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Chapter Text

Prologue: The Great Migration

Violet Sorrengail was in a good mood. A suspiciously good mood.

It was Friday afternoon, the end of the first week of the semester, and she’d just finished reviewing her lecture slides for History 412, her favorite upper-division elective. She’d spent the last two years building that course into something special. One that didn’t just shove timelines and treaties at students, but invited them to question the power of language, media, and manipulation. Her weekend plans included baking a fresh batch of chocolate-chip-pretzel cookies for her Monday students, part of her now semi-famous bribery tactics for good participation. Her "Make History Sweet Again" apron, gifted by a graduating class her first year, was already laid out on her kitchen counter, ready to be floured once more.

She opened her student roster mostly to check how many cookies she’d need. Twenty-four students had enrolled last week, which filled almost every seat in the small classroom tucked between the overachieving physics department and the perpetually confused Philosophy grad students. She’d even moved one of the armchairs to make space.

She sipped her lukewarm coffee and hit refresh on the roster page, half-hoping for a surprise addition or two. Word tended to spread. She had a reputation, one she was proud of. She made history interesting. She made students laugh. Occasionally cry in the best way. She brought baked goods, didn’t assign pop quizzes, and once let a student write a final paper on the strategic use of romance novels during wartime propaganda campaigns.

The page reloaded.

And her heart stopped.

Enrolled: 6

She blinked.

“Six?” she said aloud, choking on the sip of coffee she’d just taken. She refreshed the page again. Still six.

She stood so fast, her chair let out a protesting screech behind her. There had to be a system error. A clerical mistake. Something. Because there was absolutely no way eighteen students had transferred out of her class. Not unless the campus had flooded. Or she’d been accidentally listed as teaching a course titled “History of Dental Hygiene.”

By Monday morning, her mood had curdled into indignation.

She marched into the physics department’s copy room, where Rhiannon was refilling the printer paper with the kind of patience reserved for Buddhist monks and tenured faculty. Violet dropped her bag onto the nearest surface and let out a huff of pure outrage.

“They really left me,” she announced.

Rhiannon hummed without turning around. “You’ve got to narrow that down.”

“My eighteen students. Just poof. Gone.”

Rhiannon winced in solidarity. “Still only six enrolled?”

“Still six,” Violet growled. “I canceled the lecture this morning and brought the cookies to the faculty lounge. I ate four out of spite.”

“You still baked this weekend?”

“You told me to be optimistic. That maybe it was a system glitch and all twenty-four would show up! So I baked the damn cookies to not disappoint anyone. And now I’m disappointed. I know it’s not me. I’m a phenomenal professor. My slides have memes in them!” Violet threw her arms wide. "Is European wartime propaganda not sexy anymore?"

Rhiannon held up her hands. “Okay, cookies and memes? That class loss is on them, not you.”

Violet flopped into a chair with a dramatic sigh. “What did I do? Why did they leave?”

Before Rhiannon could respond, a student passed them in the hallway. Mid-twenties, strawberry-blonde, history tote bag with a suffragette quote printed on it. Violet blinked.

“Wait. Madison?” she called.

The student paused and turned with a sheepish smile. “Professor Sorrengail?”

“I thought you were in my 412 class.”

Madison flushed. “I was. I, uh... I transferred last week.”

Violet offered her best ‘no judgment, just deep emotional confusion’ look. “Care to tell me why?”

“Oh, it’s not that we didn’t love your class,” Madison said quickly. “We do. I mean your lectures are amazing. Everyone says so. It’s just... the new political theory course, it’s in the same time slot. And we all sort of... migrated.”

“Migrated?” Violet echoed. “Like geese?”

Madison laughed nervously. “More like moths to a flame?”

Violet narrowed her eyes. “What kind of flame?”

“You should come to Sheppard 240 on Wednesday,” Madison said, her grin turning secretive. “See for yourself.”

With that, she disappeared down the hall, leaving Violet blinking after her.

“I can’t believe my class has been assassinated by political theory. I basically teach political theory, just with a nice bonus of history!”

Violet turned slowly to Rhiannon, who was now looking very intently at the copy machine.

“Rhi,” she said suspiciously, “do you know what exactly is in Sheppard 240?”

Rhiannon didn’t look up. “I might’ve heard things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Just... rumors. Buzz in the political science department.”

Violet squinted. “Who’s teaching it?”

“I’m not telling. You’ll see Wednesday.”

Violet stared. Then sighed. “Fine. But I’m not baking again until I get my students back.”

“Probably wise,” Rhiannon murmured. “Flour’s expensive.”

Chapter 1: Sheppard 240

At 7:59 on Wednesday, Violet slipped into the back of Sheppard 240, balancing her coffee and a gnawing suspicion in her gut.

The classroom was packed. Every seat was taken, students stood along the back wall. It looked like the Beatles were reuniting on the blackboard.

And then she saw him.

He was tall, towering, really, black hair on tawny brown skin, broad shoulders beneath a black button-down, and a jawline that could qualify as a deadly weapon. He leaned against the desk like it had personally offended him by existing.

"For those of you who just transferred into this class or simply decided that day one wasn’t fucking important enough to attend," he began, his voice low and smooth with a rough edge, "I’m Professor Riorson. Welcome to Politics 345: Revolution & Rebellion in the Western Canon."

Violet nearly dropped her coffee. She blinked. Hard. Because she got it now. Why her students transferred. Hell, she’d transfer if she were still a student.

He launched into his introduction. "Now, as you all know from the syllabus, our first text, which you should have already started reading, is Machiavelli’s The Prince. A study in power dynamics, control, and the psychology of leadership."

Her eyebrows rose. Oh, this was going to be good.

"We’ll explore how Machiavelli’s views on power and morality apply not just to governance but to interpersonal relationships and institutional authority," he continued.

He paced as he spoke, graceful and taut with energy. When he said, "He argues that fear is a more reliable foundation than love," Violet let out a short laugh before she could stop herself.

"Do you have a comment to make, Miss...?"

"Violet," she answered, raising her coffee like a toast.

He paused. "Miss Violet. Do you disagree with Machiavelli?"

"I disagree with anyone who thinks terror is a sustainable leadership model," she replied. "Fear keeps people compliant. Love makes them loyal. Big difference."

Some students murmured agreement. She didn’t break eye contact with him.

He folded his arms. "Are you suggesting Machiavelli missed the point of human motivation?"

"I’m suggesting that Machiavelli wrote leadership advice like it was a seduction manual for sociopaths."

That earned the barest twitch of his lips. "Well, Miss Violet, I sure hope you’ll enlighten us more about your intriguing opinion during future classes," he replied, all sharp-edged amusement.

She opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut.

Because that right there? That was the moment he threw down his metaphorical gauntlet.

And Violet Sorrengail, PhD in Early Modern European History, tenured professor, and unfortunately dressed like a goddamn undergrad in black leggings and a ‘Dead Women Tell No Tales’ hoodie, wasn’t about to back down from a challenge.

It was fine.

This was fine.

This was probably a bad idea. But she’d had worse.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Miss Violet

The hallway was less crowded than expected, though Violet still had to sidestep two students dramatically gesturing with lattes in their hands. She was on her way to meet Jesinia in the library when a sharp corner and fast-moving shadow nearly collided with her. Her coffee jerked in her hand, sloshing dangerously.

“Shit!” she gasped, arms flailing as the reading list fluttered from her grasp. She’d grabbed it off the lectern after Wednesday's class, intending to criticize it loudly to Jesinia over coffee for entertainment.

Two strong hands steadied her, one gripping her elbow with careful pressure, the other landing lightly on her waist. Violet looked up and immediately regretted it. Professor Riorson stood in front of her, close enough that she could smell leather and something minty beneath it. From this close, he looked even more devastatingly beautiful. His full, soft-looking lips curved into the faintest hint of amusement, and his slightly crooked nose only added to the kind of unfair charm that made her want to hurl her coffee. His hair looked like it wanted to curl, defiant even in its neatness, and she had the absurd urge to reach up and run her fingers through it just to see if it was as soft as it looked. His eyes, dark, sharp and somehow goldflecked, were locked on hers, unreadable. After a beat of silence, he seemed to catch himself, pulling back his hands like she just burned him.

“Careful, Miss Violet,” came his dry voice, unmistakable now, with an arched brow and the kind of smirk that made her want to throttle him.

She cleared her throat, squaring her shoulders. “Just Violet. It’s my first name.”

