Chapter 3: The Crash Landing
The days between Tuesday and Friday unfolded with the excruciating slowness of a semester that refused to end. Maya buried herself in her coursework with a ferocity that surprised even her—three chapters ahead in her biochemistry textbook, a practice quiz on enzyme kinetics completed before her 8 AM lecture even began, and a meticulously highlighted set of notes for her Thursday seminar that she'd somehow finished by Wednesday afternoon.It didn't work.
The silence between her ears still echoed with the low, taunting rumble of a Ducati engine. The leather-scented ghost of his presence lingered in every quiet corner of her dorm room, in the space between one breath and the next. And every time her phone buzzed, a traitorous little flutter kicked up in her chest before she remembered she was waiting—dreading, hoping—for a text that wasn't coming.
Kyle texted her four times on Wednesday. Twice about the restaurant—she'd never responded to his question about Jaxon, and he'd taken her silence as permission to book the original Italian place anyway—and twice more about how excited he was to see her. His enthusiasm was earnest, bordering on eager, and Maya felt a stab of guilt so sharp it left a physical ache behind her sternum.
She was going to break his heart. Not intentionally, not callously, but she could feel it happening already—the slow unraveling of a relationship that had never quite gotten off the ground. Because every time Kyle talked about his future, about matching at a top-tier residency program, about the house he wanted in the suburbs with a wife and 2.5 kids and a golden retriever named Biscuit, all she could think about was the way Jaxon's eyes had gone molten in the library lamplight, and the filth he'd whispered about her jeans.
She was a terrible person. She was going to dinner with a perfectly nice, perfectly stable, perfectly future-proof man and she was going to spend the whole meal thinking about the tattooed chaos agent who'd appointed himself her personal demon.
Thursday night, Maya sat at her desk, a single lamp burning against the encroaching dark. Her notebook was open to a fresh page, and she'd written Friday's schedule in her neatest cursive, as if the act of committing it to paper would somehow make it feel more real. Dinner at Trattoria Bella Vita. 7 PM.Kyle.
And you, a small, treacherous voice whispered. Jaxon's voice, if she was being honest. I'm just the ghost at the feast.
She slammed the notebook shut and went to bed without brushing her teeth, which felt like the kind of rebellion that would have made Jaxon proud.
Friday arrived with the kind of grey, drizzly overcast that made the campus look like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. Maya spent the day in a haze of distraction, her mind drifting through lectures and labs like a paper boat caught in a current it couldn't navigate.
She chose her outfit with the kind of care that suggested she was dressing for a battlefield rather than a date. Dark jeans that fit well. A cream-colored sweater with a loose cowl neck that she'd bought on sale and never worn. Her grandmother's silver locket, a small piece of home she kept close when she felt unmoored.
Nothing about it was provocative. Nothing about it was designed to catch anyone's eye.
So why did she catch herself checking her reflection in the library windows as she walked to the restaurant, adjusting the fall of her hair, wishing she'd brought makeup?
Trattoria Bella Vita sat at the corner of Elm and Third, pressed between a vintage record store and a shop that sold handmade candles. The front was unassuming—a faded green awning, a chalkboard sign advertising the day's specials in looping script, a pair of wrought-iron tables that looked like they'd been there since the Eisenhower administration.
Maya paused at the door, her hand hovering over the handle.
She could still leave. Could text Kyle a lame excuse, turn around, and retreat to her dorm, where the only chaos was the kind she could control.
Her phone buzzed. Kyle: "Just parked! Inside in 2. Save me the seat by the window?"
She took a breath. Pushed the door open.
The warmth hit her first—a wave of garlic and rosemary and simmering tomato that wrapped around her like a kitchen-scented embrace. The hostess led her past tables draped in faded lace, past walls haunted by vintage posters of the Amalfi Coast and Capri, past a bar made of mahogany so dark it seemed to drink the light.
Kyle was already there, sliding out of his chair as she approached. He looked exactly as she'd expected: pressed blue button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, khakis with a crisp crease, a smile that was equal parts nervous and hopeful.
"Maya! You look—" He paused, his eyes sweeping over her. "—great. Really great."
"Thanks." She slid into the seat he'd pulled out for her. "You found the place okay?"
