Nathaniel had spent years perfecting his restraint, crafting walls so high that no one had ever dared to climb them. He had buried himself in discipline, in control, in the certainty that emotions—especially desire—were weaknesses to be conquered, not indulged. But that certainty was shattering. Every time Elena stepped into his world, his carefully constructed walls cracked just a little more, her presence threading through the gaps like wildfire, scorching through the very foundation of his resolve. He had tried to ignore it, tried to pretend that her lingering glances, the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't watching, the way her presence pulled at something deep and unyielding inside him, meant nothing. But it did. It meant everything. And now, standing in the dim glow of the campus library, watching her as she sat there, waiting, as if she already knew he would come to her, he felt something inside him shift—something that had been waiting to break free for far too long.
He should have turned around. He should have left. But his feet moved forward before his mind could catch up, drawn to her like a force beyond reason, beyond logic, beyond control. The air between them grew thick with something unspoken, something dangerous, something that neither of them had the strength to deny anymore. She wasn't reading, wasn't even pretending to be. Her fingers rested lightly on the open book in front of her, but her gaze was solely on him, unwavering, piercing through every last defense he had left. His hands curled into fists at his sides, a desperate attempt to ground himself, to keep himself from reaching for her, from doing something he could never take back.
"Elena," he finally spoke, his voice low, strained, betraying just how much effort it took to say her name without breaking. She didn't flinch, didn't waver, only tilted her head slightly, watching him with that quiet, knowing expression that made him want to unravel right then and there. "You shouldn't be here this late."
A soft, slow smile curved at her lips, and God help him, it was devastating. "Neither should you."
His jaw tightened, his breath a slow, controlled exhale as he forced himself to remain still, to resist the instinct to close the small, dangerous distance between them. He knew what she was doing. She was testing him, pushing him toward the edge to see if he would finally break. But what she didn't understand was that he was already dangling over that edge, barely holding on, barely surviving the pull that had been building between them since the moment they met.
"Do you ever think about it?" she whispered, and it was his undoing.
His throat worked, his pulse pounding like a war drum in his ears. He didn't need to ask what she meant—he already knew. The nights spent lying awake, the moments in his office when she stood too close, the stolen glances, the suffocating tension that thickened the very air between them—it was all there, a silent storm raging between them, threatening to consume them both.
"Elena," he said again, but this time, her name wasn't a warning. It was a confession.
The silence stretched between them, heavy, charged, teetering on the edge of something that neither of them could take back. And then—she moved. It was barely anything, just the slow, deliberate way she leaned forward, just enough that the warmth of her breath whispered against his skin, just enough that their fingers nearly brushed against the surface of the table. It was nothing, and yet it ruined him. His restraint snapped like a brittle thread, the dam he had spent years fortifying crumbling in an instant. Before he could stop himself, before he could think, his hand shot out, his fingers curling around her wrist, stopping her, pulling her back, pulling her closer.
Her breath hitched, her pulse thrumming against his grip, but she didn't pull away. If anything, she tilted her head slightly, her gaze dropping to where his hand held hers, as if savoring the weight of it, the way he wasn't letting go. His grip tightened for just a second, his thumb tracing the delicate skin of her wrist, as if memorizing the shape of her, as if burning the sensation into his skin.
"What are you doing to me?" he rasped, the words escaping before he could stop them, before he could lie to himself any longer.
Her lips parted, and for a moment, she didn't speak, only stared at him, watching the war waging inside him, watching the way he was losing. And then, she answered. "Nothing you don't want me to."
His breath left him in a sharp, uneven exhale, his entire body locked in place, as if one wrong move would send him crashing into something he could never recover from. And then, without thinking, without meaning to, without any hope of stopping himself—he pulled her closer. It was instinct, primal and reckless, his body acting before his mind could remind him of all the reasons this could never happen. Her chair scraped softly against the floor as she shifted forward, her knees barely brushing his, and God, he was so close. Close enough to feel the warmth of her, close enough that if he just leaned in—just a little—it would all be over.
And then he did.
The space between them disappeared, and before he could regret it, before he could think about the consequences, his lips were on hers. The moment they touched, everything exploded. It wasn't gentle, wasn't careful—it was desperate, raw, a collision of months of pent-up restraint shattering in an instant. She gasped softly against his mouth, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, dragging him under.
And Nathaniel let her.
His hands slid to her waist, gripping tightly, grounding himself in the feel of her, in the heat that radiated between them. He felt her melt into him, felt her sigh against his lips, felt the way her fingers trembled as they tangled in his hair. It was everything he had been denying himself, everything he had tried to resist—and it wasn't enough. He wanted more. He needed more.
A soft sound escaped her, something between a sigh and a moan, and it sent fire through his veins, burning away the last remnants of his control. His fingers dug into her waist, his lips moving over hers with unrestrained hunger, his body pressing closer, pressing against the very thing he had been running from. She tasted like something he shouldn't have, something that would ruin him—but God, he wanted to be ruined.
And then—reality crashed down.
Nathaniel broke away, his breathing ragged, his forehead pressing against hers as he tried to remember how to think, how to stop this before it was too late. His hands were still gripping her, her hands still tangled in his shirt, and when she whispered, "What now?" the only answer that came to him was one he wasn't ready to admit.
Because there was no going back.
And nothing would ever be the same