Chapter 31

Tiffany’s POV

I dismissed her that day. My words were sharper than I intended, but I had to regain control-over her, over myself, over the dangerous ground we were slipping into.

And yet, the moment Avery stormed out of my office, slamming the air between us, I felt the cut sharper than I let on. My chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, not with anger, but with something I refused to name.

Her footsteps faded down the corridor, but the echo of her voice-her shouting at me, her questioning, why do you even care?-still reverberated in my bones.

“No one raises their voice at me, Carter. Be careful.”
The words had left my mouth like a shield, but truthfully, they had been for me as much as for her. A desperate reminder that I was the professor, the authority, the untouchable one.

But when the door closed, I leaned heavily against my desk. My hand trembled as it smoothed over the cold wood. That girl… she had shaken me.

❖

Later, in lecture, I walked in as if nothing had happened. My stride was measured, my posture impeccable, my mask perfectly in place. But the moment I felt her eyes on me, my resolve wavered.

I saw her sitting there, notebook open, her pen unmoving. Her gaze flickered toward me like a wound searching for its cause. I didn’t allow myself to meet her eyes-not for more than a fleeting second. If I lingered, the entire class would see right through me.

So I buried myself in the lecture, spoke with steady confidence, and pretended. Pretended that the storm inside me wasn’t roaring every time I sensed her broken attention on me.

When class ended, I left quickly. I couldn’t risk her catching me in the hall. I couldn’t risk… giving in.

I locked my office door that afternoon. A small, deliberate cruelty. She tried to open it-I heard the handle rattle faintly, a pause outside the wood. My heart lurched, but I stayed silent.

When the peon delivered my message to her-that she was “free” from TA duties this week-I watched from behind the blinds. She froze. Even from a distance, I saw the way her body sagged, as though the words had cut her deeper than she expected.

It killed me.
But I told myself it was necessary.

❖

Five days of silence had passed, and I wore them like armor.

“Ms. Rose!”

It rang through the corridor, sharp, desperate, cracking against the marble walls. My stride faltered. My grip tightened on the books in my arms.

“You know it hurts…”

Her voice broke, and so did I. I stopped, rigid, every muscle caught between turning back and running forward.

For a moment, I didn’t move. If I looked at her-if I met those tearful eyes-I would be lost. Completely lost.

But I turned anyway. Slowly.

Her gaze collided with mine. The entire world hushed. It was only her and me, tethered by a string pulled dangerously taut.

My throat ached with words I could not speak. My heart screamed to close the distance. But my role-the wall I had built-forced me to choose differently.

“Meet me in my office,” I said, my voice low, firm, unshaken.

Then I walked. And of course, she followed.

In my office, I placed my books down carefully. Too carefully. My fingers gripped the covers longer than needed just to stop their trembling.

When I finally faced her, she was standing there-eyes red, tears clinging stubbornly to her lashes. The sight nearly undid me.

So I folded my arms, called on the professor within me, and asked tightly, “Do you have any idea what you just did out there, Carter? What if someone heard you?”

Her fists clenched. “I don’t care about out there. I care about here-about this.”

Her defiance, her rawness-it both terrified and thrilled me. I couldn’t let her see that.

“You’re out of line.”

She stepped closer, her voice breaking. “Then tell me why you’re doing this to me! Why are you shutting me out like this? Why a week without TA duties? Why won’t you even look at me?!”

The truth was so simple, yet impossible to say: Because I feel too much.
Instead, I snapped, “Because you crossed the line, Avery. You shouted at me, and you think there are no consequences?”

Her voice cracked, desperate. “I shouted because-because I didn’t understand why you cared so much. And you wouldn’t even answer me!”

God help me. The way she said “care” clawed into my chest.

“No one,” I said slowly, clinging to my last shred of authority, “raises their voice at me. Not students. Not colleagues. Not even Von Carters.”

Her words cut back instantly, burning past my defenses. “I don’t care about the name! I’m not just a Von Carter here. I’m-“

She stopped. My heart lurched into my throat. What was she about to say?

And then, barely above a whisper, trembling:
“I’m not just anyone to you. Am I?”

The air left my lungs.

For a split second, I nearly admitted it. Nearly told her the truth that had been clawing at me every sleepless night. But reason slammed the door shut. I turned my face into ice.

“You’re my student. My TA. Nothing more.”

The words shattered her. I saw it in her eyes, the way her chest rose with ragged breaths, the way she crumbled inward. And in that moment, I hated myself.

She whispered, broken, “If that’s true, then why does it hurt this much?”

I flinched. Barely-but I knew she saw.

Then, softer, pleading: “You didn’t answer me, professor. Why do you care? Why do you ask about my health? Why do you shut me out if I matter nothing more than a TA? Why does it feel like you’re protecting yourself… from me?”

Her words sliced through every last wall I had. She saw too much. She always did.

I could not answer. I dared not.

So I whispered instead, “You should go, Carter.”

Her voice broke again, apologizing, confessing, begging me not to shut her out. I couldn’t listen. If I listened, I would fall.

“Enough,” I cut sharply, turning my back before she could see the storm in my eyes. My hands clutched the desk until my knuckles whitened. “Leave.”

The silence after the door closed behind her was unbearable. I pressed both hands to my face, inhaling deeply, trying to quiet the ache in my chest.

But it was useless.
Every word, every tear, every question still burned inside me.

❖

The next morning, I found her in my office before me.