"Google Maps did most of the heavy lifting." He sat down, unfolded his napkin with careful precision. "But the reviews were amazing. Apparently their tiramisu is legendary."
Maya's smile felt like it was painted on."Yeah. I hear that."
The evening proceeded with the kind of scripted predictability that would have made Jaxon gag. Kyle asked about her classes, her major, her plans for medical school. He talked about his own applications, his volunteer work at the free clinic, the research assistant position he'd landed for the fall semester. He was kind and attentive and drove a sensible silver Honda and kept his napkin on his lap at all times.
He was, in every measurable sense, perfect.
And Maya couldn't stop glancing at the door.
The waiter came.They ordered. A bottle of Chianti arrived, and Kyle poured her a glass with the solemnity of someone performing a sacred ritual. The wine was tart and full-bodied, warming her from the inside out, but she barely tasted it.
"Maya?" Kyle's voice cut through her reverie. "You okay? You seem—I don't know—distracted."
She forced a smile."Just tired. Long week."
"I get it. That advanced biochem seminar is brutal. I had to rewatch the lecture on protein folding three times just to make it stick." He laughed, a self-deprecating sound that was meant to be charming. "But hey, at least Friday's finally here. I've been looking forward to this all week."
"Me too," she said, and the lie tasted like chalk.
The door chimed.
Maya's head snapped up before she could stop it, her heart lurching into her throat with the violence of a hooked fish.
Jaxon stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the grey evening light like a figure cut from shadow and smoke. His leather jacket gleamed under the warm bulbs, and his black jeans were torn at the knee, and his hair was wet from the drizzle, curling slightly at the ends. He scanned the room with a lazy predator's gaze until his eyes found hers.
Then he smiled.
It was a slow, devastating expression, the kind that rearranged his features into something wolfish and hungry. He moved through the restaurant with the unhurried confidence of a man who owned every room he walked into, past tables of couples and families, past the hostess who was scrambling to intercept him."Maya." He said her name like they were old friends, like this was a reunion rather than an invasion. "Fancy seeing you here."
Kyle looked up, his brow furrowing. "Do you—is this your friend?"
"No." Maya's voice came out strangled. "He's not—"
"I'm Jaxon." He extended a hand toward Kyle, and the gesture was almost civil until he added, "I'm the guy who's going to be seeing her home tonight."
Kyle's face went through a series of expressions—confusion, recognition, dawning horror—before settling on something tight and strained. "Wait. You're the one who texted me about the Thai place."
"Guilty as charged." Jaxon pulled up a chair without being invited, dragging it close enough that his knee brushed Maya's leg under the table. The contact sent a jolt through her, electric and unwelcome. "But then I realized Thai food's overrated.Greasy. Too much fish sauce."
The waiter arrived with their appetizers—a plate of bruschetta that looked suddenly pathetic under Jaxon's careless gaze. He ignored it entirely, reaching past Maya to steal a piece of bread from the basket.
"So, Kyle." Jaxon popped the bread into his mouth. "Tell me about your med school plans. Maya's got big dreams, right? She wants to cure cancer and save the world and never have fun for a single second of her life."
"That's—that's not—" Kyle stammered, his neck flushing. "I think it's admirable.Her dedication. Her focus. Those are the qualities that make a great physician."Sure." Jaxon leaned back in his chair, draping his arm across the back of Maya's seat. "Too bad those same qualities make her a boring date."
Maya's jaw clenched. "Jaxon—"
"That's not true." Kyle's voice gained a sliver of steel. "Maya's the most interesting person I've met in a long time. She's brilliant and driven and—"
"And she color-codes her planner." Jaxon's grin was all teeth. "You know what she does when she's stressed? She alphabetizes her bookshelf. By author. Then by genre. I've seen it, man. It's tragic."
Kyle's mouth opened and closed, fishlike. "I... don't see how that's relevant."
"It's not. I'm just making conversation." Jaxon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, turning it over in his hands. "So, tell me more about your future. You gonna be one of those doctors who makes their patients call them by their first name? Or you gonna be the type who wears a white coat even to the grocery store?"
"I don't—I don't—"
"Let me guess." Jaxon's voice dropped, low and conspiratorial. "You've got a vision board. Somewhere in your apartment. With pictures of the suburbs and a golden retriever and a wife who stays home with the kids."