“Ah,” he said, voice quieter but still laced with amusement. “My mistake.”

He glanced down at the reading list lying on the floor, now stained with coffee, and crouched to pick it up before she could.

“You okay?” he asked, handing the paper back. Their fingers brushed, and for the briefest second, she felt it: electricity, sharp and immediate, like lightning. It sent a shiver down her spine. 

“Fine,” she said quickly. “Just ambushed by Machiavelli.”

He huffed a short breath, almost a laugh, and then added roughly: “Well, I for my part was ambushed by coffee. I’d advise you to avoid hot beverages in the hall for both our sakes from now on.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. The dry humor was new, or maybe just clearer now that he wasn’t across the room with a podium between them. The worst part was, it almost made her smile. Her gaze flicked down to the reading list again, the paper now slightly crinkled from coffee and confrontation. “That syllabus. Revolution & Rebellion?”

His brow lifted. Then, with a glance at the growing stream of students behind them, he placed a soft hand on her arm and gently guided her to the side of the hallway, just out of the main path. The touch was careful, barely there on her sleeve, but it sent a flicker of heat across her skin nonetheless. “You read it? I think most of my students haven't even picked it up once.”

“Skimmed. I have a professional curiosity in revolution. Though, frankly, I think the reading list could use some updates.”

He studied her with a kind of cool confidence that bordered on smug. “Is that so?”

“Mmm. Less dead white men. More complexity. Maybe bell hooks. Baldwin. Even Persepolis would give them something to think about.”

He didn’t look offended. In fact, he seemed... intrigued. The flicker of interest in his expression was so fleeting she might’ve imagined it, but it left her skin tingling like a challenge had just been issued.

“I inherited the reading list,” he said after a pause, voice smoother now, more measured. “Didn’t have time to change it this term, the department had already ordered the texts.”

She tilted her head, watching him. “But you agree it’s a little outdated?”

“I think the authors reflect key frameworks of revolutionary thinking,” he said, each word deliberate. “But I also believe controversy is useful. Sometimes the best way to start a discussion is to just fucking piss someone off.”

Of course he would say that. Violet felt a curl of something sharp and amused twist through her. Provocation as pedagogy? She shouldn’t like it. And yet...

She raised a brow. “So you provoke for educational purposes?”

His lips twitched. “Would you prefer I played it safe?”

Violet smiled, just a little, too aware of how close he still stood, how his presence filled the space like gravity had taken a personal interest in him. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He watched her a moment longer than necessary, then his lips curled. A real smile this time, devastating and completely unfair. It hit her like a punch to the gut. “I'm looking forward to your contributions in the next class.”

He stepped back then, offering her a path through the hall with a theatrical wave of his hand. “Until Friday, Violet.”

This time, no ‘Miss.’ Just her name, spoken low and deliberate.

And dammit if she didn’t smile the whole walk to the library.

Chapter 3: Spilling the tea

Jesinia was already curled up in the corner of the library’s upper reading room when Violet arrived, coffee in hand and a storm of thoughts behind her eyes.

Violet dropped her bag on the floor and flopped into the armchair across from her. “Remind me why we’re friends?”

Jesinia raised an eyebrow over the rim of her mug. “Because you bring good gossip and better scones?”

“Fair.” Violet dug out the now-crumpled reading list and waved it like a white flag. “I ran into Professor Riorson in the hallway. Literally. Spilled half my coffee, told him his syllabus was garbage, and now I think he thinks I’m planning an academic coup.”

Jesinia’s eyes lit with glee. “You did not.”

“I did. He asked my opinion. I gave it. He smiled.” Violet pressed a hand to her chest. “It was… catastrophic.”

Jesinia leaned forward, interest piqued. “He smiled?”

Violet nodded slowly. “And it was… God, Jes. He’s already unfairly attractive, but when he smiled? It was like someone had lit up a shadow from the inside.”

Jesinia grinned. “So now we’re crushing on the enemy?”

“He’s not the enemy,” Violet muttered. “He’s just ruining my enrollment numbers.”

Jesinia chuckled. “So did you already figure out everything there is to know about him?”

Violet frowned. “What’s there to know about him? Who is he?”

Jesinia set her mug down with a dramatic sigh. “Let’s see. His name is Xaden Riorson. He’s new this semester, transferred from some research program in D.C. or something.”

“Xaden,” Violet repeated, tasting his name on her tongue.

Jesinia nodded. “Professor Riorson to students, but apparently anyone who’s met him outside the classroom calls him Xaden. I met him last week at the faculty orientation mixer. He cornered the Dean over the catering budget.”

Violet snorted. “Of course he did.”

“And you know what else?” Jesinia leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I heard he turned down two offers from Ivy League schools to come here.”

Violet raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Jesinia shrugged. “He’s intense. Kind of like a pure triple shot of espresso in human form. But the students love him. And apparently he’s got actual ideas about curriculum reform.”

Violet’s mind raced back to their exchange in the hallway. The candid way he admitted he hadn’t written the syllabus. The way he’d actually considered her suggestions, hadn’t shut her down. The way he’d said her name.

“I think I underestimated him,” she said aloud.

Jesinia smirked. “No, I think you just mainly noticed he’s hot.”

Violet smiled despite herself, sipping her coffee. “That too.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Verbal Foreplay 101

Violet could be doing literally anything else with her Friday morning, like finishing her grant proposal, responding to undergrad emails, or reorganizing the sagging history lounge. She had no business indulging in this ridiculous masquerade, especially not with someone whose entire course seemed to be an exercise in political provocation. Yet here she was in Sheppard 240, coffee in hand, telling herself this was professional curiosity and not fixation.

She picked a spot three rows from the front this time. A middle-ground. A battlefield vantage point. She was determined to let the students steer the conversation. For once, she wouldn’t breathe a word.

Xaden stood at the front of the room, tall and unreadable as ever in dark sleeves rolled up to his forearms, black ink curving across his tawny brown skin in intricate patterns before disappearing beneath the fabric. Violet found herself absurdly curious about where they might lead. She had never been particularly into tattoos, had always thought of them as someone else’s aesthetic, but somehow, on him, they were magnetic. Somehow, she was into his. Very, very into them.

“Let's talk about intimacy," his voice rolled over the room, silky and precise and way too confident for this early in the morning. "Can power ever be intimate? According to Machiavelli, a ruler must master the appearance of virtue while being ready to do whatever is necessary. So, can intimacy and manipulation coexist? Or are they inherently incompatible?”

The students around her rustled with interest. Violet bit the inside of her cheek. But when he continued, “I could argue that seduction, emotional, political, or physical, is just another lever of power,” she felt the impulse surge.

“Let me guess,” Violet muttered under her breath, “next week we’re analyzing Machiavelli’s Fifty Shades of Power?”

Someone sitting near her snorted.

Xaden’s gaze snapped to her, a flicker of something like amusement, or maybe annoyance, passing through those dark eyes.  “Yes, Violet?”

Her pulse pounded. That simple use of her first name felt intimate, personal, like the world had narrowed to just her and him.

Her restraint cracked. “If your idea of power depends on manipulation, you’re not describing leadership. You’re describing control.”

He let out a low hum, the kind that could’ve been a challenge or a purr. “Mhh, so what i suggested earlier is wrong?”

“Yes.” Violet sat straighter. “True power lies in mutual vulnerability. In trust freely given, not fear carefully curated.”

He moved from behind the lectern, slow and measured. “So you’re saying fear negates intimacy?”

“I’m saying fear kills it,” she said. “Intimacy requires space. Fear fills it with silence.”

Xaden tilted his head, voice thoughtful. “What about desire? Is it strength? Weakness?”

Violet’s pulse quickened, and she couldn’t help leaning forward. The way he said the word "desire" like it was something dangerous and sacred all at once, made heat lick up her spine. She’d never thought two short syllables could be so provocative. “It’s power," she answered. "Especially when it’s mutual. But the moment you start using it to manipulate, you’ve already lost half the game. Just like with intimacy.”

Professor Riorson took a step closer, his eyes still fixed on her. His gaze felt like a touch. “You call it intimacy. I call it strategy.”

A slow, amused breath escaped her. “Sure. And I bet you think Machiavelli was a hopeless romantic too.”

Xaden’s lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but didn’t dare. “I think people weaponize desire all the time,” he said slowly, his fingers trailing idly on the wooden surface of the front row desks. She couldn’t help staring at his hands. “In politics. In relationships. In literature. Power requires control. Wanting can make you reckless. Dangerous.”

