Chapter 1

The fluorescent lights of Mr. Harrington’s classroom felt harsh after the dim hallways. Kylie lingered as the last students filed out, her pulse thumping against her ribs. She pretended to search her backpack near his desk. His voice, low and dry, cut through the quiet. “Curious placement for your water bottle sleeve, Miss Morgan.” He tapped the clear plastic insert on her thermos, where a tiny cheat sheet curled behind the logo. Her breath froze.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, forcing her gaze upwards. His eyes, magnified slightly by glasses, held hers without blinking.

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Harrington said, leaning back in his creaking chair. The sharp scent of disinfectant clung to his lab coat. “That’s the quiz answer key tucked behind your ‘Hydrate!’ sticker.” He slid the thermos toward her with one finger, the plastic scraping loudly. “Principal Vance will revoke your scholarship bid before sunset.”

Her throat tightened. “Mr. Harrington, please—my parents...” She pictured her father’s disappointed frown, the Princeton rejection letter looming. “I panicked. It’s just this one quiz! It won’t happen again.” She clutched the straps of her backpack until her knuckles whitened.

He chuckled, a dry rasp that made her skin prickle. “One quiz?” He shook his head slowly. “This could end your gymnastics accolades, your college dreams ... all with one call.” He picked up his ancient desk phone, finger hovering over the intercom button. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting his shadow long and jagged across her terrified face.

“Wait!” Kylie blurted, stepping forward instinctively. Sweat dampened the back of her leotard under her hoodie. “What ... what can I do, can I retake the quiz, a different one?” The silence stretched, thick with the hum of the lights and the frantic drumming of her own heart. Harrington lowered the receiver, a slow, predatory smile spreading beneath his face.

“That depends,” he murmured, leaning forward. The disinfectant smell intensified as he rested his elbows on the desk blotter. “Depends entirely on what you’re willing to do.” His gaze drifted deliberately from her panic-wide eyes down to her tightly crossed arms, lingering a moment too long. Kylie felt a cold trickle seep through her veins.

Her voice cracked, barely a whisper against the oppressive stillness. “Anything, Mr. Harrington. Please. Just ... don’t call anyone.” The words tasted like ash. “I’ll retake it, do extra assignments, clean labs ... anything.” A flicker of triumph, sharp and cold, flashed behind Harrington’s glasses. This was the precise opening he’d maneuvered her towards.

“Anything?” he echoed softly, tapping a pen against his temple. The metallic click echoed. He scanned her face – the fear tightening her jaw, the desperation in her eyes – then let his gaze trail pointedly towards the locked classroom door. A slow breath hissed through his teeth. “We’ll see about that. Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. After gymnastics practice.” He paused, letting the isolation of that timeframe sink in. “We’ll figure out what to do about you, he says and she lets out a tiny sigh.

Kylie’s shoulders slumped with a shaky breath, a sliver of terrified relief coursing through her. “Thank you,” she stammered, the words thick and unnatural on her tongue. “I ... I won’t let you down.” She snatched her thermos, the cheat sheet crinkling forgotten inside, and practically bolted for the door without waiting for dismissal. The heavy wooden door thudded shut behind her, muffling the clicking of a pen on temples.

Inside the silent classroom, Mr. Harrington leaned back, the predatory smile hardening into cold satisfaction. His fingers drummed slowly on the desktop. “Oh, I sincerely doubt you will,” he murmured to the empty room. As the image of her panic-flushed face lingered in his mind, a distinct, familiar warmth stirred beneath his belt, pressing insistently against the fabric of his slacks. He shifted slightly in his chair, the leather creaking, a low hum escaping his lips. He picked up the receiver and hit a button, “ ... Yep, tomorrow night, around 5, thanks!” He says and hangs up.

Kylie burst out into the cool hallway, the slam of the door echoing behind her. She leaned against the cold cinderblock wall, gasping like she’d surfaced from drowning. Yet, beneath the ache pooling in her stomach, a treacherous wave of relief surged – no call tonight. No immediate explosion. She clutched her textbooks tighter against her chest, the rough edges digging into her ribs, a grounding pain. Tomorrow, she thought, Stupid, to use the water bottle, pushing off the wall and hurrying towards the exit, her footsteps unnaturally loud in the deserted corridor. Just get home. The late afternoon sun glared harshly through the glass doors as she pushed them open, stepping into the blinding light.

