The sky was overcast when Jonny arrived at Professor Higgins's office. Not the dramatic kind of grey that threatened a storm, but a soft, heavy dullness that made the world seem paused. Jonny stood outside her door for a full minute before knocking.
He had spent most of the day trying to decipher the tone of her voice from the night before. Not cold. Not quite warm. Something else—measured. Careful.
He understood. She was risking more than he was. He didn't have tenure to lose. He didn't have a reputation stretched across two marriages, one published book, and fifteen years of conference panels. But he had her attention now, and for Jonny Westlake, that was everything.
He knocked once.
Karen's voice came through—low and professional.
"Come in."
He stepped inside. Her office was dimmer than usual, the blinds pulled halfway closed. The reading lamp on her desk cast a gentle amber glow. Karen stood by the window, her arms crossed, one foot tucked behind the other. She was dressed simply, in black slacks and a cream blouse. She didn't look like someone ready to seduce or be seduced. She looked like someone ready to confess.
"You're early," she said.
"Didn't want to be late," he replied.
She nodded. "Lock the door."
Jonny paused. "Are you sure?"
"No," she said. "But I want to stop pretending I don't care what happens next."
He reached back and turned the lock with a soft click.
Karen walked to her desk and sat, not behind it, but beside it—on the small loveseat where she rarely let anyone sit. She gestured for him to take the other side. He did, careful not to close the space between them too fast.
"This is where we decide," she said.
"Decide what?"
"What story we're going to live inside."
Jonny waited.
Karen exhaled. "There's the version where I stay the respected professor, and you stay the promising student, and we nod at each other in passing for the rest of the semester. That's the safe version. The quiet one."
"And the other?"
She looked him dead in the eye. "The other version gets messy. There are consequences. There are looks. Whispers. Maybe even professional risks. But there's also this…"
She reached forward and touched his hand.
It wasn't a seductive touch. It was a recognition. A claiming.
Jonny turned his palm up, interlacing their fingers slowly, reverently.
"I choose the messy version," he said.
Karen's eyes fluttered shut for half a second, as if the words caused physical relief. When she opened them again, her voice was quieter.
"This doesn't mean I'm throwing everything away."
"I don't want you to," he said.
"I'm not going to suddenly become some romantic cliché."
"You already aren't."
She studied him. "Do you know what it's like being invisible for years? I mean really invisible. Existing only as a mind, not a body. Not a woman."
Jonny's gaze didn't waver. "I see all of you. Not just the professor. Not just the lectures. The woman who reads poems aloud to her cat. Who plays Chopin when she thinks no one's listening. Who gets flustered when someone stares too long. I see her. And I want her."
Karen swallowed. Her fingers tightened around his.
"I hate that you're so young."
"I hate that it matters to you."
She laughed once, sharp and unexpected.
"God, you're infuriating."
"So are you."
Silence again. But this time, not uncomfortable.
Then Karen stood. She walked to the window and pulled the blinds completely shut. She turned off the lamp and the overhead light. The room dropped into shadow, pale blue light from the dusk outside washing over them.
"Come here," she said.
Jonny rose slowly. Walked toward her.
When he was just inches away, Karen reached up, took his face in both hands, and kissed him.
It was not a hesitant kiss. It was not gentle or safe. It was all the fear and hunger and restraint of the past few weeks poured into a single moment.
He responded in kind, his hands on her waist, his body finally aligned with hers. There was no guilt in it. Only clarity.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, Karen rested her forehead against his.
"This changes everything," she whispered.
"I hope it does."
---
Later that night, they sat together in Karen's apartment, still fully clothed, knees touching on the couch. Milton slept in his usual spot, blissfully indifferent to the earth shifting around him.
Karen held a glass of red wine in one hand, her expression unreadable.
"I need this to be real," she said.
"It is," Jonny replied.
"No games. No disappearing after the semester ends."
"I'm not going anywhere."
Karen turned to him. "I can't promise where this goes, Jonny. I can't predict the future. But I know I don't want to lie to myself anymore. Or pretend I don't care."
He leaned over and kissed her temple. "Then let's see where it goes. Together."
She nodded, and for the first time since their story began, Karen Higgins allowed herself to feel—not as a professor,
not as a figure of control or restraint—but as a woman in the beginning of something real, risky, and entirely hers.