Her mouth went dry and she met his eyes again, her pulse skipping. “And that’s the difference between us,” she bit her lower lip. “You see danger. I see possibility.”

Xaden’s jaw flexed. The pause somehow felt dense. Electric. He didn’t speak, just watched her with something simmering behind his eyes.

“Interesting,” he finally said, but there was something unreadable in his voice.

From the row behind her, someone whispered, just barely audible: “Someone please get them a room.” Violet flushed, her mouth twitching as she bit back a grin.

Another voice, louder: “Can we maybe go back to the text? Or is this the main event now?”

Laughter broke out.

Xaden blinked, exhaling through his nose as if the room had just returned to him. “Right. Let’s open it up. Who agrees with Violet? Who thinks true power cannot be gained through manipulation?”

Violet leaned back, her heart pounding. She should stop dominating the conversation. She really should. But it was so hard not to. Not when arguing with him felt like foreplay for her brain. Not when he looked at her like that, like she was a worthy adversary and maybe something more. How could she not answer the challenge?

She smiled into her cup.

This was going to get messy.

And she couldn’t wait.

Chapter 5: Medium Roast please

Violet had sworn, sworn, she wouldn’t get distracted today. Not with a looming history project that had somehow turned into a miniature thesis warzone. Her students needed sources reviewed, outlines checked, and three of them were apparently allergic to citations. She barely had time to shower, let alone sit through a class she wasn’t technically enrolled in.

Still, by late afternoon, she found herself walking into the small café near campus, laptop and fatigue in tow. She wasn’t sure what dragged her there more, the caffeine or the faint, traitorous hope that she might run into a particular professor. Her clothes were rumpled, hair hastily braided in that messy crown she defaulted to, and her skin bare of makeup, revealing every shadow earned from hours hunched over microfilm and footnotes.

She dropped into a booth with her coffee and cracked open her laptop, the screen dimmed by sunlight. She scrolled, half-reading a PDF about postwar European reconstruction, and half-thinking about him. About the arguments they hadn’t had today.

When the doorbell chimed, she didn’t look up, at least not until a shift in light told her someone had stopped at her table.

“Did you drop the class?” That voice. Smooth and low. She looked up, heart skipping a beat.

And there he was. Xaden Riorson. Six-foot-something of barely leashed power, arms crossed over his chest like she’d just broken a vow. The kind of presence that demanded attention without asking for it. She tried not to notice the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, or how his gaze made her spine straighten before she could stop it.

She blinked. “What?”

He nodded at her laptop and stepped closer. “Didn’t see you in my course today.”

She gave a noncommittal shrug, trying not to openly preen that he’d noticed her absence. “I had a project.”

“Something more important than arguing in class?” he asked, tone unreadable.

Her eyes flicked to his. His eyebrows were drawn, just slightly, but enough to make her wonder if this was his version of concern, or if he was simply annoyed she’d broken their rhythm. “Depends on who you ask.”

When he said nothing for a moment, his gaze steady and almost too focused, she added lamely, “History project. Takes up most of my time right now.”

“From your other class?”

“Yeah,” she said, trying to sound breezy. Her heart was racing. She wondered how he knew about her cancelled history course, if he knew that it was his fault, and if he felt bad about it. “And, honestly, I didn’t want to take your discussion time away from your actual students.”

Xaden tilted his head, his scarred brow lifting.

She met his gaze steadily. “You know, as I’m not actually enrolled in your class? I just wanted to see what the fuss was about. Most students from my History 412 class switched over. Got curious.”

There was a pause. Long enough that Violet considered whether she’d said too much. But then he nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. His hands landed on the chair next to hers, thumbs brushing slowly over the painted wood like it helped him think.

“Well,” he said at last with the hint of a smile, “I did wonder. You weren’t on my fucking roster.”

Violet smirked. “Funny. But it’s definitely for the best I’m not actually your student. I might have written ‘Machiavelli can suck it’ as a course objective.”

He huffed a short breath, almost a laugh. “I missed your voice today.”

Violet blinked. A rush of warmth climbed up her neck and onto her face.

“Your arguments,” he clarified. “The room felt... quieter.”

She tried not to beam. “Flattery, Professor?”

“Observation.”

There was a beat of silence, charged and lingering. Violet shifted, unsure what to do with the heat in her cheeks. She suddenly felt far too aware of the fact that she hadn’t worn makeup, her hair was a mess, and her shirt probably still smelled like the archive room. But he was still looking at her. Still talking to her like she mattered.

She lifted her chin. “Will you survive without my interruptions?”

He smiled, and it was warm in a way that sent a traitorous flutter to her stomach. “Barely.”

Her phone buzzed just then, an alert for the office hours she was already going to be late for. She glanced at the screen, sighed silently, and stood, slipping her laptop into her bag. “Maybe I’ll pop in next week.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said, voice softer now. Almost intimate.

She hesitated, then added playfully, “Or maybe I’ll just drop by your office hours instead.”

Something in his expression shuttered. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

Violet frowned. “Why not?”

But he didn’t answer. Just watched her like he was holding back something impossible to say.

She stepped toward the door, then turned. “See you around, Xaden.”

His jaw tightened just slightly. “It’s Professor Riorson,” he said quietly.

And with that, she laughed, stepping out into the chilled air, heart racing, thoughts spinning, and already wondering when she could argue with him again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: The Problem with Proximity

Violet did, in fact, return to class the following week. She told herself it was purely academic curiosity, or maybe a desire for closure. She arrived early, planted herself in a back corner seat, and resolved to stay silent. Let the students discuss. Let the brilliant, brooding Professor Riorson talk about guerrilla warfare and revolutionary theory.

But the moment he started praising Guevara’s ideas a little too earnestly, her fingers twitched.

“...a model of insurgent leadership rooted in the moral imperative of resistance,” he was saying, his tone polished and detached. But there was a glint in his eye. “The way he elevates rebellion into a kind of sacred duty...”

“Funny how every people’s revolution still needs a man with a gun and a manifesto,” Violet muttered.

Xaden’s gaze cut toward her, sharp as a blade. He didn’t say anything. Just stared. The silence hung for a beat too long before he finally turned back to the class and invited other thoughts.

But she saw it, the flicker of a smile he tried to suppress. And the way it lingered.

They sparred. Again. And again. It became a pattern. She kept trying to stay quiet, and he kept provoking responses without meaning to. Or maybe he was meaning to. She couldn’t be sure.

But one thing she knew: As soon as she left his classes, she already missed it. The way their conversations stretched and sparked, challenging her intellect and making her feel... seen.

Which was exactly why, the following Thursday, she showed up at his office with two coffees in her hands.

“I asked the barista at the café, she was in my class last year,” she explained as she handed it over, “She had your order memorized.”

He accepted the cup, staring at it like it was the most suspicious gift he’d ever received. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Unless you count caffeine as bribery. I just thought, if I’m going to keep challenging your syllabus, I should keep you well-caffeinated.”

“Thoughtful of you.”

Their conversations spilled out from there. Politics turned to pedagogy turned to jokes. There was something odd about the way he acted around her, though Violet couldn’t quite put her finger on it. He kept his chair at least a foot farther from hers than necessary, avoided brushing her fingers when she handed him her annotated articles, but he also smiled. Not his usual arrogant smirk, but something real and fleeting. His lips would twitch like he couldn’t help it, and his gaze would flick down, like maybe looking at the floor would steady him.

Sometimes he laughed at her observations, those rich, reluctant laughs that sounded like they’d been dragged out of him against his will. He rolled his eyes at her rants, but never told her to stop. And once, when she quoted Hooks in defense of intersectional insurgency, she caught him staring. Not impatiently. Not critically. Just watching her, like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve and wasn’t sure he wanted to. By mid-October, two things were certain. Xaden Riorson taught himself into a frenzy defending Machiavelli, Guevara, or whoever was on the syllabus that week, every time Violet challenged him. And Violet found excuses to visit his office more than her own.

Sometimes she brought articles. Sometimes she brought coffee. Once, she brought a half-eaten chocolate croissant she claimed he had to try, and he made the mistake of eating it mid-argument. She'd nearly snorted coffee out of her nose when he tried to refute her point with a mouth full of pastry. In the end, he admitted it had been "fucking delicious". 

