Callum didn't sleep.
He lay in bed with his laptop balanced on his thighs, the light of the screen casting cold shadows across his room. The photo burned a hole in his memory. That picture—from the university library. A moment frozen in time that only a handful of people had ever commented on. A photo used once, maybe twice, in an obscure university newsletter, buried in the digital archives of an academic site no one but alumni ever visited.
How the hell did Lara Evans have it?
He checked every possible trail. Social media? Private. Archived posts? Locked down since his second year teaching. He hadn't posted anything with that photo. He combed through the university's student publications, the backlogs of photo exhibits, even the gallery section from his college batch's yearbook. Nothing. It was gone. Unless she had saved it back then. Or taken it when it was briefly available. Or...
His mind raced with possibilities that bled into paranoia. The photo wasn't just difficult to find—it was impossible.
She shouldn't have had it.
When morning came, he went through the motions: brewed his coffee, dressed sharply, taught three classes. But his focus fractured every time Lara crossed his mind—or worse, the memory of her eyes flicking toward his lips, her subtle perfume clinging to the room long after she left. He told himself today was just another review session. He'd train Nate. She'd help. They'd leave.
She didn't.
Nate excused himself an hour in. Something about helping his mom. Lara lingered. Like she always did.
He was sorting practice problems, jaw tight. The silence between them throbbed like a vein about to burst.
She wandered toward the desk casually, tilting her head. "So serious, sir. Still thinking about that determinant trick?"
He didn't smile. Didn't look up.
"Where did you get the photo?"
Her steps paused.
He raised his eyes slowly.
"Lara," he said, quietly but firmly. "Don't lie to me."
She blinked, then tilted her head again, this time more cautiously. "What photo?"
"You know which. The one from my university. The one you tucked inside your notebook."
Color rose to her cheeks immediately. She hesitated—a beat too long.
"I... I didn't think you'd find it."
"That's not an answer."
She bit her lip. Nervous. Or pretending.
"I stalked you... I guess. I mean, not in a creepy way. Just... online. I wanted to know more about you."
"All my accounts are private," he said, voice sharpening. "I haven't accepted any new follows in years."
"Then maybe it was from your university's page? I don't know. I saved it a long time ago."
Something snapped.
Callum stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor.
"Don't play with me," he said. His voice rose, firmer, tighter. "That photo was printed once. In one issue. It wasn't shared online. Not publicly."
She stepped back, eyes wide—then lowered them.
"I was just curious about you," she murmured, eyes downcast. "You're always... composed. Sharp. Like nothing gets to you. I guess I wondered what made you that way. What you were like before all this. So I looked. I shouldn't have, I know—but something about the way you explain things, the way you listen to people... it made me want to know you more. Not just as a teacher."
His breath hitched.
The tone of her voice shifted. Fragile. Familiar. Like the little girl behind her words still sat somewhere inside her—lonely, broken, unloved.
"So I held on to anything that reminded me of that kindness," she continued. "Even a picture. I'm sorry if that's wrong."
Callum rubbed the back of his neck. His pulse was jumping.
God.
She was so good at sounding... harmless.
And maybe she was. Maybe this was just something desperate. Not dangerous.
Still...
He kept imagining the photo. Her fingers brushing over it. Folding it carefully. Stashing it in her notebook. What else had she printed? Saved? Looked at?
His skin crawled.
"I'm going to confiscate it," he said finally, voice quieter now. "Don't do that again."
She looked up. Her eyes glimmered.
"Just pictures?" she whispered. "What about... other things I might've taken from you?"
His throat closed.
His body went rigid.
There was a gleam in her gaze—playful, yes. But knowing.
Too knowing.
His mind reeled.
Does she know?
The lip gloss. The bobby pin. The gum wrapper. Everything he had quietly stashed in the bottom drawer of his desk like a sick confession. Like trophies he couldn't explain.
Her eyes didn't leave his.
He fumbled. "Y-yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "That too."
She smiled softly, then stepped back. "Sorry again, sir. I won't do it anymore."
She turned, walking slowly toward the door.
Callum stood frozen.
When the door finally clicked shut behind her, the air in the room seemed to collapse.
His knees weakened. He sat back down slowly, staring at nothing.
The dread was like water rising inside his lungs.
Not just because she might know.
But because he didn't know what scared him more:
That she had figured him out.
Or that he didn't want her to stop.