Chapter 41

Avery’s POV

When I woke, for a moment I forgot where I was. The sheets smelled of her perfume, a scent warm and complex, and the rhythm of breath beside me confirmed I was not alone.

My eyes opened, hesitant, afraid the events of the night had been a dream. But it was no dream.

Tiffany was there. The light seeping around the curtains touched her face, painting her in shades of gold.

Her dark hair spilled across the pillow, tousled in a way I had never seen—not precise, not polished, not the look of “Professor Rose”—just her. Tiffany. Raw. Undefended.

She was devastating. My heart stuttered, a drumbeat.

How is anyone supposed to breathe lying beside her? For once, she looked fragile, her defenses lowered, the weight of control set aside.

My chest ached with tenderness at the sight. She was not just my professor, or the storm I had known.

She was… mine. At least here, in this stolen moment.

I lay motionless, terrified that any shift would break the spell. But my gaze betrayed my stillness, tracing every line of her face, memorizing her as though I feared the universe might snatch her away.

And then—her eyes opened. Not all at once, but lashes fluttering as though she had fought sleep to watch me first.

She turned her head towards me, and there it was—that sharp, predatory glint that undid my composure. “You’re staring, Avery,” she said, her voice husky and smooth with sleep.

Caught. My cheeks burned with heat, but I forced a smirk to cover the moment of vulnerability.

“Of course I am, Professor. Who wouldn’t stare at a masterpiece?”

Her lips curved into the faint smile she tried to suppress but failed to hide. She shook her head on the pillow.

“Avery Von Carter… always dramatic.”

“And you love it, admit it,” I shot back, daring, though my voice was softer than usual.

Her eyes lingered on me, unreadable, for a tense moment. And then, she reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, her fingers lingering a second too long.

That touch set fire to my veins, igniting every nerve ending. But then, the intrusion of reality made her sigh, drawing her hand back.

“We shouldn’t have…” she began, her tone firm, attempting to rebuild the wall, but I saw the crack in its structure.

“Don’t. Don’t even finish that sentence, Tiffany.”

Her gaze hardened, becoming defensive. “Avery, you know what this is. What this could mean for both of us. If a student, or faculty—”

I leaned closer, pressing a finger against her lips. “I don’t care. Not now. Not here. Last night was real. Don’t you dare, Professor, try to erase it with your rules and your fear of consequence.”

Her eyes searched mine, conflicted, a battle raging behind them. For a long moment, she said nothing, motionless.

And then, in a voice so quiet I almost missed the confession, she whispered, “You undo me, Avery.”

The words shattered me. Because she was not the type of woman to confess, not the type to allow herself to unravel.

But she had, and she had said the most devastating truth to me. I swallowed, fighting the lump in my throat.

“Good,” I whispered back, my admission raw. “Because you undo me too.”

For a while, a silence reigned. Just the sound of our breathing, the hum of the hotel beyond the door.

I wanted to stay like that forever—tangled in her gaze, suspended in a world where nothing else mattered. But then—a sharp, insistent knock.

Too sharp. Too close.

We froze. My heart slammed against my ribs as she sat upright, panic flashing across her face.

“Avery—” she hissed, tugging the sheets around herself, cloaking her body. “You cannot be here. What if it’s one of the staff members or Mr. Hayes?”

The knock came again, firmer. “Professor Rose?” a woman’s voice called.

It was Ms. Collway. My stomach dropped like a stone.

Her eyes widened in terror, and in a swift motion she shoved me off the bed. I landed on the carpet, biting back a groan of pain.

“Go to the bathroom. Now!” she ordered in a fierce whisper.

I darted across the room, slipping inside the bathroom just as she cracked the main door open. “Good morning, Ms. Collway,” Tiffany’s voice was smooth, calm—the professor mask was back in place.

“Morning, Professor,” Ms. Collway replied. “Just checking if you’re ready for the group breakfast. We’ll gather down in the dining hall in fifteen minutes.”

