The week that followed the first encounter was a slow torture for Alistair Thorne. He had spent years cultivating a reputation as the most rigorous, detached academic in the humanities department, a man whose heart was as disciplined as his footnotes. But now, that discipline had become a cage. Every time he stepped into the lecture hall, his eyes instinctively sought her out.
Sophie sat in the third row, always in the same seat, her presence a silent, humming frequency that disrupted his every thought. She didn't do anything overt, but the way she leaned back in her chair, the way she chewed the end of her pen, the way her gaze lingered on his mouth while he spoke—it was a systematic dismantling of his composure.
On Monday, the air in the lecture hall felt thick, almost humid, despite
