chapter 4

Lucian

I dropped my bag onto the bedroom floor, letting it thud against the wooden panels, and then I flopped back onto the bed with a heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer me answers.

It didn’t.

All it did was remind me of her.

Daphne Mehra.

Professor Mehra.

Whatever name I tried to give her, it didn’t matter. She lived in my mind the same way—etched in like some kind of forbidden art I wasn’t supposed to look at for too long.

Her voice was still echoing in my head. Calm. Steady. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. She had this way of speaking that made everything else go quiet. Like the world leaned in to listen when she talked.

She walked into class today just like she had yesterday, but she looked different. Her messy bun was gone, replaced by a smooth, neat hairstyle that made her look even more composed, more unreachable. Classy, like always. Still no makeup. Just her. Always just her.

She didn’t try to impress anyone. And maybe that’s exactly why she did.

God, she was impossible to ignore.

I told myself to focus on the damn lecture. To just take notes, act normal, pretend I wasn’t this mess of hormones and confusion and… whatever else this was. But my eyes? They didn’t give a damn what I told them. They had their own plans.

They found her. Again. And again.

At one point, she asked a question—something about gravitational force or vector components, I don’t even know. I answered before thinking, just reacting. And when she looked at me…

Our eyes locked. Just for a second. Maybe two.

But it was enough to wreck me.

Her gaze didn’t just look at me—it noticed me. Saw straight through me. And maybe she looked at everyone that way. Maybe she didn’t. But the way my chest twisted, the way I suddenly forgot how to breathe—that wasn’t nothing.

I rolled over and groaned into my pillow like a freaking kid. What the hell was wrong with me?

I didn’t know her. Not really. Just pieces. Glimpses.

And she was my professor. Off-limits. Untouchable. Probably not even interested.

But I couldn’t unsee her. Couldn’t forget the way her fingers danced subtly when she explained concepts, or how she let out this soft, amused breath whenever someone cracked a stupid joke. She made science feel like art. Like music. Like something alive.

And she made the classroom feel like more than just four walls and a whiteboard.

She made it feel like hers.

I kept replaying her in my head—the way her outfits matched her moods. Baggy and soft when she was casual, sharp and pristine when she meant business. Those little changes no one else seemed to notice.

But I did.

And now I was lying here, trapped in this haze, with her name stitched into my mind and this ache in my chest I didn’t know how to name.

What the hell was happening to me?

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