“Of course. I’ll be there shortly,” Tiffany said, her tone clipped, polite, and detached.

The door closed with a soft click, and a brittle silence fell. I peeked out from the bathroom, my heart racing.

She stood by the closed door, one hand pressed against the wood, her shoulders tense. Then she turned, and her eyes found mine.

Her expression was a mix of relief and fury. “Avery,” she whispered sharply, her voice trembling. “You cannot keep doing this. You cannot just appear in my private room in the middle of the night like some—”

She broke off, running a hand through her messy hair. I smirked, despite the danger and the pounding in my chest.

“Like some hopelessly, ridiculously in love student?”

Her glare was lethal. But her lips twitched upward, betraying her.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, a thread of defeated fondness woven into the censure. I stepped closer, closing the distance, refusing to let the fear take back what we’d shared.

“And yet… you let me stay. You didn’t push me away last night.”

Her breath caught, and I knew with a certainty that burned that I’d struck the painful truth she was fighting to deny. I tilted my head, lowering my voice to a whisper.

“Tell me, right now, that you regret it, Professor. Say the words, and I promise, I’ll never come here again.”

She froze. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped.

Her eyes searched mine, wildly, as though looking for the strength to say the lie. But she didn’t.

She couldn’t. Instead, she whispered, almost broken, the surrender ringing clear, “Get dressed, Avery. Breakfast is in ten minutes. Now go.”

I smiled, a victory tinged with tenderness. “As you wish, Tesoro.”

Her eyes snapped to mine at the use of the word, her cheeks flushing. And before she could formulate a word to scold me, I darted to the door, slipping into the cool, empty hallway like a thief.

❖

The air outside was cooler, but my chest was a raging storm. Last night, she had let me in.

And this morning, no matter how hard she tried to deny it, she hadn’t taken that admission back. Avery Von Carter never let go once she managed to get a hold.

The hallway leading to the dining area buzzed with voices, the shuffle of footsteps, and bursts of laughter. Students were freshly dressed, some yawning, some awake with cameras, ready for the day.

Teachers clustered near the entrance, herding us into groups, their voices a background hum I barely registered. Because the only thing my eyes searched for, desperately, was her.

Tiffany. Professor Rose, to everyone else.

I spotted her near the front of the dining hall, speaking to Ms. Collway. She wore a crisp, tailored beige blouse tucked into dark trousers, her hair in a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup—simple, professionally devastating, composed.

But to me? She was the woman whose lips had claimed mine last night like there was no memory of boundaries.

The same woman who had whispered my name like a prayer, who had nearly broken when I asked if she regretted the reckless event. I swallowed hard, trying to school my face into something neutral.

Because here, in the open, I wasn’t Avery with Tiffany. I was Avery Von Carter, her disciplined student.

She turned, and her eyes flickered across the room, scanning the crowd. Just one glance.

But it was enough. My breath hitched.

Her gaze was sharp, a warning, but beneath that professional exterior, I caught a flicker of something else. Something softer.

Something only I had ever seen when no one else was looking. “Von Carter!”

I snapped out of my haze as Victoria clapped me on the shoulder, nearly making me spill the orange juice I hadn’t realized I was holding. “What?” I hissed, glaring.

She grinned. “You’ve been staring off into space like some tragic heroine in a romance novel. Don’t tell me you’re lovesick, Avery.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m jet-lagged, Victoria, not lovesick. Get over yourself.”

“Sure, sure,” Elize chimed in, sliding into the seat next to me with her plate piled high with pastries. “Then why do you keep sneaking those suspicious glances at the teachers’ long table?”

My fork froze. Damn them both.

They were too observant. I forced a careless smirk, tossing my hair.

“Because I’m diligently studying their leadership and organizational skills. It’s called being a responsible, ambitious student, unlike you two incorrigible troublemakers.”

Elize narrowed her eyes. “Mhm. ‘Responsible student’ my ass, Avery.”

Victoria chuckled. “Don’t worry, we won’t pry. Yet.”

