ZOE'S POV
Professor Mercer didn't say a single word as he grabbed my arm and pulled me away from Marcus. His grip was firm but gentle, nothing like the way Marcus had been grabbing at me during our argument. I could feel the tension radiating from his body as we walked quickly down the hallway.
"Professor—" I started.
"Not here," he said, his voice tight with controlled anger.
I followed him in silence, my mind still reeling from everything that had just happened. Marcus had been about to hit me. Actually hit me. And Professor Mercer had appeared out of nowhere like some kind of guardian angel.
The worst part was, this wasn't even the first time Marcus had raised his hand to me. Growing up, whenever I disagreed with him about music or anything else, he'd get so frustrated that he'd lash out. Usually it was just a quick slap across the face, followed by hours of lectures about respect and gratitude.
"You should be thankful for everything I've done for you," he'd always say afterward. "After your parents died, I could have let you go into foster care. Instead, I sacrificed my own career to raise you."
And I'd believed him. For years, I'd believed that I owed him everything. That his controlling behavior was just love expressed badly. That the occasional slap was justified because I was being ungrateful or disrespectful.
But sitting in Professor Mercer's studio the other night, talking about music and laughing at his dry humor, I'd realized what a healthy relationship with a mentor could look like. He pushed me, yes, but he also listened. He corrected my mistakes without making me feel worthless. He challenged me to be better without tearing me down first.
We reached his office and he quickly unlocked the door, ushering me inside before closing it firmly behind us. The click of the lock seemed to echo in the small space.
That's when I saw him really look at his right hand for the first time. His face went pale, and he immediately tried to hide his hand behind his back.
"Are you okay?" I asked, stepping closer to him.
"I'm fine," he said, but his voice was strained. "Just... give me a minute."
He moved toward his desk chair, but I could see the way he was favoring his right hand. As he sat down, he tried to casually rest it on the armrest, but I caught the wince that crossed his features.
"You're not fine," I said. "Your hand is hurt?"
"It's nothing."
"Professor Mercer." I moved closer to his desk, studying his face. "What's wrong with your hand?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was trying to decide what to say. Finally, he let out a slow breath.
"Old injury," he said simply. "Sometimes it acts up when I... overextend myself."
Suddenly everything clicked into place. Kai had mentioned once that Professor Mercer used to be a famous concert pianist before he started teaching. He'd said there was some kind of accident, but he'd never given me details.
"The car accident," I said quietly. "That's why you stopped performing."
His eyes snapped to mine, and I could see surprise there. "How did you—"
"Kai mentioned something about it once. And I've noticed you never use your right hand when you demonstrate pieces for me."
He didn't deny it, which was answer enough.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" I asked.
He hesitated, then pointed to the bottom drawer of his desk. "There's... if you could just..."
I knelt down and pulled open the drawer. Inside, along with some papers and office supplies, I found a small tube of pain relief balm and what looked like a wrist brace.
"This?" I asked, holding up both items.
He nodded, looking embarrassed. "I should have put the brace on this morning. I knew my hand was stiff, but I thought..."
"You thought you could power through it," I finished. "Because that's what you always do."
He looked at me sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you never ask for help. You never admit when you're struggling. You just keep pushing yourself until something breaks."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" I unscrewed the cap on the balm. "Give me your hand."
"Zoe—"
"Professor Mercer. Give me your hand."
He stared at me for a moment, and I could see him fighting with himself. Finally, slowly, he extended his right hand toward me.
I could see the tension in his wrist immediately, the way his fingers were slightly curved like he was trying to protect the joint. Very gently, I took his hand in both of mine.
"Tell me if this hurts," I said, squeezing a small amount of balm onto my fingertips.
I started at his wrist, working the cream into his skin with slow, careful circles. His hand was warm and calloused from years of playing, and I could feel the slight tremor that ran through his fingers.
"How's that?" I asked softly.
"Better," he admitted, his voice rough.
I worked my way up to his knuckles, massaging gently around each joint. I could feel some of the tension leaving his hand as the pain relief cream took effect.
"You grabbed Marcus's wrist pretty hard," I said as I worked. "To stop him from hitting me."
"I'd do it again."
The quiet certainty in his voice made something warm bloom in my chest.
"He's hit me before," I found myself saying. "When I was younger. When I disagreed with him about music or school or anything, really."
Professor Mercer's hand tensed under my touch. "Zoe..."
"I always thought it was normal. That all guardians got frustrated sometimes. But it's not normal, is it?"
"No," he said firmly. "It's not normal. And it's not okay."
I finished with the balm and picked up the wrist brace. "Can you make a fist?"
He tried, but I could see it was still painful.
"This might help," I said, carefully positioning the brace around his wrist. "My mom had carpal tunnel when I was little. She used to wear something like this."
I fastened the velcro straps, making sure they were snug but not too tight. When I was finished, I looked up to find him watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"You're welcome."
Our eyes met and held. He didn't look away, and neither did I. There was something in his gaze that made my heart race—gratitude, yes, but something deeper too. Something that made the air between us feel charged with possibility.
We stayed like that for what felt like forever, just looking at each other in the quiet of his office, my hands still cradling his injured one.