Chapter 6

The morning started like any other: a quiet breakfast, a final review of my notes, a steady thrum of nerves humming just beneath my skin.

I was early, naturally. During my previous life as a teacher, so many years ago, I’d always preferred to be early, especially on the first day. Get the lay of the room, make sure the equipment worked, give myself a few minutes to breathe before the students filed in.

The campus was already buzzing with energy as I made my way toward the environmental sciences building—students moving in knots and streams, the air warm but not yet oppressive. I kept my eyes ahead, mentally rehearsing my opening lines.

Keep it simple. Keep it professional.

As I rounded the corner toward my classroom, I almost collided with someone standing just outside the door.

“Whoa—sorry,” I said automatically, stepping back.

Then I saw who it was. And for a moment too long, I forgot how to breathe.

It was Bliss.

But not Bliss as I remembered her from the Delta. Not the dusty boots and khaki trousers, the practical ponytail and sun-worn field shirts.

This Bliss was—well, beautiful.

She wore a crisp, light-blue blouse tucked into dark jeans that hugged her frame without being at all inappropriate. Her braids were swept into a loose, elegant style, small gold earrings catching the morning light. She looked polished, confident, mature in a way that hit me harder than I was prepared for.

“Good morning, Ben,” she told me, flashing that familiar smile, but there was something almost mischievous in her eyes.

It took me half a second too long to respond.

“Good morning, Bliss,” I said, forcing my voice into something close to steady. “You’re ... early.”

She shrugged, a casual roll of one shoulder. “I like to settle in before class. New environment and all.”

I nodded, my mind scrambling to find neutral ground.

“That’s smart. Shows you’re serious.”

Like you didn’t already know that about her, some traitorous part of me thought.

She smiled again, this time a little more reserved, and slipped through the door into the classroom. I followed at a safe distance, acutely aware of the quiet energy that seemed to trail after her.

As students began trickling in, I focused all my attention on setting up. Connecting my laptop to the projector. Shuffling through papers I’d already organized three times. Anything to keep from looking in her direction again.

The classroom filled quickly, the low murmur of conversation rising as students found their seats. I cleared my throat, tapped the microphone to make sure it was live, and launched into my opening remarks.

I don’t remember much of what I said.

Oh, the words were right—background about my experience, a rundown of the topics we’d be covering, expectations for the course. I hit every bullet point on my mental list. But a small, persistent part of my mind kept drifting back to the third row, second seat from the left, where Bliss sat upright, notebook open, pen poised, watching me with quiet intensity.

Was it my imagination, or was she deliberately trying to make it harder for me to keep my professional mask in place? No—probably not. She was just being herself. And that, I realized, was even more dangerous.

She didn’t have to try. She just was.

I gripped the sides of the podium a little tighter and plowed through the lecture, calling on students at random, encouraging participation, pretending that I didn’t notice the way my pulse picked up every time Bliss raised her hand.

By the end of the hour and a half, my shirt clung slightly to my back, not from the heat but from sheer tension.

“Alright,” I said, closing my notes with a firm snap. “That’s it for today. Please review the reading assignment for next class. And if you have any questions, feel free to stick around.”

The students began packing up their things, the familiar rustle of backpacks and notebooks filling the room. Bliss was among the last to leave, pausing by the door to give me a quick, professional nod.

“See you Thursday, Ben,” she said.

“See you then,” I managed, forcing a small smile.

And then she was gone.

I slumped against the podium, letting out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. This was going to be harder than I thought.

I gathered my papers mechanically, heading out into the warm afternoon sun. As I walked across the campus, my mind raced with the same old warnings and rationalizations.

She’s a student. You’re her instructor. There are rules for a reason.

And yet, none of the rules could erase the simple, inescapable truth: Bliss wasn’t just another face in the crowd.

She never had been.

The second class meeting went a little smoother. A little.

At least, that’s what I told myself as I paced at the front of the room, trying to keep my voice steady and my eyes moving across the faces in the crowd—not fixating on the third row, second seat from the left.

Today, Bliss wore a simple white blouse and dark slacks, her braids pinned back neatly. Professional. Focused. Still gorgeous.

I stuck to the material like a lifeline—ecosystem dynamics, principles of sustainable resource management—walking the students through real-world case studies and inviting discussion. I called on Bliss only once, deliberately choosing a broad question to avoid any unnecessary attention.

She answered clearly and confidently, as she always did, her voice cutting through the room with quiet authority. A few heads turned in her direction, nodding along. Even among a strong group, she stood out.

By the time the class ended, I felt wrung out again, but not quite as rattled as the first day. Maybe it was getting easier. Maybe I could hold the line after all.

Maybe.

As the students filtered out, Bliss caught my eye briefly, gave a small, professional smile, and disappeared into the hall with her friends.

I stood there a moment longer, pretending to gather my notes, until the room was empty. Then I packed up my things and headed for the little cafe Arthur and I had agreed to meet at downtown.

The place was tucked between two shops on a busy street near the university—a casual spot with an open patio, worn wooden tables, and an easy, lived-in kind of charm.