I groaned, shoving a piece of toast into my mouth just to silence myself and hide my reaction. But inside, I was a storm.

Because the breakfast had become a chess game—pretending, glancing, sending secret texts under the table while surrounded by oblivious people. The thrill of it twisted in my veins, intoxicating and risky.

And beneath it all, one thought pulsed: I wasn’t thinking about Professor Rose.

Not the distant professor. Not the rule-setter.

I was thinking only about Tiffany. The woman who kissed me.

The woman who whispered you undo me. My Tiffany.

Finally, my phone buzzed in my lap. My heart jumped.

I knew who it was. Tiffany: “You know, you are still staring.”

I bit back a grin. That woman… she loved the thrill of playing with my control.

I typed back, my fingers flying. Me: “Yes. A very big yes.”

It took less than a minute for the reply to arrive. Tiffany: “And what if someone caught The Von Carter heir staring inappropriately at her professor?”

Me: “Then I’ll keep doing it until the world knows that you are mine.”

I imagined her sighing, pinching the bridge of her nose the way she always did when I drove her insane. The image made me chuckle softly.

Then her next text arrived. Tiffany: “Careful, Avery. You’re deliberately going to get yourself in serious trouble.”

I smirked, tilting the phone so the light hit directly in her direction. I wanted her to see my triumphant laughter.

Me: “I’ve been in trouble since the very day I met you, Professor.”

Across the hall, she shifted in her seat, her lips twitching despite her attempt at professional composure. But when Ms. Collway turned to her with a demanding question, Tiffany snapped back into her flawless professional mask.

God, she was good at that. Too good.

And yet… I could see straight through it. Elize leaned closer, peering at my phone screen.

“Who are you texting, Avery? Let me see.”

My pulse jumped to a danger level. I locked the screen, shoving the phone face-down onto the table.

“None of your business, Elize.”

Victoria raised a skeptical brow. “Oh-ho. Secretive. This is fishy.”

“Both of you should apply for detective jobs instead of wasting your time studying business,” I shot back, grabbing my coffee cup to hide my expression. But inside, I was a chaotic storm.

Because the breakfast had transformed into a game of emotional chess—pretending, glancing, sending secret texts under the table while surrounded by oblivious people. The thrill of it twisted in my veins, dangerous and addictive.

And beneath it all, one thought pulsed: I wasn’t thinking about Professor Rose.

Not the professor. Not the rule-setter.

I was thinking only about Tiffany. The woman who kissed me.

The woman who whispered you undo me. My Tiffany.

After breakfast, when Ms. Collway stood to dismiss us, I caught one last glance from her as everyone rose to leave. Quick.

Subtle. But unmistakable.

Her lips moved soundlessly, shaping a single word. Tonight.

My chest tightened, my breath stolen away. Tonight.

That promise was enough to carry me through the chaos of the day.

❖

The ancient city stretched before us like a painting that had come alive—cobblestone streets glistening under the sun, pastel buildings leaning close like old friends whispering secrets, and the hum of tourists blending with the soft rush of the breeze. 

The coordinators guided us in clusters, pointing at landmarks, explaining history in detail, ushering us from one narrow street to another like a herd of animals.

The students, buzzing with excitement, clicked photos of everything—doors, statues, fountains, and selfies in every corner. And there I was, camera in hand, pretending to be another eager student desperate to capture the sights.

But my lens had one subject. Her.

Tiffany. Professor Rose to the rest of them, but Tiffany to me—always Tiffany, in the sanctity of my heart.

She walked a few steps ahead, engrossed in conversation with Ms. Collway. Her stride was purposeful; her blouse tucked into those fitted trousers that spoke of casual elegance.

The sunlight caught the strands of her hair that had loosened from her ponytail, making them shimmer like liquid bronze. I raised my camera, not wanting to draw attention.

The shutter clicked—soft, reverent. Her profile.

The defiant tilt of her chin. The way she glanced sideways at an ornate building, her lips curved as if something in the architecture amused her.

