It started with a broken printer.
Karen Higgins hated technology. Not because she didn't understand it—she did—but because it failed so often and so unnecessarily. Her old HP printer had jammed for the third time that morning, and this time not even her usual tricks—reloading the tray, slapping the side, a resigned muttering of curses—could coax it back to life.
She was due to hand out copies of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in twenty minutes, and she wasn't about to stand in front of her class asking them to "just pull it up on their phones." No. She had standards.
With a sigh, she gathered her bag, the flash drive, and her coat, and left the office for the nearest off-campus print shop—a small café-slash-copy center called Ink & Bean, nestled just two blocks from Southwell's main quad. She rarely ventured off campus during the week. It was a student haunt, and she preferred her peace.
But the gods of literature had other plans.
The café was warm and buzzing with low voices and the scent of espresso. She approached the counter, flash drive in hand, and ordered black coffee while waiting for the clerk to print her documents. She was flipping through her planner when someone slid into the space beside her.
"Professor Higgins."
She knew that voice before she turned.
"Mr. Westlake."
Jonny grinned, holding a cappuccino with the ease of someone who practically lived in cafés. "Didn't expect to see you here. You don't strike me as the off-campus type."
"I'm not. My printer died."
"A technological tragedy," he said solemnly.
Karen arched an eyebrow but allowed herself a slight smile. "It's refreshing to know even you can muster a tone of respect. Even if it's for hardware."
He laughed. "I'm full of surprises."
She wasn't in the mood for his banter, not in this setting—not with the intimacy of coffee and casual clothing and her guard still low from the morning's frustration. But before she could retreat to a safer corner of the café, Jonny gestured to the table near the window.
"I'm not trying to be inappropriate, I promise. I just thought… if you've got five minutes, I'd like to pick your brain about Wordsworth again."
Karen hesitated. The practical answer was no. She should set a boundary. Keep it professional.
But the morning had already taken a sharp turn off-course, and something about his expression—earnest, not cocky—softened her resolve.
"Five minutes," she said, following him to the table. "After that, I vanish in a cloud of academic dignity."
"Understood," he said with a smile.
They sat across from each other. Karen sipped her coffee, the paper cup warming her hands. She told herself it was just a harmless conversation. That this was what professors did—talked literature, inspired curiosity. Nothing more.
"So," she said, "what about Wordsworth?"
He opened his notebook—he did take notes, she realized—and pointed to a line from Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey.
"This part," he said. "'These beauteous forms… have not been to me as is a landscape to a blind man's eye.' He's talking about memory here, right? About how even when he's away, nature still gives him peace."
"Yes," Karen said, leaning forward, the familiar rhythm of literary discussion taking over. "But it's more than memory. It's about emotional preservation. Wordsworth is drawing a line between experience and reflection—between what is seen and what is carried."
Jonny nodded, listening closely. "So when he says 'a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused,' he means... like a spiritual connection? Beyond the senses?"
She smiled before she could stop herself. "Exactly."
"You really do light up when you talk about this stuff."
The words hung in the air longer than they should have.
Karen sat back. "This is bordering on inappropriate again, Mr. Westlake."
He looked down, but not apologetically. "I'm not trying to cross any lines. I just meant—well, you're a hard read in class. But when you're talking like this, it's clear how much you love it."
She studied him for a moment. The boy was dangerous. Not in the way young men usually were—brash, loud, eager to impress. Jonny had a way of peeling back layers with startling ease. She didn't like being seen so clearly.
"Literature was my refuge," she said finally. "When life is messy, poetry is tidy. Or at least honest."
"Did life get messy for you?" he asked quietly.
She raised her eyes to his and didn't answer.
Jonny nodded, not pressing. "Sorry. That was too personal."
"Yes," she said. "It was."
But she didn't move to leave.
There was something disarming about this moment. The rain had started tapping softly against the windows, and the hum of the café seemed to cocoon them in a quiet pocket of the world. Outside, students bustled under umbrellas. Inside, Karen allowed herself another sip of coffee and let the conversation linger.
"You're older than the other students," she said. "Why come back to school now?"
Jonny rubbed the back of his neck, a rare sign of discomfort. "Dropped out after high school. Worked construction. Then one day I realized I was miserable. I always loved books. So I applied. Got a scholarship. Figured if I'm going to try this whole 'purpose' thing, might as well dive in."
She was surprised. Most students didn't volunteer their stories so openly.
"You seem confident," she said.
"I am. But not about everything. Just enough to keep going."
She nodded slowly. "That's a good kind of confidence."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"I should go," she said, standing.
Jonny stood too. "Of course. Thanks for this."
"Don't read into it," she said. "It was just coffee."
"Sure," he said, but something in his eyes told her he already had.
---
Back in her office, Karen sat at her desk and stared at the stack of freshly printed papers.
It had been just coffee. And a literary discussion. And a brief human moment in a world she'd long kept orderly and controlled.
But when she looked down at her notes, all she could think of was Jonny's voice saying:
> "You really do light up when you talk about this stuff."
She hadn't realized anyone still saw her that way.
And she wasn't sure if she wanted to be seen again.