When Xaden wasn’t in professor-mode, he really loved using the word “fucking.” As in, "I can't fucking stand that," or "this fucking perfect espresso." Sure, it was crude, but also, somehow, oddly charming. Like it was the only word intense enough to match his moods. And the contrast between that casual profanity and his usual classroom restrain undid her in ways she refused to examine.

Most times, they barely talked about class. He’d ask about her research, and she’d ask about his former program, and their conversations drifted into long, winding tangents that had nothing to do with their jobs. There were moments when she thought he might lean closer. Moments when his expression grew soft and thoughtful.

But every time she thought the boundary between them might shift, he pulled it taut again. A carefully timed comment. A subtle reassertion of distance.

Still, she kept going back. Because their arguments made her sharper. Because his mind was a weapon and a mirror. Because even if nothing ever happened between them, she was starting to think that maybe this, whatever this was, mattered more than she wanted to admit.

And then came the day Rhiannon cornered her.

“Someone saw you in his office again,” Rhiannon said in a sing-song voice, holding her coffee like a gavel. “You want to tell me what that’s about?”

Violet flushed. “It’s nothing.”

“Mhm.”

“I just... I like talking to him.” Rhiannon’s brow arched.

“He’s intense. Smart. Infuriating. But also, god, when he smiles, it’s like he forgets he’s supposed to be intimidating. Like he’s light for a second.”

“You like him.”

“I do. Even though he acts really weird sometimes.”

“You going to do something about it?”

“No,” Violet said quickly. “He’s a colleague. Maybe. I mean... probably not.”

Rhiannon gave her a look. “You’re exhausting.”

“You invited me out drinking once after I cried over footnotes.”

“Exactly. That’s friendship. So you, me, Jesinia. Clubbing. Saturday night. We’ll distract you from your political existential crisis.”

Violet smiled, but the expression faltered almost immediately. “I don’t know, Rhi. I’m not really in the mood for sweaty strangers and overpriced drinks.”

Rhiannon gave her a dry look. “You mean you're not in the mood for anyone who isn’t a certain brooding political science professor?”

Violet blinked, caught. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “It’s just... he’s been stuck in my head lately. And I’m probably reading too much into it, but there’s this tension. Like every conversation is a thread pulled too tight, and if one of us moves the wrong way, everything will snap.”

Rhiannon tilted her head. “Then maybe it’s time to give your brain a break. One night. You, me, Jesinia... and Ridoc, if he promises not to flirt with the bartender more than once every ten minutes.”

Violet huffed a laugh. “Ridoc’s going?”

“He begged to be included. Called himself an honorary member of our girl group.”

Violet laughed despite herself. “Okay, that’s kind of adorable.”

“Exactly. We’ll dance, drink, and you can pretend for a few hours that the only thing you’re obsessing over is whether or not you wore the right shoes.”

Violet hesitated. She didn’t want distraction. She wanted Xaden. His voice, his smirk, the way he always words to challenge her. But maybe distraction was the next best thing. Maybe it was the only thing.

“Fine,” she said with mock resignation. “But if Ridoc starts a dance circle again, I’m leaving.”

Rhiannon grinned. “Deal.”

Chapter 7: Tension in Tight Spaces

The bass hit before they even reached the front door.

Neon lights pulsed across the cracked sidewalk outside the club, casting Rhiannon’s sequined top in a dizzying kaleidoscope of color. Violet hesitated just inside the entryway, the thrum of the music vibrating in her ribs like a second heartbeat.

“This was a terrible idea,” she said, half-shouting over the beat.

“Oh, stop,” Rhiannon shouted back, tossing her braids over her shoulder. “You look incredible. And you promised not to leave if Ridoc starts a dance circle.”

Ridoc, already on the way to the bar, shot them a wink. “Only if the music’s worthy.”

Jesinia grinned. “We’ll see if we survive the night.”

Violet smoothed down her black dress, suddenly hyper-aware of how it hugged her body. It had felt bold in her apartment. Now, under the club lights and pressed in by strangers, she just felt exposed. Not that anyone was paying her that kind of attention. Not that she wanted them to.

Because her mind, predictably, had gone and conjured a pair of storm-dark eyes and a voice like velvet over stone.

Xaden would hate this place. Too loud. Too chaotic. Too full of strangers who didn’t understand boundaries.

She kind of loved that thought.

They danced. Or rather, Rhiannon and Ridoc danced. Jesinia found a corner with decent acoustics and people-watched like it was a blood sport. Violet swayed half-heartedly until the bartender gave her a drink with a sparkler in it and Rhiannon declared it a sign from the universe to live a little.

Half a cocktail later, she loosened.

She laughed when Ridoc attempted a spin and nearly took out someone’s mojito. She screamed when Rhiannon dragged her into the center of the floor. And then, then she danced. Really danced. Arms raised, hair damp at her temples, the bass crawling under her skin. A stranger moved in behind her, hands lightly resting on her hips, and she didn’t protest.

But her mind still conjured dark eyes.

Which was why she almost didn’t notice him at first. Xaden. Sitting in a booth along the edge of the dance floor, cloaked in shadows and watching her like a lightning bolt ready to strike.

She froze, pulse stuttering. He looked devastatingly good. A tight black shirt stretched across his broad chest and muscular arms like it had been stitched onto him. And those jeans, black, fitted, unfairly tailored, clung to his hips and thighs like a second skin. He sometimes wore them to class, and they were fast becoming her favorite academic distraction. Even in the hazy glow of club lights, with music vibrating through the soles of her heels and two drinks in her bloodstream, Violet could make out the sharp angles of his face. That impossible jawline. The scar slashing through one dark brow. His lips, pressed together into a tight line.

Then, in a half-drunken act of bravado, she excused herself from the stranger and marched straight toward him.

He didn’t flinch as she approached, but his gaze dipped, once, over her dress and the waves of her loose hair cascading to her waist before snapping back up to her face like it burned him. His scarred brow cocked with something between disapproval and amusement, and a smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, like he was evaluating her and finding her wanting, or dangerous. Still, Violet didn’t miss the half- second too long his eyes lingered. His gaze flickered again, almost unconsciously, to her hair, as if he was fighting the urge to touch it, to bury his fingers in the loose waves he’d only ever seen braided and pinned away. Something about that made her spine straighten with a thrill she refused to name.

"Professor Riorson," she said, too sweetly. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Violet." His voice was low, tight. "Didn’t expect to see you here either. You’re usually more... curated."

She slid into the booth across from him, still slightly panting, legs crossing deliberately. "Come dance with me."

"No."

She blinked, caught off guard. The first sting of rejection flared sharp and fast, like a slap she hadn’t seen coming. But she swallowed it, smoothing her expression. Maybe he just didn’t like dancing. Maybe it wasn’t about her at all.

"Have a drink with me, then. My treat."

"Very feministic of you, but still no." His smirk returned, this time more arrogant. "What’s next, a fucking poetry reading on the bar?"

She raised a brow, forcing lightness into her voice. "Feeling contrary tonight?" Her pulse was doing strange, unsteady things in her chest, and she could tell she wasn’t hiding the fresh crack of disappointment nearly as well as she wanted to.

"Dancing or drinking together. It wouldn’t be... professional," he said flatly, like the word tasted bad in his mouth.

She leaned in, elbows on the table, dress glittering with movement. "I’m not in your class or even your department, remember?"

His eyes darkened further, like shadows swallowing light. "Doesn’t matter. People talk. And you talk a lot, Violet."

She gave a teasing smirk, only half masking the sting. "You’re lucky, then. If I were in your class, you'd have seen my photo on the roster. I had a truly awful hair day that week. A real academic tragedy."

That got something, a flash of something close to a laugh that never made it past his throat. His gaze flicked to her hair again, lingering longer this time. There was a slight tightening around his eyes. He was fascinated. And furious about being fascinated. Her breath caught. Was he always this obsessed with control?

"You should go back to the others," he finally said, the mask he hadn't really worn for weeks now perfectly in place again.

"Why? So you can sit here in the shadows brooding about war ethics?"

He narrowed his eyes, and the arrogance sharpened into something colder. "Because it’s better than doing something we’ll both fucking regret."

Her stomach twisted. "I’m not some helpless undergrad, Xaden."

Before he could respond, a shadow fell across the table.

“Everything okay here?” asked a tall, broad-shouldered man with warm eyes and an easy presence. He looked from Violet to Xaden, then back again.

