**Chapter 6: Office Hours**
Thursday came wrapped in a soft autumn rain that turned the campus paths slick and reflective. Ava walked under her umbrella from the dorms to Hawthorne Hall, boots splashing shallow puddles, the sound matching the restless drum in her chest. She'd spent the last forty-eight hours rereading the first eight chapters of *The Scarlet Letter*, underlining passages until the pages looked like they'd been attacked by a highlighter. Not because she was a model student. Because every line about hidden sin and public shame felt like it had been written for her.
She arrived at 3:05 p.m.—late enough to seem casual, early enough that no one else had claimed the slot yet. The hallway outside the faculty offices smelled like old books and fresh coffee. Sebastian's door was ajar, a thin slice of warm lamplight spilling into the corridor.
She knocked once, lightly.
"Come in."
His voice carried that same calm authority he'd used in lecture. She pushed the door wider.
The office was smaller than she'd imagined—cozy, almost intimate. Floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books, a narrow window overlooking the quad, a desk piled with manuscripts and a single framed photo turned facedown. He sat behind the desk in a leather chair, sleeves still rolled, glasses perched on his nose as he marked something in red ink. When he looked up, he removed the glasses slowly, setting them aside like a deliberate gesture.
"Miss Thompson." Neutral tone. Professional mask firmly in place. "Right on time, more or less."
She closed the door behind her. The click felt louder than it should have.
"I have questions about the reading," she said, lifting the syllabus like evidence.
He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."
She did. The chair was low; their knees almost brushed under the desk. She crossed her legs, trying to create distance that wasn't really there.
He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Ask."
She opened her notebook to a flagged page. "Hester Prynne. When she stands on the scaffold, she refuses to name the father. Everyone assumes it's shame, but the text says she's protecting something. What?"
Sebastian's gaze didn't waver. "She's protecting the sanctity of what they shared. Even if it was wrong. Even if it destroyed her life. The secret becomes the last pure thing left between them."
Ava swallowed. "And Dimmesdale? The minister who keeps it hidden?"
"He's eaten alive by guilt. Every sermon he gives is a confession he can't finish. The hypocrisy is killing him faster than any public shaming ever could."
She traced a finger along the edge of her notebook. "Do you think he regrets it? The affair?"
Sebastian studied her for a long moment. "I think he regrets the lying more than the loving. The loving was honest, at least for a little while. The lying poisoned everything else."
Silence settled between them—thick, fragrant, like steam rising from a pot left too long on the stove.
Ava closed the notebook. "I didn't come here just for Hawthorne."
"I know."
She met his eyes. "Then why are we pretending?"
"Because the alternative is reckless." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "This room has thin walls. Colleagues walk by. Students drop in unannounced. And you're eighteen, Ava. I'm thirty-seven. I'm your professor. I'm Liam's uncle. Every single one of those facts is a landmine."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" His voice dropped. "Because Saturday night you weren't thinking about landmines. You were thinking about how good it felt when I—"
"Stop." She held up a hand, cheeks burning. "I remember. Vividly."
He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. "Good. Then you also remember how we both agreed it changed everything."
"It did." She leaned in too, mirroring him. "And I'm not sorry."
His jaw tightened. "You should be."
"Why? Because society says so? Because Liam's ego is bruised? Because we might get caught?"
"All of the above. And because once we start down this road, there's no clean off-ramp."
Ava's heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. "I don't want an off-ramp. Not yet."
He stared at her like he was trying to memorize her face before something terrible happened. Then he stood, walked around the desk, and stopped just in front of her chair.
She had to tilt her head back to look at him.
He reached down, slow enough she could pull away. His fingers caught her chin, gentle but firm, tilting her face up further.
"You're going to ruin me," he murmured.
"Then ruin me back."
The kiss was inevitable.
It started soft—lips brushing like the first taste of something too rich to rush. Then deeper. Hungrier. His hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head while the other braced on the arm of her chair. She rose to meet him, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them.
He tasted like coffee and mint and the faintest trace of the same bourbon that had started all of this. She opened for him; he took, slow and thorough, tongue stroking hers in lazy circles that made her knees weak. A small sound escaped her throat—half moan, half plea—and he answered with a low growl, backing her against the edge of the desk.
Papers slid. A pen clattered to the floor.
His hands found her waist, lifting her effortlessly until she sat on the desk, legs parting to let him step between them. She wrapped her calves around his hips, pulling him flush. He groaned into her mouth when she rocked against him, feeling him already hard through his slacks.
"We shouldn't," he whispered against her lips.
"Then stop."
He didn't.
Instead he kissed down her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point, sucking lightly enough to leave a faint mark she'd have to hide later. His hands slipped under her sweater, palms warm on bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of her bra. She arched into the touch, head falling back.
"Quiet," he murmured against her collarbone. "Thin walls."
She bit her lip to stifle the whimper when his fingers found her nipple through lace, rolling gently. Pleasure sparked straight to her core.
Someone walked past in the hallway—footsteps, voices, laughter.
They froze.
Sebastian lifted his head, listening. The voices faded.
He rested his forehead against hers, breathing hard. "This is madness."
"The best kind."
He kissed her again—slower this time, savoring, like he was trying to commit every second to memory. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils blown.
"We can't do this here. Not like this."
"Then where?"
He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. "My place. Tonight. After eight. I have a department meeting until then."
Ava slid off the desk, legs unsteady. She smoothed her sweater, touched her lips. They felt swollen, sensitive.
"Eight," she echoed.
He caught her wrist before she could leave, thumb stroking the inside pulse point. "If you change your mind, text me. One word: stop. I'll respect it."
"I won't."
He let her go.
She walked out of the office on shaky legs, past the empty hallway, past the rain-slicked quad. The cool air hit her flushed skin like a slap. She pulled her jacket tighter.
Her phone buzzed as she reached the dorms.
**Liam:** Saw you leaving Hawthorne. Everything okay? You looked… off.
She stared at the message for a long minute.
Then she typed back: **Fine. Just office hours.**
She hit send.
And turned her phone face-down on her desk.
Because tonight, at eight o'clock, she was walking back into the fire.
And she was bringing marshmallows.
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