stand to meet him, refusing to let him tower over me.
"You want to ask questions?" he says. "Fine. Let's ask questions. Why are you here, Skye?"
"Your father hired me."
"That's not what I asked." He steps closer. "Why is a twenty-eight-year-old woman with a degree and a teaching license living in my father's house, tutoring his fuckup son for pocket change?"
"That's none of your business."
Another step. The desk is no longer between us.
"What did you do?" Louder now. "What's so fucking terrible that my father—" His voice climbs with each word. "—who has never helped anyone, including his own son—decided to hand you a job and a bedroom out of the goodness of his heart?"
I try to step back. His hand shoots out and grabs my arm.
"Let go of me."
"Answer the question."
I try to pull free. He holds firm—not hurting me, but not letting me escape. His fingers are warm against my skin, his eyes locked on mine, and there is nothing playful in them anymore.
My heart is hammering. My whole body is aware of him — the breadth of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the inches between his mouth and mine.
"What's in it for you?" he asks, quieter now. "What do you get out of this?"
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