Click. Her hands folded behind her back as she listened to Ms. Collway’s rambling commentary.

Click. A candid moment when she looked down at a group of students, her expression softening, a warmth revealed behind her composed demeanor.

Click. I lowered the camera, my chest tight.

Every photo was a theft, a forbidden fragment of her. But they were treasures—proof that she was real, here, walking these streets with me.

“Von Carter, you’re way too serious about this photography thing,” Victoria teased, nearly making me drop the camera. I shot her a lethal glare.

“I don’t disturb your vain selfies. Don’t disturb my art.”

Elize laughed. “Art, she says. Just admit you’re hopelessly in love with your camera, Avery.”

If only they knew the electric truth. If only they had a clue who my lens was secretly in love with.

Hours passed in a blur of alleyways, our group weaving through the veins of the city. At every turn, my eyes betrayed me, seeking her out.

And almost every time, I caught her catching me too. A subtle glance over her shoulder.

A knowing arch of her dark brow. A smirk so faint and quickly gone I could almost convince myself I imagined it.

But I hadn’t imagined it. No one else saw it.

To everyone else she was the untouchable professor, all poise and boundaries. But to me?

She was the woman silently, dangerously daring me to keep pushing, keep reaching for the forbidden.

The museum tour had ended, but my head swirled—not with cold marble sculptures or ancient maps, but with her. Tiffany Rose.

She had walked through the museum as if she belonged in those halls—elegant, calm, her eyes softening when they landed on me. Every purposeful step she took, I felt it.

Every time she leaned to explain a fact to the group, my heart betrayed my facade. Later that evening, after the dinner chaos with Elize and Victoria subsided, I sat alone by the window in our room, phone in hand, waiting for the vibration.

As if she read my impatience through the walls, the screen lit up. Her.

I unlocked it. Her text read: “What did you notice most today?”

I smirked, fingers flying over the keypad. “What do you think? The detailed maps of ancient Italy, of course. Fascinating.”

I hit send, laughing under my breath. But before I locked the phone, her reply came.

“Liar. You weren’t looking at the maps, Avery.”

Heat crept up my neck. I typed: “Fine. I wasn’t. But since you asked, what caught your professional attention today, Professor?”

There was a pause. Three typing dots appeared, vanished.

Three dots, gone again. Finally—

“You. Always you. Like always.”

I froze, breath stolen from my lungs. Tiffany Rose—the professor who guarded her words like a fortress—had admitted that truth.

My fingers trembled as I typed: “You cannot just say that and then go silent on me, Tiffany.”

Her response came with a weight that pulled me into her world: “You expect me to say geography, don’t you? Or tedious economics. But no, Avery. That wasn’t what held my attention today. It was you. And—”

Another pause. Then another text.

“And literature.”

I blinked, stunned. “Literature? Wait. You exclusively teach geography and economics. Since when do you have time for literature?”

Her reply poured out, like a confession held back for too long: “Since always, Avery. Books were my first love. I devour them like air. I still do. Sometimes I think I only teach geography because it gives me the freedom to live the way I want, while my heart… my heart belongs to stories. To poetry. To the words that can rip you apart and stitch you whole again.”

I leaned against the window, stunned by the revelation. Tiffany Rose—the untouchable professor, the woman who ruled classrooms with steel-cold poise—lived for words.

“Then why didn’t you?” I typed, the question raw. “Why not teach literature instead, if it’s your passion?”

Her answer did not come right away. When it did, I could hear her voice through the screen, heavy with regret.

“Because I never wanted my deepest passion to become mere currency. I never wanted to strangle love by making it a suffocating obligation. Literature is far too precious to me, Avery. Too sacred. I wanted to keep it… mine.”

I swallowed, heart aching. “But still,” I wrote, “you could have at least tried to fight for it.”

“I did,” she answered. “But my family—my family had other, suffocating plans for me.”

