The master bathroom was Noah's sanctuary in an otherwise cold, modern house, with marble and chrome surfaces that reflected his need for control, even in moments of solitude. Steam rose from the oversized soaking tub, fogging the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Riverside Heights' constellation of lights. The bathwater revealed the roadmap of scars across his torso; shrapnel scars and cleaner lines that spoke of professional violence. He traced one absently, remembering Rustavi.
Through the steam, for just a moment, he saw Alexa's face. The way she'd looked at him during their conversation before Rustavi. "Don't worry, Noah. This one's routine."
She was a liar. He knew that now. Every word she said was carefully chosen for maximum impact. But that was the last lie she told him. And nothing had been routine since.
The city sprawled below like synapses firing in a vast neural network, all interconnected patterns and electric impulses, while Noah let the scalding water dissolve the knots in his shoulders.
His phone's screen pierced the dim atmosphere, blue light glowing against wet marble. Noah refreshed his email inbox, a habit he'd developed over the past few months. All of his preparation had already been completed, so he wasn't sure what he was looking for anymore. Or maybe he was sure, and that was the problem.
For seven minutes, he soaked, trying to wash away the memory of tonight's meeting and what it meant for his future. Then his phone lit up with a new text message, dragged him back to a reality far more compelling than his steaming bathwater.
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Fifteen miles northeast, Mai lived in a cramped apartment above the Saigon Corner, a Vietnamese restaurant her parents managed. Her room had been carved from what was once a storage space.
Mai sat cross-legged on her narrow bed, surrounded by dog-eared textbooks, empty coffee cups forming rings on her secondhand nightstand, highlighters bleeding color onto her threadbare comforter. The building's frame creaked with each gust of October wind, and the scent of pho broth and star anise had long since seeped into her walls, mixing with the vanilla candle she'd lit in a futile attempt to mask the persistent smell of mildew.
The fluorescent light from the hallway leaked under her door, casting harsh shadows across the peeling wallpaper that the landlord had promised to replace six months ago. Her laptop screen cast harsh shadows across her face as she stared at the blank document that had consumed her evening, Professor White's "independent study," though nothing about it felt academic anymore.
Her pulse raced as she stared at her phone screen, the cursor blinking in the message box like a tiny strobe light. She'd typed and deleted a dozen different messages, each one feeling either too casual or too intense.
Taking a shaky breath, she started typing, her fingers trembling slightly.
Mai: Professor, I hope this isn't too late to reach out. I've started the assignment. It's so much to absorb, but I'm diving in. Thank you for your patience and for breaking it down for me. Sweet dreams!
She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then immediately regretted the "sweet dreams" part. Too intimate? Too casual? She pressed the phone against her chest and closed her eyes, listening to the muffled sounds of the city outside her window, sirens in the distance, the rumble of the late-night bus, someone's music bleeding through the thin walls.
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Noah's lips curved into a smirk as he read her message, the phone's light reflecting off the bathroom's polished surfaces. He could practically feel her nervous energy through the screen, could picture her in whatever cramped housing she called home, probably surrounded by empty energy drink cans and color-coded highlighters. The girl was trying so hard to sound professional, but there was something underneath. A forbidden excitement that made his pulse quicken.
He let the phone rest against the tub's marble edge, savoring the moment before responding. Through the steam-fogged windows, downtown's lights blurred into impressionist smears of gold and red. Somewhere in that maze of glass and concrete, students like Mai burned through the night hours, fueled by caffeine and ambition, cramming for exams or nursing hangovers in overcrowded apartments. He'd been there once, though it felt like a lifetime ago.
Finally, he picked up the phone and typed back, his response deliberately casual.
Noah: Are you managing the special instructions all right?
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Mai's phone buzzed against her chest where she'd been clutching it. Her pulse spiked as she read his words. Special instructions. Such careful language for something that had left her feeling flayed open. The "special instructions" he'd given her weren't exactly what she'd expected from an academic assignment; they were personal, intimate.
Her room suddenly felt smaller, walls pressing in as she considered how to respond. He'd told her to explore her physical responses, to notice where sensation lived in her body, to write from that place of raw awareness. "Touch is the language of truth," he'd said in his office earlier that week. Outside, the city hummed its perpetual lullaby while the memory of his words made her skin prickle. "If you want to write passion, you need to understand what passion feels like in your body."
