il mio professore

Chapter 7 ~~✨

The morning after tasted like ash.

Livia woke alone in the on-call room, tangled in a sheet that smelled like antiseptic and him. Her mouth was dry. Her pulse ragged. Her thoughts—disjointed, sharp, disbelieving.

It had happened.

He kissed her.

She let him.

Worse—she'd asked for it.

She sat up slowly, skin aching as though her body itself was warning her: You crossed a line. There is no going back.

When she opened the door to the hallway, Augustus was already gone.

No note. No sign. No trace.

Back to being a myth.

Rounds that morning were brutal.

He didn't call on her once.

Didn't look at her.

Didn't speak unless required.

To everyone else, he was the same cold, unyielding authority figure.

But Livia knew.

She saw the way his hand curled into a fist when her voice drifted too close. The way his jaw twitched when Luca handed her a chart and let his fingers linger.

She watched it all.

And when she caught him staring across the hallway—a fleeting, involuntary glance filled with things he could never say—she didn't look away.

You started this, her eyes said.

Now finish it.

Later that week, the rumors began.

It started small—snide whispers from third-years, a curious glance from a senior surgeon.

She overheard one in the elevator:

"She's his student? No wonder she's on the accelerated track."

And another:

"He hasn't taken a resident under personal review in years. Why her?"

Livia bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood.

She wanted to scream. To rip the oxygen from the room and set fire to every glassy-eyed observer who thought her work meant less because of him.

But Augustus?

He said nothing.

That Friday, she confronted him.

It was late. Again. His office was dimly lit, warm with the amber glow of his desk lamp and the scent of leather-bound journals.

"You hear the rumors," she said. "Don't pretend you don't."

He didn't look up from his papers. "They're beneath response."

"That's easy to say when they're not dismantling your reputation."

Now he looked at her. Slowly. Carefully. Like someone disarming a bomb.

"They dismant me, Livia," he said. "Not you."

She blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"If this ever comes out, I'll be the predator. The manipulator. The man who preyed on his student bride behind closed doors. But you—" His eyes flicked over her. "You'll be the victim."

"I'm not a victim," she snapped.

"I know," he said. "But that doesn't matter."

She stepped forward, furious. "So what, we pretend it never happened?"

"Yes."

Her chest stung.

"You don't mean that."

"I do." His voice broke. Just slightly.

She hated the way her throat closed.

"You said you couldn't think straight when I was hurt."

"And now I can't think straight at all."

They stood in silence, the weight of everything between them pressing down like gravity.

"I won't be your weakness," she whispered.

"You already are," he said.

Then he turned his back on her.

And Livia, for the first time, felt something close to despair.

The Next Day

She skipped lecture.

She didn't care if it raised flags. Let them raise hell.

She lay in bed with the blinds drawn, her phone off, her laptop closed.

The world outside kept spinning.

Inside, Livia drowned in her thoughts.

Until her door buzzed.

Once. Then again.

She didn't move.

But then—

A voice.

"Livia."

His voice.

"I know you're inside."

She didn't answer.

He didn't knock again. Just said, almost gently: "You don't have to open the door. Just listen."

Silence.

Then:

"I was wrong."

Her breath caught.

"I thought I could compartmentalize you. I thought I could stay in control. But the truth is, I've been unraveling since the moment I realized you could match me. Thought for thought. Breath for breath."

Livia closed her eyes. Her heart was a riot.

"I can't undo what we did. I don't want to. But I won't let it destroy you. So if walking away keeps you safe..."

He paused.

"Then I'll do it."

A silence. Then footsteps retreating.

Then nothing.

She pressed her forehead against the door.

He was always like this. Leaving the match behind, pretending he hadn't set the fire.

But this time, she was the one holding the flame.