Kyle's face went pale. The glass of Chianti in his hand trembled.
"How do you know—"
"I know things." Jaxon's grin didn't reach his eyes. "It's kind of my thing."
Maya's face was burning. The heat had crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a deep, mortified crimson, and she couldn't decide whether she wanted to sink through the floor or smack the smug look off his face. Every word he said hit her like a stone, each one sharper than the last, and she hated that he was right.
"I just—" Kyle set down his glass. "Maya, I think I'm going to go. This isn't—"
"Don't let me scare you off." Jaxon's voice was mock-apologetic. "I'm just here for the tiramisu."
Kyle stood, throwing his napkin onto the table with more force than the gesture warranted. He fumbled in his wallet, dropping a few bills onto the tablecloth. Then he looked at Maya, and there was something in his eyes—disappointment, maybe.Or pity.
"I think I'm done here."
"Don't forget your leftover bread!" Jaxon called after him, but Kyle was already weaving through the tables, headed for the door.The restaurant had gone quiet. Approximate conversations resumed in hushed murmurs, but Maya could feel eyes on her, could hear the whispers disguised as orders.
"Maya?" The waiter approached, holding a dessert menu like a shield. "Is everything okay? Can I get you anything?"
"She'll take the check." Jaxon's voice was smooth, dismissive. "And the tiramisu. To go."
The waiter hesitated, looked at Maya, and she managed a weak nod.
The moment he retreated, Maya turned on Jaxon. Her voice came out in a furious hiss, barely audible over the ambient din.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"Nothing." He shrugged, scooping the discarded napkin off the table and dabbing at the corner of his mouth. "Just having dinner."
"You sabotaged that."Her hands were shaking. "You—you destroyed that. I had a perfectly good date. A perfectly good future. And you just—you just—"
"Bene." Jaxon's voice was softer now, and for a moment, the smirk faded. "You have a perfectly good future. That's kind of the problem."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're so busy building a life you haven't even started that you're forgetting to live the one you're in." He leaned forward, his elbow on the table, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "You're twenty years old, Maya. You've got a whole lifetime to be responsible. But when's the last time you did something irresponsible? When's the last time you let go?"
She opened her mouth to object, but the words wouldn't come.
"I'm not trying to wreck your future." His eyes fixed on hers, dark and serious. "I'm trying to make sure you have memories to go with it."
The waiter returned with the bill and a small white box—the tiramisu, neatly packaged. Jaxon took it, dropping a few bills onto the tray without looking.
"Come on, straight-A." He stood, extending his hand. "I'll give you a ride home."
Maya stared at his palm. It was calloused and ink-stained, with a small scar running across his knuckles. It was the hand of someone who worked with his body, who had earned every mark on his skin through force of will and a life that had never been handed to him.
She could refuse. Could take the bus. Could walk the two miles back to her dorm in the drizzle, alone and angry and inexplicably, achingly disappointed.
"Fine." She took his hand.
His grip was warm.Firm. She felt it all the way up her arm, settling somewhere in her chest.
The night air hit her as they stepped outside, carrying the smell of rain and wet asphalt and the faint, lingering aroma of garlic. Jaxon's Ducati was parked at the curb, sleek and black, glistening under the streetlights."Ever ridden before?" He asked, handing her his helmet.
"No."
"First time for everything." He swung his leg over the bike, settled into the seat, and held out his hand again. "Get on."
She hesitated for a heartbeat. Then she took a breath, placed her hand in his, and felt the world tilt on its axis.
The bike rumbled to life beneath her, and she wrapped her arms around his waist, holding on tight. The leather of his jacket was smooth and cool against her palms. He smelled like rain and cigarettes and something else, something warm and sharp and entirely him.
"Hold on, straight-A." His voice came back to her, carried on the wind. "And don't let go."
The bike surged forward, and the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold and shadow. The rain was a fine mist against her face as they sped through the empty streets, and Maya felt something unclench in her chest—a tightness she hadn't realized she'd been carrying, unwinding with every passing mile.
They pulled into the Henderson parking lot too soon. Jaxon killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. She climbed off, her legs unsteady, and handed him back the helmet.
"Thank you," she said, and the words surprised her."Don't mention it." He pocketed the helmet, the tiramisu still balanced on the seat next to him. He picked it up, held it out to her. "For your trouble."
