Friday drags. Every class feels twice as long, every minute stretching like taffy.
My morning seminar on media ethics blurs into background noise. The professor's voice becomes a drone I can barely focus on. I check my phone three times in twenty minutes, watching the time crawl. Lunch in the dining hall tastes like cardboard. Riley tries to tell me about some drama with her lab partner, but I'm only half listening, my mind already in that office, replaying Wednesday night on an endless loop.
By 6:45, I'm standing outside Dodd Hall, too early but unable to wait any longer. The evening air is cold, biting through my jacket. The campus has that Friday night energy, students streaming toward parties and pre-games, laughter echoing across the quad. I feel separate from all of it, existing in a different reality.
I walk the perimeter once, killing time, my boots crunching on fallen leaves. The building looms above me, most windows dark. The architecture is old, solid, intimidating in its permanence. Then I head up at 6:55.
The hallway is quiet. Most faculty have gone home for the weekend. The silence feels heavier than usual, more intimate. My footsteps echo too loud on the linoleum, each step feeling like it's announcing my arrival. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sickly pale glow on the worn carpet, and I can smell that distinctive academic building smell: old paper, accumulated dust from thousands of semesters, the faint tang of industrial cleaning supplies.
Parker's door is open, light spilling out like a beacon.
I knock softly.
"Come in."
He's at his desk, glasses on, reading something on his laptop. The desk lamp casts warm light across his features, softening the sharp edges. He looks up when I enter, and for just a second, something warm crosses his face before he schools it back to professional. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and there's a coffee cup beside his laptop, dark lipstick stains visible on the rim from an earlier cup.
"Avery. You're early."
"Traffic was lighter than I expected." I can feel my pulse in my throat, steady but elevated.
"The others won't be here for a few minutes." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit. We can go over your draft before they arrive."
I sit, pulling out my laptop. My hands are steadier than I expected. The office smells familiar now: coffee, old paper, that woodsy cologne that I've started associating with late nights and charged silences. It's beginning to feel like my space too, somewhere I belong.
He comes around the desk, pulls up a chair beside me instead of staying behind his desk. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Close enough that the heat of him seems to reach across the small space between us. I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, evidence that he's been working since early morning.
"Pull up your questions," he says.
I open the document. He leans in to read, and his shoulder brushes mine. The contact is brief but electric, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the chilly hallway outside.
"These are good," he says after a moment. "Sharp. Probing. You're not letting them hide behind PR speak."
"That was the goal."
"This one." He points to a question halfway down. His hand is steady, fingers long and precise. "About the gap between who they are and who they perform. That's the heart of it."
"It's the question I ask myself," I admit.
He looks at me, and we're so close I can see the individual lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. "And what's your answer?"
"I don't know yet."
"You will." He says it with certainty, like he can see something I can't. Like he believes in me in a way that terrifies me.
Before I can respond, footsteps echo in the hallway. Heavy, purposeful. The moment shatters like glass.
Rachel appears in the doorway, Marcus and Tara behind her. Rachel's eyes flick between us, noting the proximity, and something sharpens in her expression. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. I watch her catalog the distance between us, the intimacy of the moment we were in.
Parker immediately shifts back, creating distance. The loss of his proximity feels like a curtain dropping. "Right on time. Let's get started."
The meeting follows the same structure as Wednesday. We go through each person's progress, discuss methodology, debate approaches. The office feels crowded now with all five of us, the air growing warmer, stuffier. Someone's coffee cup leaves a ring on Parker's desk. Tara keeps clicking her pen, a nervous habit that grates on my nerves, a rhythmic reminder that we're not alone.
Rachel's lit review is thorough but dry, delivered in a monotone that makes even interesting research feel tedious. Marcus has solid data on algorithms, presented in careful graphs and charts that he arranges with meticulous precision. Tara's brought samples of influencer content to analyze, scrolling through her phone to show us examples, the blue light of the screen casting shadows across her face.
When it's my turn, I walk them through my interview questions with more confidence than I feel. My hands grip the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening slightly.
Rachel immediately challenges one. "This is too subjective. You won't get comparable data."
"That's the point," I counter. "We're examining subjective experiences. Trying to quantify authenticity defeats the purpose."
"But without measurable metrics," she argues, leaning back in her chair with a skeptical expression.
"Authenticity isn't measurable," I interrupt. "That's what makes it interesting."
Parker watches the exchange, expression neutral. But when Rachel finally backs down, I catch the faintest hint of approval in his eyes. A slight softening around his mouth that might almost be a smile. It sends a surge of triumph through me.
We debate theory for another hour. By the time 9 PM rolls around, everyone's exhausted. Rachel rubs her temples, fatigue written across her face. Marcus yawns into his hand. Even Tara has stopped bouncing her leg.
"Good work," Parker says, closing his laptop. "Keep this momentum. I want revised drafts by Wednesday."
Rachel and Tara leave immediately, their footsteps fading down the hallway. I listen as they disappear around the corner, their voices echoing back to us in muffled conversation. Marcus lingers, asking Parker something about citation formats, flipping through his notes to find a specific reference. He's nervous, deferential in a way that makes me realize how different Parker's demeanor is with me.
I pack up slowly, waiting. Organizing my laptop, checking my phone, retying my ponytail. My heart is hammering now that we're nearly alone again. Every second feels weighted with possibility.
Finally, Marcus finishes and heads out, giving me a quick nod as he passes. "Night, Avery."
"Night."
The door clicks shut.
Suddenly we're alone again. The silence rushes in, filling the space the others left behind. It's a different silence than before. More charged. More dangerous.
