Karen Higgins prided herself on boundaries.
Over her two decades in academia, she had survived departmental politics, emotionally needy students, and even an awkward office romance with a married professor. She knew the dangers of getting too close. Knew what it did to one's reputation, one's focus, and one's self-respect.
But lately, her rules were beginning to feel like walls.
She told herself it was nothing. That the coffee with Jonny Westlake had been harmless. That she hadn't noticed the way his eyes lingered too long or the low timbre of his voice when he said her name.
She had noticed. Of course she had.
And now she was thinking about him too often—when brushing her teeth, when choosing what earrings to wear, when adding a splash of perfume she hadn't used in years. Not because she wanted anything to happen—of course not—but because… well, it was nice to be noticed.
To feel visible again.
Her class that Tuesday was subdued. The students shuffled in, eyes bleary, their enthusiasm dulled by mid-semester burnout. Karen was no different. She felt restless. She couldn't stop herself from scanning the room for Jonny—and felt a flicker of annoyance at herself when she didn't immediately spot him.
Then, ten minutes in, the door opened.
Jonny stepped in, damp from rain, hair tousled, a scarf slung lazily around his neck. He nodded respectfully—just enough to acknowledge her without drawing attention—and took a seat in the second row.
Karen's breath caught and then settled.
She turned to the whiteboard and began the lecture.
"Today, we shift from the Romantic ideal of nature and the self to something darker. Emily Brontë. Wuthering Heights. A novel steeped in cruelty, obsession, and passion that defies polite Victorian norms."
She moved through her notes with precision, breaking down Brontë's wild Yorkshire moors, her storm-tossed characters, and the intoxicating madness of Heathcliff and Catherine.
"Love, in Brontë's world, is not tender. It's destructive. Unrelenting. More curse than blessing."
As she spoke, she felt Jonny's gaze. Not flirtatious this time—something else. Intense. Curious. He watched her as though she were reciting confessions instead of lessons.
She tried to shake it off. Keep the mask on. But something was loosening inside her, quietly and persistently, like thawing ice.
At the end of class, she gathered her things quickly, hoping to avoid a conversation. But just as she slipped her laptop into her bag, Jonny approached.
"I liked what you said about love being a curse," he said. "I think people romanticize pain too much."
Karen didn't look up. "That's the whole point of Romanticism, isn't it? To bleed beautifully."
"Do you believe in that?"
She paused. "I used to."
Jonny tilted his head. "And now?"
"Now," she said, finally meeting his eyes, "I believe in silence. In peace."
He gave a slow nod. "I don't think you've had much of either."
That stopped her. Her fingers stilled over her bag zipper. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know what I see," he said. "And I see someone who hides a lot of pain behind sarcasm and syllabi."
Karen stepped back, jaw tight. "You're overstepping."
"Probably," he admitted. "But I'm not wrong."
She didn't respond. Just stared at him, her heart a quiet drumbeat of confusion and anger and something else she couldn't name.
Then she walked away.
---
That evening, she drove to the edge of town, to the lake she hadn't visited in years. It was dusk, the sky low and violet, the water rippling with wind. She parked, turned off the engine, and sat in silence.
When had she stopped letting people in?
The question surprised her. She hadn't realized she'd asked it until it sat there, uncomfortably present.
Maybe it was after her second husband, Peter, left—exhausted by her coldness, he'd said. Maybe it was when her sister stopped calling. Or when her last birthday passed without a single visitor.
Somewhere along the line, she had become untouchable. Impressive, yes. Respected, certainly. But closed. Guarded.
Now, a boy—a man, really—was chipping at that armor with maddening ease.
She didn't want to feel this way. She didn't want the thrill of wondering if he'd say something today. Or what his hand might feel like if he ever touched hers. It was foolish. Dangerous.
And yet…
She whispered it to the water: "And yet."
---
The next day, Jonny wasn't in class.
Karen noticed immediately. She scanned the seats twice, her stomach tighter than it should've been. She told herself he was probably sick. Or busy. Or disinterested.
But a part of her—a shamefully raw, human part—felt like she'd pushed him too far.
That evening, her inbox pinged. A message from the student portal.
Subject: Absence
> Hi Professor Higgins,
Sorry I missed class today. Something came up at home—nothing serious, just unexpected. I'll catch up on the reading and notes. If you're holding office hours this week, I'd like to drop by.
Thanks,
Jonny Westlake
Karen read the email three times. Short. Polite. No mention of their last conversation. No blame. No flirtation.
Just an olive branch.
She cl
osed her laptop slowly.
The cracks in her wall had begun to widen. And something—someone—was slipping through.