The rain in Northmont didn't fall; it drifted in a heavy, grey mist that clung to the stone walls of the university. Dr. Elena Vance pulled her trench coat tighter, her heels clicking a rhythmic, lonely beat against the pavement. It was 9:00 PM. She had spent the last four hours grading lackluster essays on Kantian ethics, and her brain felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper.
She didn't want to go back to her silent, minimalist apartment. Not yet.
She turned a corner, away from the manicured campus, and slipped into The Copper Bolt—a dive bar that smelled of stale hops and old secrets. It was the kind of place where professors weren't supposed to be seen. That was exactly why she chose it.
Elena took a stool at the far end of the scarred wooden bar, the shadows masking the sharp, elegant lines of her face. She smoothed her hair, ensuring not a single blonde strand was out of place.
"Scotch. Neat," she said, her voice a disciplined blade.
"Coming right up."
The voice was low, vibrating with a familiar, gravelly confidence. Elena froze. She knew that tone. She had heard it three times a week for the last semester, usually coming from the back row of her 8:00 AM lecture, challenging her theories with a smirk that bordered on insolent.
She looked up.
Julian Thorne stood across the bar, a damp rag slung over his shoulder. In her classroom, he wore oversized hoodies and a bored expression. Here, under the dim amber lights, he wore a black t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders, his forearms dusted with dark hair and a smudge of ink from a pen near his wrist.
He didn't look like a student. He looked like a complication.
Julian stopped, the bottle of Macallan mid-air. His eyes swept over her—not with the quick, nervous glance of a pupil, but with a slow, deliberate heat that made the skin on Elena's neck prickle.
"Dr. Vance," he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You're a long way from the ivory tower."
Elena's heart gave a traitorous thud against her ribs. She should leave. She should stand up, walk out, and maintain the professional wall she had spent a decade building. Instead, she watched the way his thumb hooked into the pocket of his jeans.
"I didn't realize you worked here, Mr. Thorne," she said, her voice regaining its icy composure, though her pulse was anything but cold.
"I do a lot of things you don't realize, Professor." He leaned across the bar, bringing the scent of rain and cedarwood into her personal space. He poured the scotch, the golden liquid swirling in the glass. He didn't pull back. "The question is... are you going to report me for serving you, or are you going to drink your medicine?"
The air between them felt thick, charged with the sudden, dangerous realization that the rules of the lecture hall didn't apply in the dark. Elena reached for the glass, her fingers accidentally brushing his. It was a brief contact, but it felt like a jolt of raw electricity.
Julian didn't flinch. He just watched her, his gaze dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Careful, Dr. Vance," he whispered. "It's a strong pour."