Parker doesn't say anything at first. Just starts organizing papers on his desk, movements deliberate. I can hear the clock on his wall ticking, the distant hum of the building's heating system kicking on with a metallic groan. The campus outside has quieted too, most students already at their Friday night destinations.
"You handled Rachel well," he says finally. "She's used to being the smartest person in the room. Having someone push back throws her."
"She'll get over it."
"She will. Especially once she realizes you're right." He looks up. "Your questions are exactly what we need. Raw, honest, uncomfortable. That's where the real data lives."
"Thank you."
He comes around the desk, closer than necessary. We're back in that space where professional boundaries blur. Where every breath feels significant. He leans against the desk, positioning himself so he's at eye level with me despite my sitting position.
"How are you doing?" he asks. "Really."
The question catches me off guard. "Fine. Why?"
"You seemed tense today. Distracted during the meeting."
Because I've been thinking about you for forty-eight hours straight.
"Just focused," I say instead.
He studies my face like he's trying to read something there. His gaze is intense, searching, and I feel exposed under it. "Did something happen? With Liam?"
So he did see us yesterday.
"He confronted me before your lecture. Thinks I'm playing some kind of game."
Parker's jaw tightens. A muscle jumps near his temple. "What did he say?"
"That I'm trying to get close to you for revenge. That I'm using the research assistantship as an excuse." The accusation sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but only because it's no longer true.
"And what did you tell him?"
"That he's wrong. That what I do isn't his business anymore."
"Is he wrong?"
The question is quiet but pointed. It hangs between us like a test.
I meet his eyes. "I told you Wednesday night. This isn't about revenge. Not anymore."
"Then what is it about?"
You. It's about you.
But I can't say that.
"It's about figuring out who I am when I'm not performing," I say carefully. "About understanding the difference between what's real and what's constructed."
He nods slowly, his expression unreadable. "And have you figured it out yet?"
"No. But I'm starting to understand the questions."
"That's the first step."
We're standing too close. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the way his breathing has shifted, become slightly shallower. Close enough that if I shifted forward even slightly, I could touch him. The air between us feels charged, heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
"Avery," he says, and my name sounds different in his voice. Weighted. Careful. Dangerous. "We need to be smart about this."
"About what?"
"About whatever this is becoming."
My heart stops. The office suddenly feels too small. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." His voice drops lower. "I see the way you look at me. I'm not blind."
Heat floods my face. I can feel it creeping up my neck, across my cheeks. "Professor..."
"Ethan," he corrects. "When we're alone, I told you. It's Ethan."
"Ethan." The name feels dangerous on my tongue, intimate in a way that makes my stomach flip. "I'm sorry if I..."
"Don't apologize." He steps closer, and my breath catches. "I'm not saying this to embarrass you. I'm saying it because I need you to understand something."
"What?"
"That I see you too."
The words hit like a physical thing. Like all the air has been sucked from the room. Like the ground has shifted beneath my feet.
"I see you," he continues, voice barely above a whisper. "And that's the problem. Because I'm your professor. Because there are lines I can't cross. Because if anyone even suspected."
"I know."
"Do you? Do you understand what would happen to both of us if this went anywhere it shouldn't?"
"Yes." My voice sounds small.
"Then you understand why we need to be careful. Why I can't." He stops himself, jaw working. "Why this can't be anything more than what it is."
"What is it?" I whisper.
He looks at me for a long moment, conflict written across every feature of his face. "I don't know yet."
The honesty in his voice breaks something open in my chest.
"I should go," I say, even though it's the last thing I want. My legs feel unsteady.
"You should."
But neither of us moves. The space between us feels like a physical thing, a barrier neither of us knows how to cross. The tension is almost unbearable, every second stretching into eternity.
"Ethan," I say quietly. "What are we doing?"
"Something stupid." He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice it's trembling slightly. "Something that's going to end badly for both of us if we're not careful."
"So we'll be careful."
"Will we?" The question sounds like a confession. Like he's admitting he doesn't trust either of us to maintain this fragile boundary.
I don't have an answer for that.
He steps back finally, creating distance. The loss of his proximity feels like cold water, shocking and sudden. I can feel the chill of the room closing in.
"Go home, Avery. Get some sleep. I'll see you Monday in class."
"Okay."
I grab my bag, head for the door. My legs feel unsteady, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. The hallway beyond the office suddenly seems impossibly far away.
His voice stops me. "Avery."
I turn.
"For the record?" His expression is conflicted, torn between what he wants and what he knows is right. "I wish circumstances were different."
"Me too."
I walk out before either of us can say anything else we'll regret.
The hallway is empty, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in a sound that suddenly feels ominous. The building feels colder now, the warmth of his office already fading like a dream. I make it halfway to the stairs before I have to stop and catch my breath, leaning against the wall, my hand pressed to my chest. My breathing is ragged, uneven. My entire body feels electrified.
He sees me.
He wishes things were different.
He knows exactly what's happening between us, and he's just as trapped in it as I am.
I pull out my phone, hands shaking so badly I almost drop it.
Text Zoey: we need to talk
Her response is immediate: CALL ME
I call as I push through the building's exit doors, the cold night air hitting my face like a shock. She picks up before the first ring finishes.
"What happened?"
"I think I'm in trouble," I say. My voice sounds strange, breathless, like it belongs to someone else.
"Good trouble or bad trouble?"
I think about the way Ethan looked at me. The way he said my name. The way he admitted he sees me too. The way his hand trembled when he ran it through his hair. The way the space between us felt like a physical thing, a force neither of us could resist.
"Both," I whisper. "Definitely both."