Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 92

I know his footsteps now.

I hate that I know them.

They’re calm. Unhurried. Confident in a way that feels almost offensive to me lately. When I hear them behind me in the hallway outside the lecture room, my shoulders tense before my brain catches up.

“Zoey?”

I don’t turn around right away.

I keep stuffing my notebook into my bag like if I don’t acknowledge him, he’ll disappear. Like this isn’t my life now—dodging professors, avoiding eye contact, pretending I don’t feel anything at all.

“Zoey,” he says again, closer this time. “Do you have a moment?”

I straighten slowly and turn.

Professor Wilson stands a few feet away, hands loosely clasped in front of him, expression neutral but attentive. The same calm, observant look he’s always had. The same one that once made me feel seen.

Now it makes my stomach twist.

“I’m busy,” I say flatly.

His brows knit together slightly. “I won’t take long.”

I sling my bag over my shoulder. “I said I’m busy.”

Students filter past us, voices echoing, lockers slamming. I’m suddenly acutely aware of how public this is, how exposed I feel standing this close to him.

“I’ve noticed you’ve missed several lectures,” he says quietly. “And a few assignments.”

“I’m aware,” I reply.

“There’s no judgment here,” he continues. “I just wanted to check in academically.”

The word academically lands like a challenge.

“Don’t,” I say.

He blinks. “Don’t… what?”

“Don’t pretend this is just academic,” I snap. “Don’t act like you don’t know why this is uncomfortable.”

A flicker of something—surprise, maybe—passes over his face. Then it’s gone.

“I’m trying to be professional,” he says carefully.

“That’s funny,” I reply, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Because professionalism seems very flexible in my family.”

His jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair,” he says.

I feel heat rush to my face. “You don’t get to tell me what’s fair.”

A few students glance our way. I lower my voice but not my intensity.

“You want to check in?” I continue. “Fine. I’m struggling. There. You can put that in your mental notes.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “Zoey, I’m concerned.”

“Concern isn’t neutral,” I fire back. “Not when it comes from you.”

Silence settles between us, thick and charged.

He exhales slowly. “If this conversation feels inappropriate, we can move it to office hours. Or I can refer you to academic support.”

“I don’t need referrals,” I say sharply. “I need you to stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, genuinely confused.

Like you know me. Like you care. Like you’re calm while my life is burning.

“Like I’m something fragile you need to fix,” I say.

His expression softens despite himself. “That’s not how I see you.”

“Well, I don’t care how you see me,” I reply. “Because it doesn’t matter.”

It does matter. That’s the problem.

I see my mother’s hand in his when I blink. See them standing too close, smiling softly at each other like this is normal. Like my humiliation wasn’t collateral damage in their quiet little romance.

I swallow hard.

“Zoey,” he says gently, “your last exam score was significantly lower than your usual standard.”

My chest tightens. “So now we’re here to discuss my failures?”

“No,” he says quickly. “We’re here to prevent more of them.”

I laugh again, hollow. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”

He straightens slightly. “I’m doing my job.”

“And what about your personal life?” I snap. “Is that part of the syllabus too?”

His eyes darken. “That’s inappropriate.”

“So is dating my mother while teaching me,” I shoot back.

The words hang between us, sharp and undeniable.

For a moment, he says nothing.

Then, quietly, “I never intended to put you in this position.”

Intent doesn’t erase impact.

“Well, you did,” I say. “And now every time I see you, I picture you at her kitchen table. Drinking her coffee. Talking about me like I’m a case study.”

“That’s not—”

“Don’t lie,” I cut in. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. His composure cracks just slightly.

“I’ve tried to keep boundaries,” he says. “Professionally. Personally.”

“Congratulations,” I reply coldly. “You failed.”

He flinches.

“I don’t want special treatment,” I continue. “I don’t want concern. I don’t want check-ins. I want you to leave me alone.”

He studies my face, something heavy in his gaze. “That’s not always possible.”

“It is,” I say. “You just don’t want to.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then prove it,” I challenge. “Stop approaching me. Stop asking how I’m doing. Stop making this harder than it already is.”

His lips press together. “If I see a student struggling, I can’t ignore it.”

“I’m not your student,” I snap. “I’m your girlfriend’s daughter.”

The words taste bitter.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he says quietly.

“Neither did I,” I reply.

Silence stretches again.

A door opens nearby. Laughter echoes down the hall. Life continues, indifferent to the tension vibrating between us.

“I’ll submit the missing assignments,” I say finally. “I don’t need your help.”

“Zoey—”

“I said I don’t need your help,” I repeat. “And I don’t need your pity.”

He takes a step back, as if finally understanding.

“If you change your mind,” he says, “my office hours are posted.”

I sling my bag higher on my shoulder. “I won’t.”

I turn to leave, heart pounding, anger and shame tangling in my chest.

“Zoey,” he calls after me.

I stop but don’t turn around.

“For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I never stopped believing in your capability.”

I close my eyes.

That’s the problem.

“Keep it to yourself,” I say, and walk away.

My hands shake as I push through the doors and step outside into the cold air. My breath comes fast, uneven.

I lean against the brick wall, pressing my forehead to it, trying to ground myself.

I hate that part of me still reacts to him.

Hate that my body remembers feeling safe around him, even as my mind screams betrayal. Hate that attraction doesn’t disappear just because it’s wrong.

Every time I picture him with my mother, something sour coils in my stomach. The image won’t leave me alone—his calm voice in her house, his hand on her arm, the intimacy that was never meant to be anywhere near my life.

I push away from the wall and straighten.

“I don’t need this,” I whisper.

I don’t need him.

I don’t need her.

I don’t need anyone who makes me question my own worth.

But as I walk across campus, past students who seem so sure of where they’re going, the truth settles heavy in my chest:

Resentment is just attraction that learned how to hurt.

And right now, I’m drowning in both.