She took the box. It was still warm.
"Jaxon." She said his name softly, and he paused, his eyes finding hers in the dim light. "Why do you keep doing this? Why do you keep showing up?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The rain had stopped, and the night was still and clean.
"Because you look so goddamn lonely." His voice roughened. "And no color-coded planner in the world is going to fix that."
Then he kicked the bike to life, and the engine swallowed any response she might have formed. She stood in the parking lot, holding the warm box, watching his taillight disappear around the corner.
The dorm was quiet as she rode the elevator up. Her roommate was asleep, a lump under the blankets on the far side of the room.
Maya set the tiramisu on her desk and sat on her bed, staring at the white box.
Then, slowly, she opened it.
The dessert was perfect—rich layers of espresso-soaked ladyfingers, mascarpone cream dusted with cocoa. She took a bite, and the sweetness filled her mouth, and she wondered what it said about her that the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her was steal her bread and sabotage her date and call her lonely.
She ate the entire thing with her fingers, sitting in the dark, and she didn't regret a single bite.
The tiramisu sat heavy and sweet in her stomach, but the rest of her felt hollow and restless. She lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening with the obsessive precision of someone reviewing a failed exam. She'd had a future-proof plan, a sensible trajectory, and a man who was stable and kind and drove a silver Honda.
And she'd let him walk out of that restaurant without so much as a real fight.
Maya turned onto her side and punched her pillow. She wasn't sure which burned more—the humiliation of Kyle's quiet exit, or the way her pulse had spiked when Jaxon's hand closed around hers on the bike.
Both, she decided. Both burned equally.
Sleep came eventually, dragging her under with the weight of everything she refused to process, which is why she woke to the blinding realization that she'd forgotten to set her alarm.
Her phone blinked at her. 10:42 AM. Her biochem lecture on metabolic regulation started at 11:00, and it was across campus, and she was still in her pajamas.
The next seven minutes were a blur of panic and muscle memory. She yanked on the first clean jeans she could find, dragged a brush through her tangled hair, abandoned her contacts for the glasses shoved in her bag, and sprinted out the door with her backpack half-zipped.
Her ponytail was uneven. Her sweater was inside out. She could feel the cold October air biting at her ankles where her jeans didn't quite meet her sneakers, and she didn't care about any of it. What she cared about was making it before the door closed and the attendance sheet went around, because Professor Lanahan docked participation points for tardiness, and Maya Bennett had never missed a participation point in her entire academic career.
She didn't cry when she ran. That was the one small mercy of the morning.
The lecture hall doors were still open when she burst through them, breathless and flushed, and she slipped inside just as Lanahan turned to the whiteboard. The auditorium was packed—three hundred students crammed into tiered seating, their laptops glowing in the dim light, and every single viable seat in the middle section was occupied.
Her usual spot—third row from the front, left side, near the outlet—was gone. A boy with a laptop and a coffee cup had claimed it, and he was already taking notes like he belonged there.
Maya's eyes swept the room, frantic. There was an empty seat near the window, but it was technically reserved for the lab TA. There was a spot on the stairs, but that would mean sitting on concrete. And then there was the back row, half-hidden in shadow, where a single empty chair waited like a dare.
She took a step toward the stairs. Then a voice, low and unmistakable, cut through the general murmur of pre-lecture chatter.
"Looking for a seat, straight-A?"
Maya's spine went rigid. She didn't turn around. She didn't have to.
Jaxon Cole was sprawled in the back corner, one arm draped over the back of the empty chair beside him, his grin visible even from fifteen rows away. He was wearing a faded gray hoodie today, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and his hair was still damp from what she could only assume was a very recent shower.
There was a notebook open on his desk—a real notebook, not a laptop—and it was covered in mechanical sketches that looked like engine diagrams rather than class notes.
He patted the seat beside him. Slowly. Deliberately.
"Come on," he called, just loud enough to carry over the noise. "I don't bite."
The lie was so blatant she almost laughed.
Lanahan cleared his throat at the front of the room, and a dozen heads swiveled to look at her. Maya's face flooded with heat, and she made a choice. The only choice, really. She walked up the aisle, past the curious glances and the whispering students, and slid into the seat next to Jaxon with all the dignity she could muster.
"Morning, sunshine." He was still grinning. "Rough night?"
