A Line Too Thin to Walk

Elena hadn't planned on coming back so soon. She had barely processed their last conversation, the way Nathaniel had looked at her when she admitted why she had excelled in his class. The memory of his steady gaze, the way his voice had softened for just a moment before hardening again, had haunted her all night. It wasn't just about the grades anymore.

It was about him.

And now she was here again, standing in front of his office, her fingers curled into a fist, hesitating.

The door was closed this time, unlike the last. No soft glow of a lamp spilling into the hallway. No invitation of an open door.

She could walk away.

She should walk away.

But instead, she knocked.

Silence stretched for a moment, and she almost thought he wasn't there. Then, the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping against the floor, the rustle of movement. A shadow passed under the doorframe.

Then the door cracked open.

Nathaniel stood there, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes settling on her with something she couldn't name. He was still dressed in his usual crisp shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, as if he had been deep in work. There was a pause before he spoke, his voice calm but carrying a weight beneath it.

"Elena."

She swallowed. "I—"

She didn't know how to finish that sentence.

Nathaniel sighed, opening the door wider. "Come in."

She stepped inside, feeling the familiar warmth of the room, the subtle scent of books and something distinctly him. The heavy mahogany desk, the papers stacked in precise order, the bookshelves filled with knowledge she barely understood—everything about his space made her feel small, but not in an unpleasant way.

Nathaniel closed the door behind her, the click of the lock settling uneasily in her stomach.

"You came back," he said, returning to his desk.

She nodded. "I... I need more than just advice. I need you to teach me. To help me figure this out."

Nathaniel leaned back against his chair, studying her carefully. "You understand what you're asking?"

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. "I know it's not normal. I know you don't tutor students. But I don't trust anyone else. You're the only person who ever made me push myself harder, who made me want to do better."

Nathaniel didn't speak right away. He tapped a finger lightly against the desk, his brows drawn in thought. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he nodded

"Alright," he said finally. "I'll help you."

A rush of relief flooded her, but before she could thank him, his next words made her pulse spike.

"But there are rules."

Her stomach flipped. "Rules?"

Nathaniel's eyes darkened slightly, his voice lower now, quieter. "This stays professional. No distractions. No unnecessary conversation. If you're here to learn, that's the only thing we do."

Something in his tone sent a shiver through her. He wasn't just setting boundaries for her. He was setting them for himself.

Elena nodded slowly. "Understood."

Nathaniel held her gaze for a long moment, then looked away, grabbing a book from the shelf. "We start now."

She hadn't expected it to begin so quickly, but as he opened the book and pulled out a chair beside his desk, she obeyed, sitting down, forcing herself to focus.

For the next hour, they went over material in a way she had never experienced before. Nathaniel didn't just lecture—he challenged. He pushed. He made her think deeper, question her own knowledge, forcing her into a level of critical thinking she had never dared to reach on her own.

But the tension never left.

Every time he leaned over to point at something in the book, every time his sleeve brushed against her arm, every time she caught his scent—clean, crisp, and something uniquely him—it became harder to breathe.

And when he looked at her for too long, when their eyes met and held, she felt something far more dangerous than the stress of failing grades.

She felt the undeniable pull of something neither of them could afford.

An hour turned into two. She forgot about time, forgot about everything except the way his voice wrapped around each explanation, the way he made things clear in a way no one else could.

She didn't realize how late it had gotten until she glanced at the window and saw nothing but darkness outside.

Nathaniel noticed too. He sighed, rubbing his temples before standing. "That's enough for today."

Elena blinked, her mind still tangled in equations and diagrams. "Oh. Right."

She moved to gather her things, but when she stood, she was suddenly too close to him.

Nathaniel had turned at the same time, and now—just inches apart, the air thick between them—they both stilled.

Elena felt her pulse in her throat, in her fingertips, in the space between them that was too small, too dangerous.

Nathaniel's jaw tightened. He took a slow, steady breath, his dark eyes scanning hers, as if looking for something, as if waiting for her to move first.

She should step back.

She should say goodnight and leave.

But she didn't.

Because in that moment, all she could think about was how impossible it was that someone so strict, so untouchable, could make her feel like this.

Nathaniel's fingers twitched at his side, his breathing slow but heavy. His gaze dropped—to her lips, just for a second, before snapping back up.

It was a mistake.

She knew it the moment their eyes locked again.

He stepped back first. A sharp, controlled movement.

"This can't happen," he said, his voice rough, almost strained.

Elena's chest ached, but she nodded. "I know."

A lie.

Nathaniel turned away, running a hand through his hair before facing her again, his expression unreadable. "Same time tomorrow?"

Her throat was dry. "Yes."

She turned to leave, her legs unsteady, her heart racing. She made it to the door, hand gripping the handle, before he spoke again.

"Elena."

She froze.

He hesitated, then his voice came softer, quieter.

"Don't let this consume you."

Her fingers tightened around the door handle.

Too late.

Without another word, she stepped out into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind her.

And as she walked away, she knew one thing for certain—

They were already walking a line too thin to balance. And sooner or later, one of them would fall.