Her fingers moved and sent the message before her mind could catch up:
Mai: Um…yes. I'm trying to focus on the techniques you described, but it's so overwhelming. My mind keeps drifting back to today's conversation. Is that normal?
She stared at the message, horrified by her own honesty. She'd essentially confessed that she couldn't stop thinking about him. About the electricity that had arced between them during their brief meeting, when he'd leaned close enough that she could smell his cologne. When his finger had traced lines in her manuscript while his voice dropped to that intimate register that made her face burn hot.
The sent message felt like a cliff's edge. And she had just jumped.
What was wrong with her? This was her professor. This was a man with power over her academic future. But her body didn't seem to care about any of that. Her body responded to the timber of his voice, to the way he looked at her like she was something rare and precious.
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Reading her message twice, Noah felt something shift in his chest. The girl was walking right up to the line, maybe even crossing it. The part of him that still remembered being decent wanted to pull back. The part that had built this comfortable life with Rose, that taught literature to earnest undergraduates without complications, wanted to respond with something safe and professional.
But, since receiving Troy's email, that part had grown quieter and was now drowning in bathwater and steam.
The fingers typing on his phone belonged to someone else. Someone he'd been trying not to become. That part had been growing restless in his comfortable, predictable life, wanted to see how far she was willing to go. It wanted to see how far he could push before something broke.
The bathroom's recessed lighting created a golden cocoon around him, steam turning the space ethereal. Down the hall, Rose's voice carried through the normally silent house as she talked on the phone with her friends, something about weekend plans, the mundane architecture of a normal life.
Typing slowly, he chose his words carefully.
Noah: It's completely normal to feel overwhelmed when you're doing something new. The best writing comes from that place of vulnerability, from being willing to explore what makes you uncomfortable. Don't fight the feelings; use them.
He paused, his thumb hovering over the send button. Then he added one more line.
Noah: What specifically is making you feel so overwhelmed?
He sent it, set his phone aside, and sank deeper into the hot water, letting the heat work its way into his bones. Watching steam rise toward the ceiling. The question hung in the digital space between them, loaded with possibility and danger. He knew what she'd say. He'd designed this entire interaction to lead her exactly where he wanted her to go.
He closed his eyes and waited for her response, knowing that whatever she wrote back would change something between them and push them further into territory that had no map and no safe harbor. The thought should have worried him more than it did.
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Mai stared at his message until the words blurred. Trust a literature professor to make dangerous territory sound academic. But beneath his careful language, she heard permission. Permission to acknowledge what was happening between them, even if they couldn't name it directly.
The vanilla candle had burned down to a stub. She typed slowly, each word a small rebellion:
Mai: Um…yes. I'm trying to focus on the techniques you described. The one that you said would help me find my feelings and allow me to write with passion. But when I do, your face comes up, and it kinda makes me forget that you're my professor.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she hit send. The message felt like a confession, like drawing blood. She'd crossed every line she'd promised herself she wouldn't cross, had revealed the hunger that gnawed at her during his lectures, the dreams that left her gasping awake in her narrow twin bed.
This could destroy my scholarship. The thought entered her mind, and the shame followed immediately. She couldn't look at her own reflection in the darkened window across from her bed. What kind of person sent messages like that to a professor? What was she expecting to happen?
But underneath the shame was something else, a thrill that made her skin feel too tight, a wanting that terrified her in its intensity.
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Noah's smirk widened, a hunter's gleam in his eye. He knew he had her hooked, reeled in like a fish on a line. He'd known she'd break first, had counted on her inexperience and her desperate need for validation. She was eager, hungry for approval, the kind of student who would push herself to prove her worth.
Noah: So you're saying that you imagine me while you follow my instructions?
The message was designed to push her further, to make her acknowledge what she'd been dancing around. He could hear Rose's laughter from downstairs, warm and familiar, tethering him to the life he'd constructed so carefully. But Mai's message pulsed on his screen like a heartbeat, demanding response, demanding truth.
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Mai's cheeks burned like she'd just been slapped. Her fingers flew across her phone's screen in a mad dash to hide her embarrassment.
Mai: I… I didn't mean to say that. Please pretend I never sent that.