That line made my chest tighten with sympathy. “I know by now you’ve probably looked me up,” she added, the realization sharp. “You must know about my family’s demands. But let’s not discuss that darkness tonight, please.”

I hesitated, then typed: “Okay. I won’t push the family issue. But you left them? You walked away from everything?”

Another long, heavy pause. Then—

“Yes. I walked away. I left their comfort, their stifling rules, their suffocating expectations. I chose a different path. And if I’m standing here today, Avery, it’s only because my mother helped me. She supported me when no one else did. She told me to live on my own terms, even if it meant teaching in a field that wasn’t my first passion. She’s the reason I’m here. The reason I’m still… me.”

I stared at her words, and she did not feel like a remote professor anymore. Not the flawless, untouchable woman who commanded lecture halls.

She was real. A daughter. A dreamer. A survivor.

My chest swelled with something tender. I typed: “Tiffany… you amaze me. Every time I think I know you, you show me something deeper. Something more resilient and beautiful.”

For a while there was no reply, and I wondered if I had crossed the line. Then her final message came, softer than a whisper, but potent.

“Careful, sweetheart. If you keep saying things like that, I might just let you see all of me, every hidden part.”

Just like that, sleep became impossible. I lay awake the night, clutching the phone, replaying her words, cherishing the revelation.

Not maps. Not economics. Not even the museum. Her attention was solely on me.

Her heart—though hidden from the world—was entirely in literature. The hotel corridor was dimly lit, the silence broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the pounding of my heart.

Everyone had retreated into their rooms, the day’s exhaustion pulling them into sleep. But I was restless—unable to let the night end without seeing her.

Tiffany. I walked down the hallway until I stood in front of her door.

My hand hesitated before I knocked. There was no sound at first, only stillness, and I thought she would not answer the call.

But then, the door clicked and cracked open. She appeared—her hair tousled, her glasses off, wearing something casual, stripped of the armor she wore in public.

She leaned against the doorframe, one eyebrow arched in question. “Avery,” she murmured, her voice low, the kind of voice that carried more power than a shout. “Again? Are you serious?”

I smiled, unapologetically guilty but unrepentant. “Come on, Tiffany…”

Her eyes narrowed, though there was no anger in them, only curiosity mixed with that restraint she wrapped around herself like a shield. “I don’t know,” I continued, stepping closer, “whether you want me here or not. But I wanted to be here—for you.”

Her lips parted to formulate a sharp response, but I did not let her. The words tumbled from me, urgent and raw, a torrent of confession.

“I wanted to hold you close. To kiss you until you’re out of breath. To trace my fingers over all the places I know I shouldn’t touch in public…”

Her eyes widened, her breath caught—but before I could finish the sentence, she cut through the air like a blade. “Stop it.”

The words were sharp, commanding. But her body betrayed her.

I saw the rise of her chest, the way her fingers curled against the doorframe, the flicker of something unguarded in her gaze. For a heartbeat, silence stretched between us—charged, unsteady, electric.

Then I softened, my voice dropping to something gentler. “Yes. I wanted to do all of that—and I still do. But not now. I respect your space.”

Her brows knitted together, puzzled by the shift. “Then what, Avery, do you want from me right now?”

I took a step closer, close enough to see the light dancing across her eyes. “I want to hear a story. Since you confessed your love for literature… tell me one. Or a poem. One of those words that can make you feel alive.”

She blinked, stunned. “Avery…”

“With you,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I want to feel alive with you, Tiffany.”

Her lips trembled into a smile—disbelieving, self-conscious at the request. “You came here, to my room, in the middle of the night to ask me for… poetry?”

“Yes,” I said, without flinching. “Poetry. A powerful story. Something that truly moves you. Something that made you fall in love with words in the first place.”

She sighed, shaking her head as though scolding herself for allowing me into her room again. But she stepped aside, opening the door wider.

“You’re impossible.”

I slipped inside the warm room. It smelled of her perfume—warm, subtle, intoxicating.

A small lamp on the bedside table cast a golden glow across the room, softening everything, especially her face. She closed the door, turned to me, arms folded across her chest.

