you've never had fish and chips?"

I shouldn't have told mother I'd study Business Administration. The thought gnaws at me, tightening like a noose around my chest. Numbers, charts, profit margins—they all blur together in a lifeless haze. None of it sparks anything in me, not the way the human body does. The intricate design of veins, the rhythm of a beating heart, the puzzle of diagnosing an illness—that's where I belong.

I wonder how different my life would have been if I had fought harder, if I had pushed for my master's in medicine instead. Would I be in a white coat right now, my fingers steady as I sutured wounds, my mind alive with the challenge of saving lives? Would I feel fulfilled, instead of drowning in spreadsheets and business jargon that mean nothing to me?

Regret is a bitter thing. And yet, here I am, trapped in a life because of my impulsiveness. But what am I if not persistent?

It's been six weeks since my fall. Six weeks since I last saw Zane. The memory still lingers, like a bruise that refuses to fade. His father, though—I still catch glimpses of him whenever I visit my mother's company. A passing nod, a polite smile, nothing more. It's almost strange how life moves on, how people become distant shadows in places they once filled.

At least I'm settling in. I've made friends in my classes, and while London is nothing like home, I'm trying. The school system is different, the culture a little overwhelming, but I'm adapting.

"Wait, you've never had fish and chips?" Emily gapes at me over her sandwich, nearly dropping it.

I laugh, shaking my head. "Nope. Not once."

"We're fixing that," Liam declares, pointing a fry at me like it's a serious matter. "You can't live in London and not have fish and chips. It's practically a crime."

"I think I'll survive," I tease, stealing one of his fries.

They make things easier. The laughter, the little moments—they distract me. But sometimes, late at night, when everything is quiet, my thoughts drift back to him.

The morning air is crisp as I sling my bag over my shoulder and head to class. This particular class has been a joke since the semester started—canceled lectures, nothing but PDFs and pre-recorded videos. Honestly, I had started to believe the professor didn't exist.

But today, apparently, he does.

I push open the door, scanning the room for an empty seat, when my breath catches in my throat. Standing at the front of the class, adjusting the projector, is Zane.

For a split second, I think my mind is playing tricks on me. Maybe I'm still half-asleep, maybe it's just someone who looks like him. But then he turns. And it's him.

Zane.

Six weeks. Six weeks since I last saw him. And now, here he is, standing in front of the class like he belongs there.

Like he's supposed to be my professor.

Because he is my professor. How??, I mean why?? No not why, what???

I freeze at the doorway, my breath hitching in my throat.

Zane.

He stands at the front of the lecture hall, effortlessly commanding the room without saying a word. His black hair falls slightly over his forehead, his grey eyes sharp as they flick over the students settling in. The crisp shirt he wears does nothing to hide the lean strength beneath it, the kind that comes from years of movement, not mindless reps in a gym.

I should move. I should sit. But instead, I just… stare.

I've seen him before—too many times, in too many ways. But never like this. Never with the authority of a professor, the weight of an entire class waiting for his word.

"Ms. Harrison."

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, smooth and unyielding. My spine stiffens.

"Are you planning to stand there all day, or should we begin?"

Heat floods my face as the students shift their attention to me. Mortified, I duck my head and rush to the nearest seat, sliding into it as quickly as possible. I don't dare look up, not even when I hear the faintest scoff from the front of the room.

The class moves forward without issue—at least for everyone else. I try to focus, to take notes, but my mind keeps circling back to him. To the sheer impossibility of him standing there, acting like the past six weeks never happened.

When the lecture ends, students begin filing out, chatting amongst themselves. I hesitate for a second, then push past my nerves and make my way down toward the front.

Zane doesn't look surprised to see me approach. If anything, he looks… expectant.

"I, uh… I didn't quite get the assignment," I admit, gripping my notebook a little too tightly.

His expression doesn't shift. "Which part?"

I glance down at my notes. "The formula you used near the end. It wasn't in any of the materials you uploaded."

His silence stretches between us, and just when I think he might actually help, he exhales a sharp breath. "This is secondary school material, Ms. Harrison. You should already know this."

The words sting more than they should. I press my lips together, forcing myself not to react.

"Right," I mumble. "I'll figure it out."

But before I can turn away, he speaks again. "Sit."

I glance up. He's already pulling out a chair beside his desk, his gaze unreadable. Reluctantly, I drop into it, trying to ignore the way my pulse picks up when he leans slightly over my notes.

This is going to be a long semester.