I used to think I was the worst thing that could happen to someone. Not dramatic. Not tragic. Just inevitable. At twenty-one, I know exactly how far to push before someone breaks. It’s never personal. It’s just interesting. Until he stepped in. Soren Knox. Thirty-five. My psychology professor. Controlled in a way that feels deliberate. He doesn’t flinch when I test him. Doesn’t try to fix me. Doesn’t retreat. He studies me like he’s mapping exits. And somehow— when I look around, I’m the one standing inside the noose. I’ve always been comfortable being the villain in someone else’s story. But with him, I’m starting to wonder if I miscalculated. Because if I’m the disaster— why does it feel like I’m the one tightening in his grip?
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