“So, what then? You want me to just… recite something? Like a bedtime story for a child?”

“Not recite,” I said. “Tell me. Like you’d tell yourself in private. Not for your students. Not as a professor. But as Tiffany.”

The sound of her name on my lips made her flinch—but she did not correct me. Instead, she sank onto the edge of the bed, expression contemplative.

“You don’t realize the intimacy of what you’re asking me, darling.”

“Then make me realize,” I urged, settling into the chair, willing her to share. “Show me why you love literature. Show me the private part of you that no one else gets to see.”

For a time she stared at me, as if weighing the cost of what she was about to reveal. Then slowly, her lips parted and the story began.

“There was this one book,” she began, her voice quiet, carrying the weight of a powerful memory. “I read it when I was twelve. It wasn’t assigned in school, it wasn’t something anyone in my family gave me. I found it myself, tucked away in a corner of my father’s library. A collection of poetry—classic, timeless, aching with human emotion.”

Her eyes drifted, not to me, but somewhere far away. “There was one line… one line that never left me. It was a single line from an Irish poet: ‘I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams.'”

My heart clenched. Yeats.

She was quoting Yeats. Her gaze flickered back to me, and she caught the recognition in my eyes.

A smile tugged at her lips. “You know it, Avery?”

I nodded, breathless. “Yeats. Of course I know it. It’s… beautiful.”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice audible. “And that was the moment I realized words could carry everything—love, longing, fear, hope. That they could make someone centuries away feel close, feel alive, right here. That’s when I fell in love with literature.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and I saw the raw emotion in her eyes. Without thinking, I said, “No wonder you didn’t want to turn that into… business. You wanted it to stay pure. Yours alone.”

She nodded, eyes lowering in acknowledgment. “Exactly. The moment passion becomes profession, it changes. I couldn’t bear to make my private escape, my ultimate lifeline, into something transactional.”

I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees. “And yet you share it now. With me, Tiffany.”

That truth caught her. She froze, blinking, her lips parting in surprise.

“Yes,” she admitted at last, her voice fragile with vulnerability. “With you.”

The words settled between us, heavier than any kiss we had shared. I swallowed, my chest tight.

“Then tell me more. Give me another. Another line that makes you… alive.”

She hesitated, then tilted her head, her eyes softening as if she were peeling open the most guarded part of herself. “Alright. There’s one more. From Neruda.”

Her voice lowered, a whisper that somehow carried fire and immense heat. “I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

The room fell into a silence. My breath caught in my throat.

My pulse hammered so I thought it might give me away. Her eyes lingered on me then—searching, challenging, daring me to speak.

“Tiffany…” I breathed, her name slipping past my lips like a prayer.

She broke the moment first, exporting a sharp breath, shaking her head in self-reproach. “You see? This is what words do, darling. They burn. They breathe. They undo you.”

“They undo me,” I corrected her gently, my voice firm. “You undo me, Tesoro.”

Her laugh was quiet, disbelieving, laced with a tremor of vulnerability. She pressed a hand against her temple, as if trying to steady herself.

“You shouldn’t, for your own safety, say things like that to me.”

“And you shouldn’t smile when I do,” I shot back softly, confidently.

That statement shut her up. Her eyes skyrocketed to mine, wide, exposed, defenseless.

The silence between us deepened—brimming with unspoken possibility. Finally, she whispered, “It’s late. You should go.”

I stood, not wanting to leave, but respecting the invisible line she had drawn. Yet as I reached the door, I turned back and said, “Thank you. For the story. For the poetry. For letting me see the private part of you keep hidden from the world.”

Her lips parted as though to speak, but no sound came out. Only her eyes followed me until the door closed, sealing the secret.

In that silence, I knew something irrevocable had shifted between us. It wasn’t the kiss I had wanted, nor the physical closeness I had imagined.

It was more. Now, she had let me into her world of words.

And that, in its own way, was intimacy enough.