Xaden exhaled slowly, clearly trying to rein himself in. “Violet, this is Bodhi. My cousin.”

“Nice to meet you,” Violet said, offering a smile.

Bodhi returned it, friendly and genuine. “So you’re the Violet, huh?”

She blinked. “The...?”

“The one this guy won’t shut up about,” Bodhi said with a grin, jerking a thumb toward his cousin.

Violet turned sharply to Xaden, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. “Is that so?”

He bristled, shoulders tensing like he’d been caught out. "We were just finishing up."

Bodhi looked between them, clearly sensing the tension. Violet fought the embarrassment blooming across her cheeks. Xaden clearly wanted her gone. But going by his lingering gaze, challenging words, laughter and even borderline flirting these last weeks, he seemed anything but uninterested. She couldn’t reconcile the man who looked at her like that with the one who kept shutting her out. Maybe there was someone else. Maybe she’d misread everything. The uncertainty prickled under her skin like static, but she lifted her chin, refusing to let it show. “I should get back to the dance floor.”

She stood slowly, her heart a heavy drumbeat. As she walked away, she couldn’t help glancing back.

Xaden had leaned his head back against the booth, eyes closed, jaw clenched. The collar of his shirt had slipped to reveal the edge of a swirling black tattoo peeking over his collarbone and trailing up the side of his muscular neck in a pattern Violet immediately, shamefully wanted to taste.

Bodhi stood beside him, patting his shoulder with something like sympathy. Violet turned away before she could let herself think too much about it.

The next week was... quiet.

Violet still went to his class. Still sat in her usual seat. But something in the rhythm had shifted. Xaden didn’t look at her quite as often. Didn’t challenge her the same way. Their back-and-forth slowed to a trickle of exchanged glances and swallowed thoughts.

And Violet, for reasons she couldn’t quite admit to herself, stopped showing up to his office hours.

Maybe it was space. Maybe it was punishment. Maybe she just didn’t trust herself not to lean closer, not to ask for more.

Whatever it was, it left an ache behind. And in that ache, she waited.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Sharp edges

It was late, later than Violet had intended to leave campus. The archives had closed hours ago, but she'd lost track of time in the staff lounge rereading a student draft on the third Reich. Now, the streets were dim, and the air had that brittle October chill that scraped at her skin and sent leaves spiraling across the sidewalk.

She wasn’t far from home. The familiar streets of the university quarter were usually safe. But even still, she kept her keys clutched between her fingers like a makeshift weapon, the way her older brother Brennan had told her. Just in case.

It happened fast. A shuffle of steps behind her. A too close presence. Then a voice, low and threatening.

“Bag. Now.”

She turned sharply, adrenaline flaring like fire. A man loomed from the shadows, hood up, body tense.

“Back off,” Violet snapped. Her voice was steady, but her heart thundered in her chest.

The man lunged. She dodged instinctively, ramming her elbow into his side, just like Brennan had taught her years ago. She aimed for his ribs, then jabbed her heel toward his shin. He grunted, stumbling, but recovered quickly.

He grabbed her wrist, wrenching it painfully. She gasped, tried to twist away, but he yanked her forward and slammed her onto the pavement, hard and brutal. Her knees scraped against the concrete, a white-hot jolt of pain flaring up her thigh. She could feel blood oozing through the torn fabric of her jeans.

She kicked wildly, struck his knee, and he cursed. Her vision blurred with panic and fury. She wasn’t going to be a victim. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

Her hand scrabbled for anything, gravel, her keys, a loose bit of her bag. She braced herself, ready to lash out again.

“Hey!”

The shout came like a thunderclap, sharp and deadly. And suddenly the weight on her vanished.

Violet blinked up, breath ragged, just in time to see her attacker slammed against a nearby brick wall. A blur of black clothing. A punch, fast, brutal, precise. The man sagged, then collapsed, unconscious.

Xaden Riorson stood over him, chest heaving, fists clenched.

He turned to her, eyes burning. “Are you okay?”

She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry. She nodded.

His gaze dropped to her leg, where blood was rapidly soaking her jeans. He cursed under his breath, dropping to one knee in front of her.

“Fuck. You're bleeding.”

“It’s fine,” she mumbled, though her knee throbbed like hell.

“You call that fine?” His voice was low, dangerous. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against the wound, surprisingly gentle despite the steel in his posture.

She winced, and he looked up, jaw tight. “You need a hospital.”

“I’m not going to a hospital,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s just a scrape.” She avoided mentioning that something might be amiss with her knee, too. The impact had been jarring, and based on the deep ache, she couldn’t rule out that her patella had subluxated. She’d have to examine it later, once she was alone and could fully assess the damage.

His eyes narrowed. “A scrape that may need stitches and a tetanus shot. ”

“I’ve had worse injuries tripping over my own furniture.” Oh, how she wished she was joking.

He almost smiled, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes.

Then he stood, pulling out his phone. He turned away from her slightly, voice low and dangerous. “Bodhi. Corner of Forth and Wing street. One unconscious asshole for you to deal with. He attacked Violet.”

A pause.

“No, I didn’t kill him.” A beat. “No promises if I see him again.”

Another pause, then a short nod. He ended the call and pocketed his phone.

Violet watched him carefully. There was something simmering beneath his skin. A fury so sharp it practically buzzed in the air around him.

She should’ve been unnerved. But her heart skipped, heat curling low in her stomach. It wasn’t just the adrenaline. It was the way he moved. The way he’d fought. The way he looked now, like he was barely keeping it together.

“Are you… mad at me?” she asked, unsure.

His eyes snapped to hers. “What?”

“You look furious.”

“I am,” he said tightly. “Just not at you.”

She didn’t believe him, not entirely. There was something else in his voice, guilt, maybe. Or worry. Or both.

He exhaled hard, then reached down and offered his hand. “Come on. I’m taking you home.”

She hesitated, but then she took it. And the moment their fingers touched, that spark was back. Electricity.

He helped her up, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary at her waist as she tested her weight on the injured leg. She hissed, but nodded. “I can walk.”

They moved together down the street, slower now. He stayed close, one hand hovering just behind her back as if he couldn’t quite bear not to touch her.

After a few blocks, he said, “I just started teaching a self-defense course. Thursday nights. I also offer one-on-one training.”

She blinked up at him. “Are you inviting me?”

“I’m insisting.”

She snorted softly. “You always this charming when you’re concerned?”

“No,” he said. “But you nearly got hurt worse, and I don’t want to see that again.”

Her heart twisted.

“Well then,” she said after a moment, “I guess I better bring my sneakers.”

He glanced sideways at her, and the edges of his mouth lifted. Barely.

They didn’t say much more. Not until they reached her apartment building. He walked her all the way to the door, waited while she fumbled with the lock.

Then, quietly, he said, “Text someone when you’re safely inside.”

“I will.”

She turned the handle, then paused. Looked back.

He was watching her with that same unreadable expression. Still tense. Still coiled like a spring.

But his voice was soft when he added, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

And for a moment, just one, she let herself believe that he wasn’t just being protective.

That maybe, just maybe, he cared.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Touch Me Like You Mean It (For Self-defense, Obviously)

Two weeks later on Tuesday, when her knee had scabbed over and then mostly healed, Violet walked into Ironwood Gym with a flutter in her chest she refused to name. She wore black leggings and a slate-gray tank top that clung a little too closely. Her braid was tight, but a few stubborn strands curled around her temple from the late-autumn humidity. Xaden was already waiting at the far end, where thick mats absorbed the thuds of other fighters.

He glanced over, eyes flicking briefly to her knee, then back to her face. “We’ll start with assessment,” he said, voice low.

“Assessment?” Violet echoed.

“You said you’ve trained before. I want to see what you remember. How you move. Your balance. Flexibility.”

He gestured toward an open mat. She stepped onto it, and he paced slowly around her. She positioned herself instinctively into a basic stance, shoulders squared, feet grounded. He watched her carefully, nodding.

“Now pivot. Jab. Left, then right.”

They ran through simple sequences. Strikes. Guards. Lunges. He asked her to hold a squat. To duck under a padded bar. When she hesitated on a side lunge, her knee flinching, he narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

“Not bad,” he murmured. “Now let's get started. Back into stance again,” he said, voice low, and without waiting, moved to position.

She mimicked him, feet shoulder‑width apart, fists up. He circled again, silent except for soft corrections: “Your back foot, pivot more.” A tap to her ankle. “Wrist tighter.” A brush of fingers over her knuckles.

