Page 86 of Damsel in Disguise

A sharp knock rattles the stall.

“Girl, you alright?” a concerned voice calls from the outside.

Right. I’ve been in here for too long.

I exhale slowly, forcing my expression back into normal, and I unlock the stall, pulling the door open.

“Thanks,” I clear my throat, wincing slightly at the lingering soreness, “I’m fine.”

I brush past her before she can look too closely and realize I’m not, and make my way to the basin. Grabbing a napkin, I place it neatly on the dry edge of the counter and set my phone on top of it.

Then I turn on the tap and start to splash cold water against my skin. I lean forward, letting it run over my face, trying to ground myself in something real, something present.

I open my eyes and splash water harder, trying to rinse the echo of him out of my head.

I don’t bother drying my face properly when I leave and step back into the corridor. Droplets slide down my skin, cooling too quickly against the air.

When I return to class, there are only thirty minutes left.

The door creaks softly as I push it open and walk inside.

For a split second, I catch him—lips parting, about to say something. But he clamps them in the last moment.

Whatever thought crossed his mind is swallowed just as quickly. He turns back to the board, continuing the lecture.

A strange mix of disappointment and relief settles in my chest.

Part of me wanted him to ask. To notice. To acknowledge me in a way that went beyond equations and structured authority.

The other part is grateful he didn’t. What would I even say?

The last thing I need is to invite questions, or let people build narratives around us—some cheap, surface-level assumption about a teacher-student kink.

If only it were that simple.

I sink back into my seat, my gaze drifts between the board and him, my thoughts unfocused, my attention slipping away.

The lecture continues, but I barely register it.

At least he doesn’t call on me like last class, nor does he ask me academic questions like he used to.

For once, I don’t crave the spotlight like I used to before the staged accident. Now, attention makes me feel like the prey instead of the predator.

The moment the class ends, the room erupts into movement—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, people already talking about things I couldn’t care less about.

Maybe I should stop. Stop going to him every night. Stop feeding whatever this obsession is about. Let him feel my absence.

Now that he knows I exist, would he come looking for me?

Would he lose the control he has over himself to chase me?

Would he haunt me down in the dark and fuck me in the wild like his dirty little secret?

Just as I sling my bag over my shoulder, ready to leave and call it a day, he speaks to me.

“Miss Keinston?”

My heart jolts immediately.