“That’s fantastic,” I tell her, meaning it. “You earned it. Your paper on sociopolitical commentary in dystopian fiction was exceptional.”
She bites her lip a little before laughing under her breath. “Well, thank you but… uh, full disclosure. That’s not the only reason I’m here.” Her gaze flicks to Noah, briefly acknowledging his presence before coming back to me. “I’ve been trying to work up the nerve for weeks. Would you… want to grab coffee sometime? Or dinner? Offcampus. I mean, of course not until after the semester is over.”
The question lands between us like a dropped book. Heat crawls up my neck, not from flattery but from the familiar, exhausting awkwardness of having to let someone down. Lauren is lovely. Kind. She deserves someone great, but mostly, someone truly interested. I prepare my soft deflection, which I’ve mastered by now.
I choose my words carefully, the way I always do. “Lauren, I’m incredibly flattered. Truly. But I don’t date students. Even graduating ones. It’s a hard line for me.”
Her smile doesn’t falter, but it softens into something rueful. “I figured. Worth a shot, though.” She stands, smoothing her sweater. “No awkward feelings?”
“None at all. And congratulations again on Long Beach. You’re going to crush that interview.”
She waves, including Noah too, as she splits a glance between us before slipping out. The door shuts with a quiet finality.
Silence stretches. I pick up my pen again, ready to get back to reading and grading papers. Across from me, Noah exhales a low sound—half laugh, half something I can’t parse.
“You could have said yes,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t have told anyone.”
My hand stills. The words hang there, casual as a comment about the weather, but they land somewhere deep in my chest. I don’t look up, and stay quiet.
The clock on the wall ticks. Outside, someone laughstoo loud on the path below our second-story window. Inside, the air feels suddenly thinner and charged. I can feel Noah watching me, the weight of his gaze resting against me like a hand gripping my shoulder. Years of careful distance, of treating this office like neutral ground, and one offhand remark has me itching to swipe at the sweat on the back of my neck.
I force my pen to move, scratching a meaningless note in the margin of the essay.Rule-follower.That’s what Noah had called me once, during a faculty happy hour I only attended because the chair insisted.You ever break a rule, Mercer?I laughed it off. Changed the subject. Inside, though, the label sat uncomfortably, despite the fact I knew it was true.
Rules keep things clean. Predictable. Safe.
But Noah Ryan has a way of slipping past the lines I’ve drawn. Patient with students. Dryly funny in department meetings. A little rough around the edges when he’s tired, like right now. I hate how aware I am. I hate how, even after all this time, I still remember the exact way he looked at me during that interview, like he’d already seen past the suit and the resume to the parts of me I kept locked down.
I flip another page. Still, I can’t focus on the essay, or anything else.
Noah doesn’t press. He never does—not really. He pushes just enough to make the air crackle, then retreats behind his easy smile. It’s one of the things that makes him such a good professor. And one of the things that makessharing this office feel like existing in a space with limited oxygen.
I exhale through my nose and finally glance up.
He’s watching me, of course. Hazel eyes steady, mouth curved in that half-smirk that makes me feel like he knows more than he should. He drums his fingers on the desk just once, both restless and thoughtful, before they still. The rolled sleeves of his shirt have slipped a fraction, partially covering the faint tan line from his watch.
“Grading that bad?” he asks, tone light, like the previous thirty seconds didn’t happen.
“Freshmen,” I say, the single word an explanation on its own.
He chuckles, the sound warm and low, sweeping through my belly in a way I don’t like. “Tell me about it. I’ve got three of them who think symbolism is just a fancy word for ‘whatever I feel today.’”
I manage a nod. The conversation slides back into familiar grooves with complaints about deadlines, the upcoming symposium and our respective speeches, whether the department chair will ever fix the ancient copier. Safe topics. Colleague topics. I answer on autopilot while my mind replays not Lauren’s question, but Noah’s reply. On a loop.
You could have said yes.
Why does that sting? I’m not interested in Lauren. Haven’t been interested in anyone in ages. My last real date was with a woman named Rhiannon during my final year of grad school. Three awkward dinners, two evenmore awkward nights that left me feeling hollow and guilty, and after that, I stopped trying. I learned that I am not meant for love or passionate sex, and that life is better and easier if I pour everything into lectures and office hours and the slow, steady climb toward tenure. I’m built differently. I’m wired for work, not wanting. And… that’s okay.
Except lately the office feels smaller. Lately Noah’s laugh lands somewhere behind my ribs and stays there, humming, vibrating,annoying me. I’ve caught myself noticing the way his shoulders move when he stretches after a long day, or how his voice drops when he’s proud of a student’s breakthrough. I’ve been noticing, then shoving the noticing into a locked drawer I refuse to open.
I close the essay folder abruptly. “I should head to the gym before my afternoon class. Get my extra miles in.”
Noah leans back in his chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. “Wanna go for a run with us later this week?”
I hesitate. Some of the professors run together at the end of week or on the weekends. It’s always, to my knowledge, been sporadic, never planned more than a day or two ahead. I’ve gone a few times, and pushed myself more than I wanted just to stay comfortably behind Noah. Only I don’t make a habit to join them, or seek out extra time with him outside of work.
“Maybe,” I reply.
His smirk deepens, but his eyes stay soft. “I’ll take a maybe.”