"Shut up."
"Don't worry, I saved it for you. Best seat in the house. You can see everything from back here."
She ignored him, pulling out her notebook and pen with sharp, efficient movements. Lanahan was already ten slides in, talking about allosteric regulation and feedback inhibition, and she needed to catch up.
"Here." Jaxon slid something across the space between their desks.
She looked down. It was a piece of gum. Mint. Unwrapped and sitting on the edge of her notebook like an offering.
"No, thank you."
"Suit yourself." He shrugged and tucked it back into his pocket. "But your breath smells like espresso and regret."
Maya's pen dug into the page so hard the tip nearly tore through. She focused on the whiteboard, on Lanahan's voice, on the structure of phosphofructokinase and the intricate dance of enzymes that she usually found so beautiful. Today, the diagram just looked like a map of something she couldn't quite name.
For twenty minutes, she wrote. Her handwriting was cramped and fast, her glasses sliding down her nose, and she found a rhythm. The presence beside her was impossible to ignore—the warmth of his arm, the scratch of his pen, the faint scent of motor oil that seemed to permeate everything he owned—but she did her best.
She even started to relax. Maybe this was a fluke, a one-time thing, and he'd leave her alone for the rest of the semester. Maybe she'd overreacted. Maybe the bike ride and the tiramisu and the look in his eyes when he called her lonely were just... aberrations.
Maybe she could pretend none of it had happened.
And then she felt his hand on her knee.
Maya's entire body went rigid. The pen froze in her grip, and her lungs seized as if the air itself had been vacuumed out of the room. Her blood roared in her ears, drowning out Lanahan's voice, drowning out the clatter of keyboards and the shuffle of students shifting in their seats.
Jaxon's hand was warm. Heavy. His fingers spread across the denim covering her knee, an anchor pressing her into place, and for a single, infinite second, she couldn't move.
She gasped—a small, strangled sound that she caught between her teeth—and snapped her thighs together so fast her knees knocked. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to escape through her chest, and she shot him a look that should have incinerated him where he sat.
He didn't even glance at her.
His attention was fixed entirely on the whiteboard, on Lanahan's droning explanation of cooperativity in enzyme binding, as if he had no idea his hand was currently resting on her leg in the middle of a lecture hall full of people. His expression was calm. Almost bored.
His hand stayed exactly where it was.
Maya tried to slide her knee away, but the desk pressed her into place. She tried to push his hand off, but when she reached down, her fingers closed over his wrist and her grip faltered. He didn't flinch. Didn't acknowledge her touch at all.
His thumb moved. Just a fraction of an inch. Just a slow, lazy stroke across the inside of her knee.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The lecture continued. Three hundred students typed and whispered and paid attention, and no one noticed the quiet war being waged in the back row. Maya's notes grew illegible, her handwriting dissolving into shaky, meaningless marks as his hand began to drift.
Upward.
Slow. Steady. Inexorable.
His fingers inched along the seam of her jeans, tracing the line where the denim met the inside of her thigh. She clamped her legs together again, harder this time, and his fingers simply curled and nudged, applying a patient, unbothered pressure until her knees parted.
The heat crawled up her face. Down her neck. Settled low in her belly, in a place that made her want to squirm and punch him in the same breath.
She looked at him. Really looked.
His profile was turned toward the front of the room, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the professor with the focused intensity of a man who was actually taking notes. A faint crease showed between his brows. His free hand scratched out something on his page—more engine sketches.
Nothing about him suggested he had a hand buried between her thighs in a lecture hall.
"I'm going to kill you," she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.
"Shh," he murmured back without looking at her. "You're going to miss the phosphorus part."
His fingers slid higher.
Maya's whole body flinched, and her hand came down on top of his, trying to stop him. But she couldn't—she couldn't push his hand away hard enough to matter, could she? Her nails pressed into his knuckles, her grip a warning, and he just kept moving, deliberate and unhurried.
The pad of his thumb found the seam of her jeans, right at the crest of her pelvic bone, and pressed.
Her hips jerked involuntarily against her seat. A tiny, strangled sound clawed its way up her throat, and she bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper.
He was going to do this here. In class. With a professor ten feet away and a room full of students who could turn around at any second. He was going to do this, and the worst part—the absolute worst part—was that she wasn't stopping him.