When he stepped behind her to shift her balance, she stiffened. His hand landed lightly on her shoulder blade. “Relax,” he murmured. “You’ll waste energy like this.”

Lessons became ritual. Twice a week she showed up, twice a week he pushed her. Thursdays with a group of changing women, Tuesdays in one-on-one sessions all by themselves. They drilled strikes until sweat slid between her shoulder blades. He corrected her form, and she argued, and somewhere between the jabs and parries, a rhythm formed.

One Tuesday evening, he introduced a wristlock. “I’ll show you from behind,” he said. “You need to feel the angle.”

She nodded, heartbeat spiking. He stepped in, his chest ghosting her back, hands guiding her arm. “Turn into it,” he murmured against her ear.

She did and his other arm circled her waist, anchoring her. Their faces hovered inches apart. She could smell his leather and mint scent and beneath that, something warm and clean and entirely him.

“Good,” he whispered. “Again.”

The next session, she brought her own wraps, but her knee twinged on a lunge. He noticed.

“You’re overcompensating,” he said, crouching beside her as she knelt. “Is that the one from the attack?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “He slammed me down hard. I’ve had worse, it just… gives sometimes.”

His eyes darkened. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you’d stop letting me train.”

“I’d adjust,” he muttered.

She didn’t believe him, but the following Tuesday, he proved her wrong.

When she stepped onto the mats, her knee already aching from the cold, Xaden was waiting with something in hand. A pair of sleek, black fabric braces.

“These are for you,” he said simply, his voice unreadable. “Lightweight. Joint support plus stabilization. Try them.”

Violet stared. “You… got me knee braces?”

He gave a small shrug, like it was no big deal. “You need them.”

She toed off her shoes and reached out to take the braces, but he was already kneeling in front of her. “Let me,” he said, sliding one over her foot and up her shin, adjusting it with slow, careful fingers.

Her breath caught at the sensation. His touch was precise but gentle, reverent in a way that made her heartbeat stutter. She could feel the heat of his hands even through the brace’s fabric and her workout leggings.

“Tell me if it pinches,” he murmured, glancing up.

Her throat felt thick. “This is… weirdly thoughtful for someone who still says my name like it’s a challenge.”

His lips twitched, just slightly. “You are a challenge.”

In the following sessions, he swapped out a squat rack for a newer one with adaptive grips and better angles for joint alignment. She didn’t comment, but she noticed.

Between drills, they sometimes paused. Talked. She learned he hated working out to music, “Too distracting.” That he liked his black coffee extra strong, but only before noon. That he’d broken his nose once and reset it himself.

In turn, he learned she hated silence when she worked, lived off green tea and cheese crackers, and once fell down the library stairs chasing a (at the time) fellow student who’d plagiarized her World War II thesis.

In class, she let others talk more. But every session, she’d drop a single, laser-precise comment that upended the room. During one discussion of Arendt and political violence, when a student praised her clarity, Violet didn't even look up from her tablet before saying, “You can’t abstract the blood away just because you put it in a footnote.”

Xaden looked up every time, jaw tight. It wasn’t just that she challenged him. It was that she knew exactly how to thread the needle, to poke and prod at his ideas in a way that made him think.

A week later, when he surprised the class by assigning bell hooks’ Talking Back, Violet nearly dropped her pen. She hadn’t thought he’d actually take her recommendation. But there it was, on the corrected syllabus. When the discussion opened, Violet defended the text passionately. She talked about marginalized voices reclaiming power, the radicalism of speaking up, the danger of silence. Xaden didn’t challenge her this time. He just agreed with everything she said, calm and composed, then turned to the room and asked, “Someone else ought to play devil’s advocate this time, any volunteers?”

He wasn’t sparring with her. He was standing beside her. And somehow, that felt more dangerous.

She remembered once, during office hours, teasing him about a particular pair of pants, the dark, sinfully fitted ones he wore far too often. She’d joked that if he kept wearing them, none of his female students (and some of the male ones) could possibly focus on his lectures. He’d given her that slow, smug smirk in response… and started wearing them even more.

Now, every time he did, Violet couldn’t help but imagine things. Like staying after class, sitting on his desk with her legs wrapped around him, her skirt bunched at her waist, tights and underwear hastily discarded. His hands under her sweater, thumbs brushing over her nipples, his mouth hot against her neck. Him driving into her, hard and fast, because even though they’d locked the door, anyone with a key could walk in at any moment. She hoped he would whisper filthy things into her ear, moan her name, maybe tell her what a fucking good girl she was...

Sometimes, she caught him watching her when she wasn’t looking. And in his office, their conversations blurred more and more into the personal, books turned into music turned into memory. But when she leaned close, when she almost touched his hand, he always pulled back.

She didn’t stop going. And he never asked her to.

But something was shifting. In their stances. In the air between them.

Like the next move could tip the balance and Violet wasn't sure which side Xaden was on.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Sparring with Subtext

"I'm just saying," Violet said, her fork twirling through the remains of her salad, "he didn’t have to buy me custom knee braces. But he did. Without saying a word about it like it was totally normal. Who does that?"

Jesinia raised an eyebrow from her perch across the table in the campus cafe. "A man with a deeply repressed savior complex?"

Rhiannon grinned into her coffee. "Or someone who likes you. Like, likes likes you."

Violet waved a hand dismissively, but the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her. "It’s not like that. He just… he teaches this self-defense class, and he’s absurdly good at it. Like he’s trained in ten different martial arts and moonlights as a secret agent."

Jesinia blinked. "Is that what you’re into now? Brooding professors with fists of steel?"

"Shut up," Violet said, but she was laughing. "You two should come to a group session. Seriously. It’s on Thursdays. First session is free, and he makes sure everyone can follow along. It’s surprisingly fun and useful." 

Violet didn’t say that Xaden still refused to let her pay a dime, even for the weekly private sessions. Mostly because she didn’t want to deal with the knowing looks Rhiannon and Jesinia would give her if she did. 

Rhiannon’s eyes sparkled. "You mean I’d get to see Mr. Smoldery-and-Silent throw people around? Count me in."

Violet rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered.

The next Thursday, she arrived even earlier than usual. Xaden was already setting up the mats, sleeves rolled to the elbows of a dark thermal shirt that clung to every line of his arms.

“Warming up already?” he asked without looking.

“Scouting,” Violet replied, tossing her gym bag to the side. “Wanted to test if today’s the day you finally admit I’m improving.”

That got a quiet snort. “Don’t push your luck.”

After a quick warm-up they moved into drills. Strikes, blocks, counters. Violet’s focus narrowed to the feel of the mat beneath her feet, the pull of muscle and breath. And the man circling her like a stormcloud waiting to break.

He stepped behind her to demonstrate a grip break. His hands slid over her wrists, adjusting her form, and then he turned her sharply into his chest. Her back met solid warmth. One arm locked lightly across her waist, the other securing her shoulder. His breath brushed her temple.

"Shift your weight," he murmured, his voice low. "And when you feel the tension in my arm, push back with your heel."

She did shift. But she didn’t push away.

They were close. So, so close. Her body aligned with his, her heartbeat thudding in rhythm with the barely veiled tension in the room. She could feel the press of his chest against her back, the brush of his jaw near her cheek. She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His hand lingered at her waist. One breath. Two.

"Hell yes, this is what I was hoping for," Rhiannon’s voice rang out across the mat.

Xaden stepped back so fast it was almost a stumble. Violet nearly tripped turning to face her friends, her face flaming.

Jesinia stood right behind Rhiannon, a secretive smile on her face. “Where is everybody? Are we early? Or late?” 

“You’re early, as you very well know.” Violet narrowed her eyes on her traitorous friends, her tone accusatory. Hadn't they seen what they just interrupted? 

“Actually, it was perfect timing,” Xaden muttered. His expression had gone unreadable again. Controlled. “You two joining today?”

“Us three. We brought reinforcement,” Jesinia said cheerfully, stepping into the room behind Rhiannon.

“Reinforcement?” Violet echoed, thoughts still in a scramble.

“She means me,” Ridoc said, popping into view. “I come bearing sarcasm and absolutely no useful training knowledge.”

Xaden exhaled and reached for a water bottle. “Fine. You can choose a mat and we‘ll wait for the rest.”