Even as she typed it, she knew it was futile. You couldn't unsay things. You couldn't take back confessions once they'd been made.
Her phone buzzed almost immediately.
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Noah leaned back, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.
Noah: Tomorrow, not tonight. For now, I'm going to call you.
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Mai stared at the words, her breath catching in her throat. A call. He wanted to talk to her, to hear her voice, to make this even more real than it already was.
Every instinct screamed at her to say no. To make an excuse. To establish boundaries before this situation spiraled completely out of control.
The idea terrified her. But it didn't stop her fingers. She watched her hand move as if from very far away, typing two letters.
Mai: OK
The city noise faded as she hit send. Her pulse raced. She could feel it already, the electric tension building in her chest, spreading through her limbs like fever.
What was she doing? This was insane. This was wrong. This was…
Her phone lit up with an incoming call.
Professor White.
Mai stared at the screen, watching his name pulse with each ring. One ring. Two rings. Her thumb hovered over the green button. She could still not answer. She could still stop this before it went any further.
On the third ring, she answered.
"Hello?" Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Mai." His voice was different on the phone, deeper, more intimate, like he was right next to her instead of miles away. "I'm glad you answered."
She couldn't speak. Her throat had closed up completely.
"Are you alone?" he asked.
"Yes," she managed. "My family's downstairs. The restaurant doesn't close until midnight."
"Good." There was a pause, and she could hear water moving in the background. Was he in the bath? The thought made her face burn hotter. "Look, Mai… I want you to understand something. What we're talking about here, what you're feeling, it's not wrong. It's human."
"But you're my professor," she said, the words tumbling out. "This feels like… I don't know what this is."
"What do you think it is?" His voice was gentle, coaxing, like he was genuinely curious about her answer rather than leading her somewhere specific.
Mai pressed her free hand against her chest, trying to slow her racing heart. "I think… I think maybe we're crossing lines we shouldn't be crossing."
"Lines exist for a reason," Noah said. "But sometimes, the greatest growth happens when we question 'why' those lines are there. After all, you're an adult, Mai. You're smart and talented. Why shouldn't we acknowledge there's something between us? Why pretend it doesn't exist?"
His words made sense in a way that frightened her. He was right. She was an adult. She was nineteen years old, not some little kid. And the connection between them felt real, felt more genuine than anything she'd experienced with guys her own age who only wanted to talk about parties and video games.
"I guess I'm just scared," she admitted.
"Of what?"
"Of… of getting in trouble. Of my family finding out. Of messing up my future. Of…" How much I want this, of how wrong it feels to want this.
"That's understandable," Noah said, his voice soothing. "But listen, Mai, I've been doing this a long time, and I know what I told you sounds... inappropriate. But nothing has to happen that you don't want. You're in control here. This is about helping you grow as a writer. Everything else..." He paused. "Everything else is just part of the process."
Part of the process. The words felt wrong, but she couldn't articulate why. Her body was responding to his voice in ways that made her ashamed. Warmth pooled low in her belly, her skin was hypersensitive, her breathing shallow. How could she be aroused while also being terrified? How could both things exist at once?
"Tell me what you're feeling right now," Noah said, his voice dropping even lower. "Physically. What does your body feel like?"
Mai's breath hitched. This was it: the line between appropriate and inappropriate, between mentorship and something else entirely. She could hang up. She could say this was too much. She could…
"My heart is racing," she heard herself say. "My hands are shaking. I feel hot all over."
"That's adrenaline," Noah said. "Your body is responding to the thrill of exploring something new. It's the same feeling you need to channel into your writing. Do you get what im saying?"
"I… I think so."
"When I gave you those special instructions earlier. To pay attention to physical sensations, to notice where feeling lives in your body. I meant it personally. You need to understand your own responses, Mai. You need to know what makes you feel alive. Otherwise, how can you write about passion? How can you write about desire?"
Everything he said made sense, but there was also something underneath the words that made her uneasy, like he was saying one thing but meaning another. Like, two conversations were happening at once.
"I don't know if I can do this," Mai whispered.
"Do what?"
"Whatever this is."
"Of course you can, This is just a conversation," Noah said reasonably. "You're already doing so well. You just need to continue the assignment."
"The assignment," Mai said as if in a trance.
"Yeah. Now, tell me more about how you're feeling."