08: Bound by Assignment Part 01

The stark reality of my situation slammed into me with the brutal force of a physical blow: avoiding Asher was going to be an exercise in utter futility. Our intertwined academic paths, both diligently steering towards the demanding rigor of the medical field, had resulted in a practically identical class schedule this semester, a cruel twist of fate that now felt like a carefully orchestrated torture. A knot of anxiety, sharp and insistent, tightened in my stomach as I entered the crowded lecture hall, my eyes darting across the sea of unfamiliar and familiar faces, desperately searching for an unoccupied seat situated as far away from Asher Blackwood as humanly possible. It was a futile quest, I knew, but the primal urge to create distance, a buffer against the potent, unwanted memories, was overwhelming.

Despite my frantic scanning, my heart pounded a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs as I spotted him. His broad shoulders, unmistakable even amidst the throng, and the familiar, slightly unruly curve of his dark hair were instantly recognizable, a magnetic pull drawing my gaze despite my best, most fervent intentions. A subtle, betraying flush crept up my neck as I registered the way his dark wash jeans hugged the lean, powerful muscles of his thighs, a fleeting, unwanted memory of them wrapped around my own, a stark image that sent a shiver down my spine, a shiver that was dangerously close to arousal. I finally located an empty desk near Liv, Olivia Chen, her bright, oblivious presence a small beacon of normalcy in my swirling inner chaos. We’d been friends for two years now, our shared ambition for careers in psychology forging a close bond, resulting in a practically identical, and now deeply inconvenient, class schedule.

“Hey, Cece!” Liv chirped as I slid into the seat beside her, her usual cheerful smile a welcome contrast to the turmoil inside me. “You look a little… out of it. Rough night studying?” She nudged me playfully with her elbow, oblivious to the real reason for my exhaustion and the persistent ache that throbbed between my legs, a shameful reminder of two nights ago.

I forced a weak smile, trying to appear nonchalant. “Something like that,” I mumbled, avoiding her direct gaze. The lie came easily now, a practiced shield against the truth.

“Everything okay with Julian’s birthday?” Liv asked, her brow furrowing slightly with concern. “You disappeared pretty early the other night. He seemed a little bummed when I saw him yesterday.”

A fresh wave of guilt washed over me, mixing with the unwelcome stirring of arousal that Asher’s presence across the room inevitably triggered. “Yeah, um… I just wasn’t feeling great,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Food poisoning, maybe?” The excuse felt flimsy and pathetic, especially considering the real reason I had fled Julian’s dorm, the memory of Asher’s possessive touch still vivid in my mind.

Liv’s gaze lingered on me, her psychologist-in-training instincts clearly picking up on my discomfort. “You sure? You seem… tense.” Her eyes flickered subtly towards the doorway, as if sensing the invisible thread connecting me to Asher, though she couldn’t possibly know the scandalous truth of it.

“Just tired,” I insisted, clutching my notebook tightly in my lap, my knuckles white. The lie tasted like ash in my mouth.

I tried desperately to focus on Dr. Sharma’s opening remarks, something about the intricate dance of experimental design, the nuances of control groups and variables, but Asher’s mere presence in the same room was a constant, buzzing distraction, a low-frequency hum of awareness that vibrated beneath my skin. I could feel his gaze on me, a tangible weight pressing against the back of my neck even when my eyes were resolutely fixed on the authoritative figure of the professor or the sterile lines of my notebook. A quickening pulse thrummed in my wrists, a frantic counterpoint to the dull ache that still lingered between my legs, as a faint trace of his familiar scent – a potent mix of something clean, like fresh laundry, and that subtly musky undertone that had clung to him in the darkness – drifted across the room, triggering an unwelcome stirring low in my belly, a shameful heat that bloomed despite my efforts to suppress it. Every subtle movement he made – the soft rustle of his papers as he adjusted them on his desk, the slight shift in his posture as he leaned forward, the occasional, throat-clearing sound that resonated in the quiet hall – sent a jolt of nervous energy through me, a stark, physical reminder of our shared secret and the unexpected, intense intimacy of the other night, a forbidden connection that now felt like an invisible tether binding us together.

Just when a fragile sense of normalcy began to settle, a precarious calm in the storm raging within me, Dr. Sharma’s voice, amplified by the microphone, cut through the low murmur of the lecture hall, announcing a semester-long group project, a significant, unavoidable portion of our final grade. A collective groan, a unified expression of academic dread, rippled through the assembled students. Then, Dr. Sharma began to read out the assigned pairings, the names echoing through the room like a pronouncement of fate. My breath caught sharply in my throat, a sudden constriction of panic, as I heard my name called, the syllables hanging in the air. Immediately following, a name that made my blood run cold, yet simultaneously sparked a treacherous flicker of something else: “Cecilia Hayes and Asher Blackwood.”