The next hour was a blur of movement and laughter and awkward attempts at throws. Xaden demonstrated every move with clinical precision, his tone crisp, his demeanor impassive. Every correction came with a careful detachment. Every glance distant and professional.

She hated it.

After class, her friends lingered by the door, chatting with the other participants. Violet stayed behind to help Xaden roll the mats.

He didn’t speak for a while.

Then, with a sidelong glance, he said, "You spend a lot of time with other professors."

Violet blinked. “Yeah, we’re friends.  Why?”

He hesitated, his jaw flexing. "I just think you should be careful."

She tilted her head, genuinely puzzled. “Of what?”

But he didn’t answer, just turned and walked away.

Violet stood in the empty room, her heart twisting as she tried to puzzle out what she’d missed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Lines We Cross, or: Professor Riorson

The first time Violet hit the mat, she didn’t even see it coming.

One heartbeat she was pivoting on her left foot, trying to counter the pressure Xaden applied to her shoulder, and the next, the floor was kissing her spine with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs.

“Shit,” she gasped, blinking up at the harsh ceiling lights. Her bandaged knees throbbed.

Xaden loomed above her, expression unreadable. He offered a hand, but didn’t speak.

Violet let him pull her up, her fingers closing around his warm, calloused grip. Her heart thudded from more than just the fall. As soon as he had signaled they’d start a sparring sequence after the warm-up, she had felt it. That slow, simmering tension coiling between them again. It was always there. Beneath the surface. In every look. Every touch.

“I thought this was a self-defense class,” she muttered, brushing her hair out of her face. “Not an audition for a James Bond sequel.”

“Then fucking defend yourself,” Xaden said simply, backing away into position.

She huffed. “You could at least warn me before you go full action hero on me.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but enough to stir warmth low in her belly. They circled each other again. Violet knew she wasn’t weak. But her joints betrayed her more often than not. Her body didn’t move the way it was supposed to. She had to think around her limits, calculate every move to avoid injury. 

He advanced. She deflected. He spun, she followed.

Then his arm swept low, and before she could counter, his leg hooked behind her calf. She went down with a gasp and this time, he didn’t let go. He followed her to the mat, catching her fall with his right hand, and landed above her, knees between her legs, his left forearm braced beside her head. His body hovered just inches above hers. She could feel the heat of him, the tension in the muscles that caged her in. One shift and their mouths would touch. One breath and she’d feel the weight of him completely. Her heart beat frantically in her ears.

His dark eyes locked with hers, unreadable but intense. Violet swallowed. Her lips parted. Words scattered. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted and dropped again. He was so close. She wanted him to bridge the distance, ached for him to finally kiss her. God, she wanted it so badly it hurt.

He leaned down, just an inch, and her breath caught. Her hand rose instinctively, brushing lightly against his chest, the heat of him burning through the fabric. 
He paused then, eyes burning with an intensity she had never seen before.

„Xaden,“ she whispered, wanting, needing to tell him that she wanted this, wanted him.

Every muscle in his body went rigid. He exhaled through his nose and closed his eyes like he was forcing himself to come back from the edge. Then he pulled away like she’d burned him.

Violet lay there, stunned, her entire body thrumming with heat. She sat up slowly, watching as he turned his back to her and grabbed his towel from the floor.
Say something. Say anything.

She stood, brushing off her leggings. “You always leave a girl hanging like that?” she asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he turned to her, eyes cold now, distant. “This isn’t a fucking game.”

Her heart sank. “I didn’t say it was.”

He didn’t respond.

Violet hesitated. Her throat tightened. But she forced the words out anyway. She just had to know where he stood. “Would you want to get dinner sometime? Like a date?”

He froze.

Then his expression shifted, becoming almost angry. “No,” he then said with a finality and added, slightly softer. “That wouldn’t be appropriate.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stood straighter. “You should know better than to suggest something like that.”

It hit her like a slap. Violet swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay upright despite the sudden pressure in her chest. “I thought…”

He turned away and quickly started walking towards the men's locker room.

“Xaden,” she called softly.

He stopped, but didn’t turn around.

“It’s Professor Riorson,” he said, his voice hard again.

And then, more quietly, without looking back, “Maybe it’s best we pause these sessions. You don’t really need my help anymore anyway.”

Then he walked out, leaving her alone on the mat. The room felt cold without him. Violet stood there, arms crossed tightly around herself as if that could stop the way her chest ached.

She’d been wrong. So incredibly, humiliatingly wrong. And now she couldn’t stop wondering if she’d imagined everything. Every look. Every almost-touch. Every unreadable glance that she’d wanted so badly to believe meant something more. Maybe she really had just been another trainee to him all along.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: All the Signs

The campus faculty holiday party was held in the old reading room of the library, an opulent space with vaulted ceilings, arched windows dusted with frost, and string lights woven around ancient oak beams like threads of golden ivy. Bowls of spiced nuts, fig tarts, and mulled wine adorned the long buffet tables, and a jazz trio played softly in the corner. Apparently, Xaden's dedication to secure a bigger catering budget had literally paid off. The food looked miles better than the stale cookies and limp sandwiches from the year before.

Violet hadn’t wanted to come. She’d nearly texted Rhiannon a dozen times to bail. But Jesinia had promised to corner her with whiskey and a lunchbox full of her homemade salted caramel brownies if she showed, and somehow that had worked.

It had been over a week since the disaster in the gym. Since Xaden had pulled away, told her they shouldn’t train together anymore, and left her stunned and alone on the mat. Violet had spent the days since rotating between trying to forget him and wondering if she’d misread everything. She hadn’t gone back to the gym. She hadn’t gone back to his class. And the ache inside her hadn’t left.

She’d convinced herself that tonight, she could just smile, toast the end of the term, and not think about him. But the moment she walked in and spotted his broad shoulders in a black blazer (dark shirt, dark tie, of course) leaning against the far wall, she knew that wasn’t going to happen.

She was turning to escape when someone clinked a glass.

“If I could have your attention,” the Dean called out from near the front. “Before we all descend into sugar comas and bad dance moves, I’d like to recognize a few faculty accomplishments.”

Violet froze mid-step.

“Professor Violet Sorrengail”

Her name echoed like a stone dropping into a still pond.

“For securing the Tairneanach Grant for her upcoming research on wartime memory and civilian narratives. It’s one of the most competitive grants in the humanities this year, and it’s an incredible achievement. Violet, congratulations.”

Polite applause rippled through the crowd. Violet forced herself to smile, giving a small, awkward wave as her chest tightened.

She’d found out about the grant three days ago. And the very first person she’d wanted to tell, before her friends, before her family, was Xaden.

She felt his gaze on her across the room, heavy and familiar, and when she finally dared to look at him, she saw something she had never seen before. His cool, collected expression had slipped into one of confusion, then morphed into determination.

She didn’t wait. Turning on her heel, she muttered something to Jesinia about needing air and slipped outside onto the snow dusted terrace.

The cold bit instantly at her skin, but she welcomed it. Anything to calm the heat roiling in her chest.

Moments later, the door creaked open again. Heavy steps followed.

“You’re a professor,” Xaden said, his voice rough.

She turned to face him slowly, the lights from the party spilling through the frosted windows and haloing the edges of his form.

Her brows furrowed. “Of course I am. Wait-” Her head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t… know that?”

He exhaled harshly, jaw tightening. “No. I thought you were a student.”

Violet stared at him, blinking once, then twice, her brain struggling to catch up. “Wait. What?”

“I thought you were a student,” he repeated, slower this time, as if that would somehow make it better.

Violet stared at him, utterly bewildered. A laugh sputtered from her lips, sharp and incredulous. “You thought I was a student?”

The dark-haired man nodded, wincing slightly. “You were in my class. I didn’t see your name on the roster, but then you told me your fellow students had defected the course you were in for mine, so it made sense. And after that I thought... I don’t know. That you were helping someone. Or shadowing. . And you look so…”

“Young,” she finished for him, half-laughing, half-reeling. “Xaden. I literally said ‘my class’ like, a hundred times. I graded papers. In your office. I practically live in the goddamn faculty lounge. One of your students even called me Professor Sorrengail after I brought in that first edition protest zine from the seventies to illustrate the concept of soft power in action!”

“I thought she was being sarcastic!” he groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck. I feel like a fucking idiot.”

“You kind of should,” she muttered, arms crossing tightly over her chest. The wind sliced between them and she shivered, realizing just how thin her dress was. The frost on the railing glittered under the lights, mocking her discomfort.