The familiar scent of garlic and roasting chicken hit Kylie the moment she opened her front door, the comforting chaos of her family swirling around her. “Hey superstar!” her younger sister, Lisa, yelled from the living room floor, controllers clicking furiously before the TV. Her mother glanced up from stirring a pot at the stove, eyes soft with warmth. “How was practice, sweetie? You look flushed.” Kylie forced a smile, dropping her backpack with a heavy thud. “Intense,” she managed, her throat dry. “Drills on the beam.” She slid into her chair at the crowded table later, listening to Lisa’s play-by-play of her soccer game and her father’s dry commentary on the news. She pushed peas around her plate, and cooed at her baby brother.

Upstairs later, Kylie stared blankly at the open biology textbook on her desk, the intricate diagrams of cellular respiration dancing meaninglessly before her eyes. The hum of her laptop felt accusing. Outside her window, streetlights cast long, distorted shadows that seemed to creep across the floorboards. She picked up her phone, thumb hovering over Maya’s contact photo – Maya grinning mid-tumble on the mats. I need to tell someone, the thought screamed inside her skull. But the shame was a suffocating blanket. What could Maya do? It would all explode. No one else needs to know about this. Her finger drifted away. Instead, she mechanically flipped pages, the words blurring. Sleep, when it finally came, was thin and fractured, filled with the deafening click of a pen tapping against a temple and locked doors swinging open onto nothingness. Kylie stirred in her sleep.

The next morning dawned grey and damp. The drive to school felt longer, each step dragging against the wet pavement. She navigated the bustling hallways like a ghost, the chatter and locker slams forming a buzzing static in her ears. In homeroom, Maya nudged her arm. “You okay, Ky? You look like you wrestled air and lost.” Kylie forced her lips upwards. “Just tired,” she mumbled, tracing the wood grain pattern on her desk. “Bio quiz fried my brain.” All day, every clock tick seemed amplified, every period a slow march towards the bell. During practice, her muscles moved through conditioning drills with robotic precision, the familiar burn offering no distraction, only emphasizing the phantom pressure of Harrington’s gaze. As the final whistle blared, announcing dismissal, she hugged Maya and said shed see her tomorrow ... She lingered, pretending to search her locker until the hall emptied, the silence pressing in. Taking a shallow breath she turned towards Harrington’s classroom. The polished floor reflected the flickering fluorescents like a dark, watery surface she was about to plunge into. Just get it over with, she told herself.

The classroom door felt heavier than usual when she pushed it open. The air inside was thick with the stale scent of chalk dust and formaldehyde from yesterday’s dissection lab. Harrington sat behind his desk, grading papers. At the sound of the door, he slowly lifted his head. His eyes, sharp behind his glasses, tracked her progress from the threshold to the center of the room. He took in her appearance: the grey athletic zip-front jacket worn over her practice leotard clung slightly to her damp shoulders, her long brown hair pinned severely into its usual tight competition bun atop her head. A thin smile stretched his lips. “Ah, Miss Morgan,” his voice was smooth, a low murmur that bounced off the silent cabinets lining the walls. “Right on time.” He leaned back, the chair groaning softly. “I appreciate punctuality.” He didn’t gesture to a seat. The space between them hummed with unspoken threats.

He folded his hands neatly on the his desk, his knuckles prominent. “Let’s discuss ... plans.” The word hung heavy and formal. “The consequences of your actions remain severe. Expulsion. Scholarship revocation. Reputation ruined? Possibly.” He tapped a finger lightly on the desk. “But I detest unnecessary paperwork. Kylie breathed a sigh of relief. “Your ... cooperation yesterday was ... encouraging.” He paused, letting the implication settle like dust. A gesture of genuine remorse. His eyes flicked back to hers, holding them captive. “Perhaps I’ve just let you down.” The silence stretched taut, broken only by the faint buzz of the fluorescents overhead and the sound of Kylie’s own pulse in her ears. “Why don’t you let me tutor you, on-on-one, and if you can ace the quiz, then no one has to know about ... Yesterday...”

Kylie’s mind spun I’m safe, a chance to fix my screw up. The image of her father’s shattered pride, the college letter stamped ‘DENIED,’ flashed behind her eyes. She swallowed hard, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. Her knuckles were tight where she clutched her backpack straps. Harrington watched, utterly still, his calm a stark contrast to her panic. That awful warmth seemed to radiate from him again, pressing against the quiet of the room. “Well, Miss Morgan?” he prompted, his voice devoid of warmth, filled only with expectation. “Shall we?”

“Yes! Yes, Mr. Harrington,” she stammered, relief flooding her voice, making it tremble. Her shoulders slumped slightly, a physical release of some tension. “Thank you. Thank you so much, sir. Of course I accept. I’ll do anything—study, tutor ... whatever.” The words tumbled out, desperate, grateful, ignorant of the foul implication beneath his offer.

