The moment the papers leave my hands, something tightens in my chest. A strange awareness settles over me—like I’ve just offered up more than ink and stapled pages. Like I want him to see it. Want his approval in a way that makes no sense.
He flips through the report with clinical precision, eyes moving quickly, efficiently. No skimming. No performative nodding. He studies my work on encrypted syndicates, shell networks, fragmentation models—absorbing it with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I’ve never been looked at like this.
Not really.
My cheeks warm under the weight of his attention, heat crawling up my neck as if I’m the thing being examined instead of the paper. I shift my weight, suddenly aware of my posture, my breathing, the way my fingers curl at my sides.
He stops.
Looks at me.
“It’s rare,” he says quietly.
That’s all.
My stomach flips.
Embarrassment rushes in first. Then curiosity. Then something unsteady and unfamiliar, like my footing has shifted without warning.
Take that, Professor Kieran,I think smugly.Ah.
But even as the small victory sparks, my focus keeps snapping back to the man in front of me—to the way his calm feels both soothing and dangerous in equal measure.
I don’t understand why I’m drawn to him.
I just know that I am.
And that scares me more than anything in my life.
“Um,” I say, my voice softer now, uncertain. “What’s your name?”
For a moment, I think he isn’t going to answer at all.
Then he looks at me—and speaks.
“Raelyn.”
My breath catches.
I laugh, short and nervous, because surely I misheard him. My brows knit together as I frown. “How do you—”
The question dies in my throat.
Because he doesn’t look amused. Or surprised. Or apologetic.
He looks certain.
Something cold slides down my spine. I freeze in place, confusion turning sharp, alarm buzzing just beneath my skin.I open my mouth to ask again—how he knows my name, who he is, why this suddenly feels like a mistake—but he’s already handing my report back to me.
His fingers brush the edge of the paper. Not my skin. Somehow, that feels intentional.
“Be careful what you study,” he says quietly.
I look up, my heart hammering.
“Some networks look back.”