Xaden noticed. For a second, he hesitated, his arms lifting slightly towards her. Then he moved without a word, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it around her shoulders. His hand brushed her arm, warm and solid, and she swore the heat of it lingered long after he stepped back.

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the muted hum of music from inside.

“Thanks,” she finally whispered, still staring at him. “You should know I only kept going to your class because someone had to show those poor students that Machiavelli isn't just a playbook for control freaks.”

To her surprise, his lips twitched. “You want the truth?”

She nodded, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I don’t even fucking believe half the shit I argued.” He gave a short, almost embarrassed laugh. “Not Machiavelli. Not Locke. Not any of those fucking dead white men who thought fear made them philosophers.”

Violet’s eyebrows shot up. “You defended them like they paid your tuition.”

“I defended them because you were tearing them apart,” he said simply. “You lit up when you argued. I just kept giving you firewood.”

Her lips parted, breath catching at the implication. He looked so fucking good standing there in the soft glow from the windows, breath visible in the cold air like smoke curling from a dragon’s mouth. All sharp lines and quiet intensity and that damn dress shirt that somehow made his shoulders look even broader. Violet’s fingers itched with the need to touch him. To bury herself in the warmth of his chest, to be close again.

“I wanted to see what you’d say next,” he admitted. “That’s all. I wanted to push you. You were… you were fucking amazing.”

She swallowed, pulse skittering. “So you provoked me on purpose.”

“I needed someone who would bite back. Needed to see how far you would go.”

“I would’ve gone further.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. “I know.”

She looked away, trying to collect herself, but everything about him, his voice, his nearness, the goddamn way he was looking at her, was unraveling her all over again.

“You cut me off,” she said quietly. “And I thought I’d imagined it all.”

“You didn’t.”

She glanced up.

“I fucked up,” he said, voice rougher now. “I saw the signs. I just didn’t let myself believe them. Because if I did…”

“If you did?” she prompted.

“I would’ve kissed you in that gym.”

She was suddenly far too aware of his presence, how it seemed to charge the space between them with electricity. Her breath caught in her throat, nerves buzzing beneath her skin.

“Or probably sooner,” he added, voice low.

Her heart pounded so violently it echoed in her ears. God, she wanted to kiss him. Wanted to grab him by the collar and demand he do it already. And yet…

“I’m still mad,” she whispered.

“You should be.”

“You don’t just get to be noble and broody and a freaking idiot.”

He stepped even closer, the air between them thinning. “Then let me make it up to you.”

She blinked at him, trying to hold on to her irritation, but the look in his eyes was doing catastrophic things to her resolve.

“Dinner,” he said. “Someplace that doesn’t smell like gym mats or old books.”

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll still keep trying.” His voice dropped, low and certain. “I’m not losing you over a fucking misunderstanding.”

Her heart melted, just a little. Then a lot.

“You look…” His voice trailed off. His fingers reached out, brushing gently through the loose waves of her hair, and a chill swept over her spine, not from the cold this time. “You’re wearing it down.”

Violet didn’t move, couldn’t.

Her thoughts spiraled wildly. She thought of all the times she sat in his class, ready to challenge him on every page of the reading list. She’d missed it, him, more than she’d let herself admit. Arguing with Xaden had become one of her favorite things. Like a secret, exhilarating addiction. And she hated how empty the last week had felt without it.

“If you ever want to win an argument without saying a word,” he murmured, his voice rough with something heavier now, “just walk in with your hair like this.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” He smiled, real, genuine, fucking perfect. “But I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

And Violet, heart still mending and stupidly hopeful, nodded.

“Alright,” she said, unable to keep the sheer joy from her voice. “But only if you promise to keep assigning wildly controversial political theory.”

He smirked. “With a fucking passion.”

And then, as if the rest of the world had finally fallen away, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was slow, reverent, full of the tension they’d both carried for weeks. His hand slid around her waist, the other still gently tangled in her hair, and when their lips met, everything else ceased to exist.

Violet kissed him back with all the frustration, all the confusion, and all the aching want she’d tried so hard to bury. There was no hiding now. No pretense. Just the two of them, finally crashing into the truth.

Under the glittering lights of the frost covered terrace, Violet let herself fall.

Chapter Text

Epilogue

The worst-kept secret of the political science and history departments was officially out.

It didn’t happen with a big announcement. There were no faculty-wide emails, no dramatic declarations during a staff meeting. Just a slow unraveling of glances, inside jokes, and one particularly loud snort from Ridoc when he spotted Xaden waiting outside Violet’s lecture hall two days after the party, coffees in hand and the unmistakable expression of someone trying to look casual while clearly being anything but.

Jesinia had nearly dropped her entire bag when she’d seen him nuzzle his face into Violets neck while hugging her from behind. "You said you were just… friendly colleagues!"

"We are," Violet had replied, deadpan. "Exceptionally friendly."

They didn’t hide it anymore. Not exactly. There was no point after Rhiannon accidentally walked in on them making out in the copy room and froze like a startled cat.

"Oh my god," she said, wide-eyed. "Are you two seriously...? That’s... ew, that’s faculty property!"

Then she fake-gagged, loudly, before wheeling around and stepping into the hallway. A moment later, she poked her head back in, scanning the corridor. "Heads up. The Dean's coming. Button your shirts, fix your hair, and look like you weren’t trying to steam up the glass door."

Violet tried to look appropriately chagrined. She failed.

Rhiannon just smirked and muttered, "Unbelievable," before walking off, shaking her head and grinning like a maniac.

The first official date was supposed to be simple. Dinner, maybe a movie. Something normal after months of sidelong glances and physical tension so thick it practically rearranged the molecules in a room. But Xaden had shown up at her door in a dark button-down and jeans that should’ve been illegal, holding a first edition of her favourite post-war novel with a note tucked inside: Still a better love story than Locke, Machiavelli, and Arendt combined.

She hadn’t even made it through the appetizer before kissing him across the table.

Their first night together was quiet and slow and devastating in a way that Violet hadn’t expected. Not just physical (though, god, it was definitely that) but unguarded. Xaden had touched her like he already knew all the places she was strong and all the places she tried to pretend she didn’t break.

Afterward, when her head was resting on his chest and his fingers lazily traced the scar on her knee from the mugging, she whispered, “I still can’t believe you thought I was a student.”

His arm tightened around her. “From the very first fucking day. And every time you made a comment, I told myself to get a grip. But then you’d argue with me and I’d forget every reason I had to stay away.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “I graded papers in your office.”

“I thought you were a damn overachiever.”

She swatted his chest. “I talked about my lectures.”

“Group projects?”

“Oh my gods,” she groaned. “You really were in denial.”

He grinned against her hair. “I was. Because you were the sharpest mind in the room. The one who made me want to be better. And I kept trying not to fall for you.”

Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She tilted her head up to meet his eyes. “And now?”

His lips brushed hers. “Now I don’t have to pretend anymore.” 

They talked for hours, trading timelines, laughing over all the misread clues. Violet listing every moment he should have realized she wasn’t enrolled. Xaden insisting that no real professor would sit through that many lectures on white old men voluntarily.

She told him about the night she found out about her grant. How she’d almost run straight to his office, heart full of something like pride and longing and fear.

He told her about the sleepless nights, about pacing his apartment like a man possessed because he couldn’t stop thinking about the way she argued, smart and sharp and burning.

“I hated how much I liked you,” he admitted, mouth at her temple. “I kept thinking, if you were really just a student, then I needed to stay the fuck away.”

Violet tilted her face to his. “But I wasn’t.”

“No.” He kissed her, slow and reverent. “You were everything I didn’t know I wanted.”

There were late nights in her apartment, manuscripts forgotten as they tangled on the couch. Early mornings in his, where he made her coffee just the way she liked it and pretended he didn’t secretly enjoy having someone steal all the blankets.

The students caught on quickly. One even left an anonymous note in the student feedback box that read: The class is great. Riorson’s lectures are fire. Please tell him his girlfriend is terrifying and brilliant. Also, tell her to stop coming for Locke. I like Locke, even if he’s a pompous windbag.

She framed it.

Because of course she did.

Because being with Xaden wasn’t just sparks and tension and late night whispered confessions. It was fun. It was teasing. It was someone who could take her fire and give it right back.

He was her storm.

And she was finally, finally ready to stop pretending she didn’t want to be caught in it.