Harrington nodded slowly, a tight, satisfied smile touching his lips. “Good. Very good.” He pushed his chair back with a deliberate scrape against the linoleum floor. Standing, he straightened his lab coat. He was taller than she remembered, looming unexpectedly as he moved around the desk towards her. The faint scent of antiseptic wafted from his clothes again, mixed with stale coffee. “Then let’s get started,” he announced, his tone brisk, businesslike. He gestured towards the empty student desk directly in front of his own – isolated, exposed. “Have a seat.” His gaze held hers

Kylie hesitated for only a fraction of a second. But the promise of salvation outweighed the fear. She took the few steps towards the desk, her sneakers squeaking faintly on the polished floor. She slid her backpack off her shoulder and placed it carefully beside the metal chair legs, her back momentarily turned to him as she prepared to sit down.

“Today’s lesson,” Harrington began, his voice suddenly crisp and pedagogical as he circled back behind his desk, “concerns human anatomy. Specifically, musculoskeletal systems relevant to athletic performance.” “Take notes, Miss Morgan.” Kylie fumbled her spiral-bound notebook from her backpack, fingers trembling slightly as she flipped past pages filled with neat, bubbly handwriting. She clicked her pen, the sound sharp in the silence. Harrington stood tall again, running a hand down the front of his lab coat. “We shall begin proximately. Prime movers...” He peeled the white coat off, tossing it casually onto his chair, revealing a surprisingly fitted grey sweater beneath. He tapped his own shoulder. “The deltoids,” he stated matter-of-factly, flexing the muscle subtly. Kylie’s pen scratched frantically across the page, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as she scribbled del-toid, shoulder. She didn’t dare look up fully, keeping her gaze downcast, focused on the notebook resting precariously on her knees. She could smell the faint mix of his aftershave and the lingering formaldehyde from the dissection trays across the room. The air felt thick, charged.

He moved closer, stopping just beside her desk. Kylie instinctively pressed her knees tighter together under the desk surface. He pointed deliberately at his own abdomen. “Then, the rectus abdominis,” he continued, enunciating each syllable slowly. His sweater stretched taut over the defined muscle group. Kylie scribbled rec-tus ab-do-min-is, her hand cramping slightly. The proximity was suffocating; she could hear his steady breath, the faint rustle of his clothing. She kept her eyes glued to the page, her knuckles white around the pen, the tips of her ears burning hot. A drop of sweat trickled down her temple.

Harrington smiled thinly, watching her frantic note-taking posture. He took another deliberate step, now directly beside her chair, his hip level with her shoulder. He curled his arm, flexing his bicep sharply. “And the brachialis,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a murmur. He tapped the prominent muscle bulge. “Underneath the biceps brachii. Essential for flexion.” Kylie flinched visibly as his knuckle brushed the fabric of his own sweater sleeve. Her pen skidded wildly across the page, leaving an ugly ink smear. She held her breath, frozen for a moment, the scent of his aftershave overwhelmingly potent. The silent hum of the fluorescents seemed deafening. She forced her hand to move again, writing brach-i-a-lis. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage, the sound surely audible across the unnaturally still room. She dared a fleeting glance upwards, noting his strong physique.

He smoothly turned, presenting his back to her. “Observe the trapezius,” he commanded, rolling his shoulders deliberately. The thick muscles bunched beneath his grey sweater. Kylie’s gaze snapped back to her notebook. She scribbled tra-pe-zi-us. He continued tracing invisible lines across his own back with a fingertip. “Latissimus dorsi,” he pointed near his waistband, “and the erector spinae.” His fingertip trailed upwards along his spine, stopping high between his shoulder blades. Kylie mechanically wrote lat-is-si-mus dor-si, er-ec-tor spi-nae, her knuckles bone-white around the cheap plastic pen. The proximity was stifling; she could feel the faint heat radiating from him, smell the sharp tang of his sweat mingling with the cologne undertone. A bead of perspiration trickled down her temple and splashed onto the notebook page, blurring the ink.

Harrington straightened abruptly, the sudden movement making Kylie jump. “Enough for now,” he declared, his tone shifting to something almost conversational, yet brittle. “Hydration is crucial for cognitive function, Miss Morgan.” He walked briskly to his desk, pulled open a drawer, and retrieved two sleek, identical metal water bottles. He unscrewed the cap on one and took a long, deliberate swallow, his throat working. Kylie watched, her own throat parched and tight. He recapped his bottle and picked up the second one. Turning back towards her, he extended it casually. “Here. Drink.” He held it out, the metal gleaming dully under the harsh lights. His expression was unreadable behind his glasses.