Your Rival Saw Me Naked

Chapter 55

I don’t expect him to notice.

That’s the problem.

I’ve gotten very good at hiding things—hiding hunger behind productivity, exhaustion behind competence, ache behind smiles that come quickly and disappear just as fast. I’ve learned how to make stress look like ambition, how to make self-punishment look like discipline.

People praise that. They reward it. They don’t usually question it.

So when Professor Wilson asks me to stay after class, I assume it’s about logistics. Competition deadlines. A form I forgot to sign. Another opportunity I should consider.

Not this.

“Zoey,” he says gently as the room empties, chairs scraping against the floor, voices fading into the hallway. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yes,” I reply automatically.

He waits until the door closes behind the last student before speaking again. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t loom. He just leans against the desk, hands loosely folded, posture open in a way that somehow makes me more nervous than authority ever could.

“I’ve been noticing some patterns,” he says.

My chest tightens. “Patterns?”

He nods. “You’re excelling academically. That hasn’t changed.” A pause. “But you look… depleted.”

I swallow. “I’m just busy.”

“I know what busy looks like,” he says calmly. “This is different.”

I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how hollow my body feels, how my sweater hangs a little looser than it did a month ago. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. He never does.

“May I ask you something?” he says instead.

I nod. “When was the last time you rested without feeling guilty about it?”

The question lands too close to the truth.

“I don’t feel guilty,” I say quickly.

He watches me for a moment, not unkindly. “That was a very fast answer.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I like working. It keeps me focused.”

“Focus is valuable,” he agrees. “But there’s a difference between focus and avoidance.”

The word makes my stomach twist.

“I’m not avoiding anything,” I say, though my voice wavers.

“Perhaps not consciously,” he replies. “But I’ve seen students burn themselves down in the name of excellence before. You’re… walking a familiar edge.”

My hands curl into fists at my sides. “I’m not falling apart.”

“I didn’t say you were,” he says softly. “I said you’re carrying more than you should alone.”

The concern in his voice is measured. Professional. Appropriate.

And still—it feels like too much.

“I don’t need help,” I insist. “I’ve handled worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he says. “But surviving isn’t the same as thriving.”

The words knock the breath out of me.

“I don’t know how to do less,” I admit quietly, surprising myself. “Every time I slow down, everything catches up.”

He nods once, like he understands. “That fear doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’ve learned that rest isn’t safe.”

I stare at the floor, my throat tightening.

“Zoey,” he continues, his voice steady, “your worth here is not conditional on exhaustion. You don’t need to earn the right to take care of yourself.”

Something inside me fractures.

I laugh weakly. “You make it sound simple.”

“It isn’t,” he agrees. “But it is necessary.”

There’s a long pause. The room feels suddenly too small, the air too thin.

“I’ve also noticed,” he adds carefully, “that you’ve been skipping meals.”

My head snaps up. “I—”

“I’m not accusing you,” he says quickly. “And I’m not diagnosing anything. But I would be remiss if I didn’t say something.”

Shame floods my chest, hot and immediate.

“I just forget sometimes,” I say. “I don’t mean to.”

“Intent doesn’t change impact,” he replies gently. “Your body is part of your work. You can’t treat it as collateral.”

The way he says it—without judgment, without alarm—makes my eyes sting.

“I don’t want you to punish yourself for wanting more,” he continues. “Ambition doesn’t require suffering.”

I press my lips together, fighting the sudden urge to cry.

He notices. Of course he does.

“We can involve student support services if you want,” he offers. “Or I can simply be someone who checks in. Within appropriate boundaries.”

Appropriate boundaries.

The words ground me even as something else—something dangerous—flares quietly beneath them.

Because the care in his voice doesn’t feel like pity.

It feels like respect.

“I don’t know how to accept help,” I whisper.

“That’s something you can learn,” he says. “Just like everything else you’ve mastered.”

The sincerity in his gaze makes my chest ache.

I nod, unable to speak.

“Take the rest of the day off,” he says. “No emails. No reading. Eat something warm. Sleep.”

I hesitate. “I have plans.”

“I know,” he replies. “Cancel them.”

For a moment, I almost smile.

“Thank you,” I say finally.

He nods. “You’re doing extraordinary work, Zoey. Don’t let that become a weapon against yourself.”

I leave the classroom on unsteady legs, my heart pounding for reasons I don’t fully understand.

It’s not just relief.

It’s not just gratitude.

It’s the way he sees me—not as a problem to manage, not as potential to extract, but as a person worth protecting from herself.

And that realization terrifies me.

I walk until I can’t anymore, then sit on a bench outside the building, my bag heavy in my lap. The campus hums around me—students laughing, bikes rattling over pavement, life continuing without pause.

I press my palms to my eyes.

I am attracted to my professor.

The thought hits me with nauseating clarity.

Not because he’s inappropriate. Not because he’s flirted. Not because he’s crossed a line.

But because he hasn’t.

Because he’s calm where my life is chaos. Because he offers stability without demanding sacrifice. Because his care feels grounded instead of consuming.

And because part of me wants that more than I want to admit.

Guilt crashes in immediately.

I think of Chase—of the way everything between us feels brittle and strained, of the fights, the fear, the exhaustion. I think of how often I shrink myself to keep him comfortable, how rarely I feel held without having to perform.

I hate myself for comparing.