You’re the last to leave the lecture hall. The others file out in a blur of idle chatter, but you linger — again — pretending to gather your things, when in reality, you just want to see if she’ll look at you like something more than a student.

Professor Johansson doesn’t. She rarely does.

She’s behind her desk, writing something with clean, deliberate strokes. Her glasses slide a little down her nose. You wait.

Nothing.

So you speak first, like always.

“You really tore that essay apart.”

Still not looking at you. “Because you can do better.”

You scoff, shouldering your bag. “You say that about everything I do.”

This time she looks up. Eyes cold. Calculated.

“Because everything you do is lazy compared to what you’re capable of.”

It stings. It always does. Her voice is sharp, unyielding — not a trace of softness.

And yet.

And yet you keep coming back. Pushing. Testing.

“Why are you so hard on me?” you ask suddenly.

Scarlett stills.

Then, slowly, she sets down her pen. Stands. Walks around the desk until she’s inches from you.

“Because,” she says lowly, “if I weren’t—if I allowed myself to treat you like the others—”

She stops. Closes her eyes. Her jaw clenches like she’s choking on something dangerous.

“Then I would cross a line I can’t afford to cross.”

You blink. That one sentence shatters every cold dismissal, every brutal critique. You feel something shift in your chest.

“You think I don’t feel it?” you whisper. “When you look at me like I’m fire and you’re trying not to burn?”

Scarlett’s mouth tightens. Her hands twitch at her sides.

“Don’t,” she says. But her voice cracks on it.

“You’re the one who stays after class when no one’s here,” you murmur. “You read every word I write like it might undo you. You don’t scare me, Scarlett.”

The sound of her name catches her off guard. For a second, you see it — all the restraint. All the aching.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she breathes.

“I think I do,” you reply.

A beat.

Then she steps back. The wall slams down again, hard.

“Go home,” she says tightly. “We’re done here.”

You stare. So does she.

But neither of you moves.

And the tension between you hums like a wire pulled too tight.

Unbroken. Unspoken. Unsafe.