Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 45

Professor Wilson doesn’t raise his voice when he praises you.

That’s the first thing I notice.

It happens near the end of class, when the room has already started to loosen, when people are mentally packing up before their bodies follow. I’m scribbling notes in the margin of my notebook, half-listening, half-lost in my own head, when he says my name.

“Zoey.”

I look up.

“Yes?”

He’s standing near the front desk, papers neatly stacked, posture relaxed. His expression is neutral, calm, but his eyes are focused in that unsettling way that makes me feel like I’ve been gently singled out without being exposed.

“The framework you used in your last submission,” he says, “showed a significant evolution from your earlier work.”

The room quiets a little.

“You’ve clearly been pushing yourself,” he continues. “And it shows.”

My chest tightens. “Thank you.”

He nods once. “Growth like that doesn’t happen by accident. Whatever you’re doing—keep doing it.”

That’s it.

No smile meant to soften it. No wink. No lingering. Just acknowledgment. Professional. Clean. Earned.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

The rest of the class passes in a blur. I answer one question without hesitating. He responds by redirecting it back to the group, crediting the idea without spotlighting me further. It’s seamless. Respectful. Controlled.

When the lecture ends, students file out in clusters, chairs scraping, bags slung over shoulders. I move slower than usual, packing my things carefully, trying to calm the strange buzzing under my skin.

“Zoey,” he says again, once most people are gone.

I freeze internally but turn outwardly calm. “Yes?”

“If you have a moment.”

I hesitate, then step closer. My pulse is loud in my ears.

“I wanted to mention,” he says, lowering his voice slightly but keeping the distance between us intact, “the competition team you’ve been invited to—it’s demanding.”

I blink. “You know about that?”

He nods. “Faculty discussions. Your name came up.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “Oh.”

He studies me for a moment, not critically. Thoughtfully.

“You belong there,” he says. “But don’t let ambition become another form of self-erasure.”

The words hit harder than any compliment.

“I don’t understand,” I admit.

He gestures vaguely, careful, restrained. “Some students confuse excellence with exhaustion. You don’t need to prove your worth by burning yourself down.”

My throat tightens. “I’m not trying to.”

“I know,” he replies gently. “That’s why I’m saying it now.”

Silence stretches between us—not awkward, not heavy. Just… present.

“If you ever feel overwhelmed,” he adds, “use the support systems available to you. Not everything has to be carried alone.”

He steps back, signaling the end of the conversation without cutting it off abruptly.

“Thank you,” I say again, quieter this time.

He nods, already turning back to his desk.

I leave the classroom with my heart racing in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

Outside, the hallway feels too bright, too loud. I walk quickly, like if I don’t keep moving, I’ll have to think too hard about what just happened. My body feels light and unsteady, like I’m floating half an inch above the floor.

Nothing inappropriate happened.

That’s the problem.

He didn’t cross a single boundary. Not with his words. Not with his tone. Not with his eyes. He treated me like an adult. Like someone capable. Like someone whose growth mattered beyond grades or validation.

And my reaction to that terrifies me.

I stop in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection. My face looks flushed, eyes brighter than usual.

“What is wrong with you?” I whisper.

This isn’t a crush, I tell myself. It’s admiration. Respect. Gratitude. That’s all.

But the lie doesn’t sit right.

Because when I think about Professor Wilson, my shoulders drop. My chest feels less tight. I don’t feel like I’m walking on eggshells or performing or apologizing in advance for my own existence.

I feel… steady.

The comparison hits me like a slap.

Chase’s face flashes in my mind—defensive, distant, angry. The way I rehearse conversations before having them with him. The way I brace myself every time I bring up something important.

Guilt floods in immediately, hot and overwhelming.

I have a boyfriend.

I shouldn’t be thinking like this.

I shouldn’t be noticing the way someone else makes me feel safe without trying.

I leave the bathroom and walk across campus aimlessly, my thoughts spiraling. Every bench feels like a decision. Every step feels like I’m moving closer to a truth I don’t want to name.

My phone buzzes.

Chase: Where are you?

I stare at the message, heart sinking.

In class, I type.

Still? he replies.

Just finished.

There’s a pause.

You always stay late now.

The accusation is subtle, but it’s there.

We talked after, I write. About the competition.

Another pause.

Of course you did.

My stomach knots.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and keep walking, anger and shame tangling together until I can’t tell them apart.

That night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the day over and over. Every word. Every look. Every feeling I didn’t ask for.

I tell myself attraction doesn’t mean intention. That noticing doesn’t mean acting. That guilt doesn’t automatically mean wrongdoing.

But the questions won’t stop.

If I love Chase, why does everything with him feel so heavy?

If this is love, why do I feel like I’m constantly asking permission to exist?

I think about the way Professor Wilson spoke to me—not as someone fragile, not as someone to be fixed, but as someone capable of choosing her own limits.

I think about how rare that feels.

Tears sting my eyes, unexpected and unwelcome.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper into the dark.