**Chapter 4: First-Day Aftertaste**
The morning light came too bright, too soon, slicing through the tall windows of Sebastian's loft like it had a personal grudge. Ava woke curled against his side, one leg thrown over his, her cheek pressed to the steady rise and fall of his chest. For a single, suspended heartbeat, everything felt simple—warm skin, quiet breathing, the faint scent of cedar and last night's bourbon still clinging to the sheets.
Then reality arrived in pieces.
The clock on the nightstand read 8:47 a.m.
Orientation started at ten.
Evergreen University's freshman welcome was mandatory.
Liam would be there.
She sat up slowly, careful not to wake him. Her body ached in places she hadn't known could ache—good ache, the kind that reminded her exactly how many times they'd reached for each other in the dark. Her clothes were scattered across the hardwood floor like evidence at a crime scene. She gathered them quickly, slipping into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face and try to finger-comb the sex out of her hair.
When she came back out, Sebastian was awake, propped on one elbow, watching her with those unreadable storm eyes.
"Leaving without breakfast?" His voice was rough from sleep, low and amused.
"I have orientation. Can't exactly show up smelling like your sheets and bad choices."
He sat up fully, the sheet pooling at his waist. The morning light carved shadows across his chest, highlighting the faint red lines her nails had left. "Bad choices don't usually leave marks that pretty."
Heat crawled up her neck. "This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, stood, and crossed to her in two steps. Didn't touch her—just stood close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him. "You're panicking."
"I'm not panicking. I'm… processing."
"Process faster. You have forty minutes to get across town, and traffic on a Saturday is a nightmare."
She looked up at him. "You're not freaking out?"
"I freaked out at three a.m. when you were asleep on my chest and I realized I'd crossed every line I've ever drawn for myself." He brushed a thumb along her jaw, gentle. "Then I decided I didn't care."
"That's reckless."
"Welcome to the club." He leaned down, kissed her once—soft, lingering, like the last sip of coffee you don't want to finish. "Go. I'll see you in class."
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
"Introduction to American Literature. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 1:00 p.m., Hawthorne Hall 214. Required for creative writing majors." He smiled, small and dangerous. "Didn't you read the course catalog?"
She stared at him. "You're… my professor."
"Technically, yes. Starting Monday."
Ava laughed—a short, incredulous sound. "This is insane."
"Insane would be pretending last night didn't happen." He stepped back, giving her space. "Go get ready. We'll figure out the rest later."
She left his loft in a daze, Uber-ing home with the windows down, trying to let the wind scrub away the scent of him. At home she showered until the water ran cold, dressed in jeans, a soft white tee, and the denim jacket that made her feel less exposed. She braided her hair, added minimal makeup, and stared at her reflection like it belonged to someone else.
The campus was alive when she arrived—banners everywhere, music pumping from the quad, clusters of nervous freshmen clutching maps and lanyards. She found Mia near the fountain, two iced coffees in hand.
"You're late," Mia said, passing her one. "And you look like you've been thoroughly ruined. Spill."
Ava took a long sip. The coffee was sweet, creamy, grounding. "I slept with him."
Mia's eyes went wide. "Dr. Kane? The uncle?"
"Yeah."
"Last night?"
"Yeah."
Mia whistled. "Okay. Scale of one to 'I need to call a priest,' how good was it?"
Ava pressed her lips together, remembering the slow drag of his tongue, the way he'd held her hips like they were something precious, the way he'd groaned her name like it tasted better than anything he'd ever had. "Eleven."
Mia fanned herself dramatically. "Jesus. And now what?"
"Now I pretend it never happened because he's my lit professor and Liam's uncle and this whole thing is a walking HR violation wrapped in family drama."
Mia looped an arm through hers. "Or… you enjoy the chaos. Just a little."
"I'm not that person."
"You weren't that person last night either, apparently."
They wandered toward the welcome tents, collecting free pens and water bottles, dodging overly enthusiastic upperclassmen. Ava kept scanning the crowd, half expecting Liam to appear, half dreading it.
He did appear—right as they were lining up for the group photo.
"Ava!" He jogged over, all easy smiles and messy hair, wearing the Evergreen hoodie they'd bought together online last spring. "There you are. I was looking everywhere."
Mia stepped slightly in front of her, protective. "She's been here. You're late."
Liam ignored her, eyes on Ava. "Can we talk? Just for a minute?"
Ava hesitated. The crowd pressed in. Cameras flashed. She nodded once.
They stepped behind a banner for the environmental club.
"I've been thinking," he started. "About us. About everything. I know I screwed up at the club. I know I've been selfish. But we're here now—same school, same start. I want to make it right. I want us to try again. For real this time."
He reached for her hand. She let him take it, but didn't squeeze back.
"Liam… I don't know if I can."
His face fell. "Because of the birthday thing? Or because of… him?"
She pulled her hand away. "Because I don't feel the same anymore. I'm sorry."
He stared at her like she'd slapped him. "You're breaking up with me? On the first day?"
"I'm saying I need space. Real space. Not 'we'll talk later' space. Actual distance."
His jaw worked. "This is about Uncle Seb, isn't it? What happened in that closet—"
"It's about a lot of things." She kept her voice steady. "Including the fact that you kissed Brittany in front of everyone and didn't even look guilty until I called you on it."
He ran both hands through his hair. "I said I was sorry."
"And I heard you. But sorry doesn't fix the part where I stopped trusting you."
Silence stretched. Someone nearby laughed too loud.
Finally he nodded, slow. "Okay. Space. I can do space." His voice cracked on the last word. "But I'm not giving up. Not yet."
He walked away, shoulders hunched.
Ava stood there until Mia found her again.
"You okay?" Mia asked quietly.
"No. But I will be."
The rest of orientation passed in a blur—speeches, icebreakers, campus tours. By the time they released everyone, the sun was low and golden, painting the brick buildings in warm honey.
Ava and Mia grabbed slices at the campus pizza place. Half pepperoni, half veggie. Extra cheese.
Mia picked a pepperoni off Ava's slice. "So. Lit class with Dr. Forbidden tomorrow?"
"Tuesday."
"Close enough. You gonna sit in the front row and take meticulous notes, or hide in the back and pretend you don't know what his mouth feels like?"
Ava groaned. "I'm going to drop the class."
"You will not. Creative writing requires it. And you're not a quitter."
"I could be. For once."
Mia leaned in. "Or you could walk in there like you own the room. Make him sweat a little. See how professional he can be when he's remembering exactly how you taste."
Ava's cheeks burned. "You're evil."
"I'm supportive."
They finished the pizza in companionable quiet. When they parted ways at the dorms, Mia hugged her tight.
"Whatever happens," she said, "you've got me. And you've got this."
Ava walked back to her car alone, keys jingling, mind spinning.
She didn't go straight home.
Instead she drove past Hawthorne Hall.
The building was quiet now, lights off except for a few windows on the second floor. One of them glowed warm. She could picture him there—desk lamp on, grading nothing yet, maybe reading something old and heavy, maybe thinking about her the way she was thinking about him.
She didn't stop. Didn't go up.
But she didn't speed away, either.
She sat at the curb for ten minutes, engine idling, tasting the memory of him on her tongue—bourbon, salt, heat, sin.
Then she drove home.
Monday would come soon enough.
And when it did, she'd walk into that classroom.
She'd sit somewhere in the middle—not too eager, not too afraid.
She'd look him in the eye.
And she'd let whatever happened next unfold like the slow pour of warm caramel—inevitable, rich, and impossible to resist.
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