“Avery?” My voice faltered as I set my notes down. Shock flooded me-then dread.

Before I could say another word, she dropped to her knees.

“Avery-what the hell-“

Her voice broke like glass. “I am so, so, so sorry, Ms. Rose… for shouting at you that day.”

I froze. My entire body stiffened as her words tumbled out-desperate, pleading, self-punishing. She spoke of leaving the university, of disappearing from my life entirely, if only I would forgive her.

Her hands trembled. Her eyes shone. My heart broke.

And that was the moment I snapped.

“Don’t you dare talk such bullshit!”

The words tore from me, sharper than I intended, because the very idea of her vanishing from my life was unbearable.

Her head shot up, startled.

And all I could do was stand there, caught between the professor I had to be and the woman who wanted to drop to the floor beside her, lift her face in my hands, and whisper the truth:

That I cared too much.

That she was never just a student.

That she had already undone me completely.

❖

The days began to fall into place like beads on an invisible string-routine, familiar, predictable to anyone looking from the outside. But to me, each carried its own sharp edge, pricking at me in silence.

Classes were steady. She resumed her duties as though nothing had happened, papers sorted, tasks handled, her efficiency unquestionable. My colleagues would have said I was fortunate to have such an assistant. They didn’t know the undercurrent that ran beneath every exchange.

At home, I wore my mask as I always had-my parents, my responsibilities, the expectations piled upon me. They never slipped, not once. That version of me was ironclad, untouchable. But here, in the academic halls, my mask didn’t protect me from the one person I least expected.

Avery.

I should call her Carter. That’s who she is in every register, every roll call, every faculty list. Carter. A student. My assistant. My responsibility.
But in my head, it was always Avery.

And for ten days, the distance was deliberate. She spoke to me only about work, never straying into the playful remarks, the sly smirks, the endless energy she once carried into my office like a storm. I told myself I should be grateful for the silence. Grateful for the professionalism. Grateful that the boundary was intact again.

But I wasn’t.

I missed it.

I missed her.

Her absence was not her physical absence-she was still there, every day, handling notes, reviewing drafts, assisting with tasks. Her absence was in her silence, in the way she no longer provoked me, no longer met my sarcasm with her own. She had withdrawn from me without leaving, and somehow, it was worse than if she had.

For ten days, I let her do it. For ten days, I pretended not to notice the hollow where her chaos used to live.

Until that afternoon.

She was seated across from me in my office, papers scattered across my desk, preparing notes for the upcoming seminar. The afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, catching the edges of her hair. She tapped her pen against the folder absentmindedly, brow furrowed in concentration.

I told myself to focus on the work. To look at the papers, not at her. To keep my distance, like I had promised myself.

But the words slipped out before I could stop them.

“You know,” I began, my voice lighter than the weight in my chest, “there was once a person who always found a way to trouble me. Or… should I say, make their way to me.”

Her pen froze.

I shouldn’t have continued. I should have bitten the words back. But my mouth betrayed me, carrying what my heart had been aching with.

“They were-annoying, but sweet. Dramatic, but kind. Mad, but genius. Reckless, but careful.” My voice softened. “And then one day, they just went silent. All of a sudden.”

I hadn’t said her name. I didn’t need to.

She stiffened, and though she tried to mask it, I saw the truth ripple across her face.

“Uh huh,” she said, too flippantly. “Maybe they got bored of you, Professor. So, they decided not to entertain you further.”

The smirk she wore didn’t reach her eyes. It was her mask-too polished, too rehearsed. I recognized it because I wore one like it every day.

And so I let my mask answer hers.

“Oh, baby,” I said, the word slipping out more intimately than I had intended, “you have no idea who you’re calling boring.”

The moment the word left me, I knew it was dangerous. It lingered in the space between us, heavy, charged. She blinked, caught off guard, and for one wild second I wanted to say it again just to see her falter like that.

I leaned forward slightly, my voice quieter now, stripped of pretense. “If I want, I can change someone’s entire world. You know that, don’t you?”

Her answer came without hesitation. “Yes, I know.”

The honesty in her voice startled me. No jest, no sarcasm, just truth.

And then she said something that nearly undid me.

“Or maybe there’s another reason. Maybe… that person became more careful about their actions. So that you aren’t harmed in any way.”

I froze.

Because it was me she meant to protect.
Because she wasn’t reckless at all. Not here, not with me.

My mouth opened, but no words followed. My carefully constructed control, the armor I had lived in for years, cracked under the weight of her sincerity.

And for once, I let myself look at her. Really look. At the tremor in her hands, the storm she thought she hid in her eyes, the way she carried the weight of restraint for my sake.

It gutted me.

Because I wanted her to be reckless. I wanted her to throw down the shields, to storm the walls I had built, to make me confess what I was too afraid to admit. I wanted, selfishly, for her to stop protecting me.

The air between us grew too heavy, thick with unspoken truths. I searched her face, aching, but she looked away first-burying herself in the papers, pretending the moment had never happened.

And just like that, the spell broke.

I stayed silent, retreating into my mask, though the damage was already done.

❖

That night, alone in my apartment, I replayed the moment until my chest hurt. Her words. Her restraint. The way she admitted, without admitting, that she was careful-for me.

It wasn’t tension anymore. It wasn’t just some reckless spark.

It was intimacy.

The kind that terrifies you because it makes you realize how much power someone else has over you.

And Avery-my student, my assistant, my undoing-already had all of it.

End of Tiffany’s POV.