Her body was an inferno. Her mind was a hurricane. And her hand, still gripping his wrist, wasn't pushing anymore. It was just holding on.
His fingers slipped lower, past the waistband of her jeans—loose, thank God, she'd thrown on the loosest pair she owned in her frantic flight from the dorm—and past the thin cotton of her underwear. The first touch of his bare skin against the slick heat of her nearly broke her composure completely.
A moan bubbled up from somewhere deep inside her. She pressed her lips together and swallowed it back just as it crested, her chest heaving with the effort. Her glasses fogged. Her thighs trembled.
He found her clit with the unerring accuracy of someone who had mapped her body a hundred times in his head. He circled it slowly. Gently. Two fingers drawing soft, steady rings around the swollen knot of nerves, applying a pressure so teasing and precise that her vision blurred at the edges.
She had never—never—felt anything like this. Not with Kyle. Not with any of the careful, considerate, future-proof boys she'd allowed into her bed. This wasn't careful. This wasn't considerate.
This was ruin.
Her hips bucked against his hand, and she bit her lip hard enough to break the skin. Her notes were abandoned, her pen rolling off the desk and clattering to the floor with a sound that seemed to echo through the entire auditorium.
No one turned around.
Jaxon's expression didn't change. He was still watching Lanahan, still scribbling something about gear ratios in the margin of his notes, still the picture of a bored senior who'd rather be anywhere else. The only sign he was affected at all was the slight curl at the corner of his mouth.
His fingers slid lower. They found her entrance and pressed in.
The sensation was electric. She arched in her seat, her back bowing off the hard plastic, and she grabbed the edge of the desk with her free hand to keep from crying out. He pushed deeper, two fingers curling inside her, and her eyes rolled back behind her glasses.
She was going to come. In a lecture hall. With three hundred people around her. With a professor explaining metabolic pathways on the board.
The shame should have stopped her. It didn't. It only made the pressure coil tighter, hotter, more urgent.
His thumb found her clit again while his fingers worked inside her, a slow pump that matched the rhythm of Lanahan's lecture, and Maya's whole world narrowed to the space between her legs and the man beside her who didn't even have the decency to look at her.
She grabbed his thigh under the desk, nails digging into the denim, and bit down on her own lower lip until she tasted copper. Her orgasm hit her like a freight train—sudden, devastating, and impossible to hide.
She shuddered in silence. Her hips ground against his hand, and her breath came in jagged, hitching gasps that she buried in her cupped palm. Waves rolled through her, one after another, until she was boneless in her seat and her glasses were completely fogged and she felt like she'd run a marathon in the span of ninety seconds.
When she finally came back to herself, Jaxon's hand was still between her legs. His fingers slid out slowly, and she felt every inch of the withdrawal, helpless and flushed and utterly destroyed.
He pulled his hand from her jeans, and she watched in stunned, mortified silence as he lifted his fingers to his mouth. His eyes flicked to her for the first time, locking onto hers, and he sucked them clean.
Clean. Every last trace of her.
His expression was one of calm, deliberate satisfaction—like a man who had just finished a good meal and was savoring the last bite. His pupils were blown wide in the dim light, and that smirk—that awful, beautiful, wicked smirk—pulled at the corner of his mouth.
The lecture hall erupted into the noise of class ending. Backpacks zipped. Laptops closed. Students started to rise in a great, shuffling tide.
Professor Lanahan clicked off the projector, and the lights came up.
Jaxon stood, gathering his notebook in one lazy motion. He leaned down—close, so close she could smell herself on his breath—and whispered against her ear.
"Taste amazing, straight-A."
Then he was gone, swallowed by the churn of students flooding up the aisles, and Maya was left alone in the back row with her ruined notes and her trembling thighs and the slick, unmistakable evidence of what he'd done still warm between her legs.
Her pen was on the floor somewhere. She couldn't find it.
Her participation points for the day were undoubtedly forfeit.
She sat there for a long time after the room emptied, staring at the whiteboard where Lanahan had drawn the Krebs cycle in neat blue marker. And she knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones like a new truth, that whatever walls she'd built around herself, whatever plans she'd made, whatever future she'd been chasing—Jaxon Cole had just torn a hole through the center of them.
And she didn't want to fix it.