Karen Higgins had been a fixture at the university long enough to know that nothing stayed secret for long.
And still, somehow, she'd believed that what happened—or rather, what didn't happen—between her and Jonny Westlake would remain theirs alone. But when she walked into the faculty lounge Monday morning, the room fell too quiet. Not sharply, not suspiciously—but enough that her gut tightened.
She approached the coffee pot as Professor Linda Meyers, from Psychology, offered a thin smile.
"Big weekend, Karen?"
Karen poured her coffee carefully. "Quiet, actually."
Linda raised an eyebrow. "I thought I saw you Saturday night—at Marlowe's. Weren't you with… a student?"
Karen didn't flinch. She had practiced this.
"Some of us still enjoy poetry," she replied coolly. "And Jonny Westlake is a grown man, not a child. He invited me to a reading, and we sat near each other in a public space. That's all."
Another professor—a young adjunct named Riley—pretended to focus on their phone, but Karen saw the flicker of interest in their eyes.
Linda's smile didn't waver. "Just making conversation. I hear he's very bright."
"He is," Karen said, tone even. "And unlike some people, he doesn't treat me like a walking scandal for existing outside office hours."
She turned and walked out, coffee in hand, heels clicking with more force than necessary. The hallway felt tighter than usual. Her pulse drummed in her ears.
It wasn't fair. Nothing inappropriate had happened. She hadn't touched him. She hadn't even let herself imagine it beyond a few stolen seconds in the dark.
But the rules—written and unwritten—didn't care about nuance. They cared about optics. And Karen, at forty-eight, was expected to act a certain way. Feel a certain way. That weight was starting to feel unbearable.
When she reached her office, she shut the door harder than she meant to. Milton, asleep in the corner basket, blinked up at her with disapproval.
"I know," she muttered. "I walked right into it."
She stared out the window, watching students drift across the quad, backpacks bouncing, laughter in the air. Youth everywhere. Youth she could never reclaim.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Jonny.
> You okay?
She hesitated. Then replied:
> Faculty lounge. A little frostier than usual.
He responded a moment later:
> Someone say something?
> Let's just say the vultures have noticed the sky darkening.
> Want to talk about it?
> Not yet.
Karen sat back in her chair. She wasn't angry at Jonny. He'd done nothing wrong. And yet, something inside her coiled—fear? Shame? Not because she felt shameful, but because of what the world would assume.
That night, she tried to lose herself in work. Read over drafts. Graded half a dozen essays. But Jonny's presence lingered in her thoughts—not as a temptation, but as a kind of balm. He had been gentle. Attentive. The opposite of every man who had used her for intellectual sparring or emotional labor.
And he wanted her. Not some younger version. Not the polished, professional face she wore to meetings. But her—tired, flawed, difficult.
At 10:12 p.m., she gave in and called him.
He answered on the second ring. "Karen?"
"Don't say my name like that," she said, voice lower than usual.
"Like what?"
"Like you know me better than you should."
A beat of silence passed.
"Maybe I do," he said finally. "Or maybe I'm just listening closer than most people."
She closed her eyes. His voice was steady, kind. A rope offered to someone dangling from a cliff.
"They're already talking," she said. "Faculty. Probably students soon, too."
"You haven't done anything wrong."
"That doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
Another silence. Then Karen sighed. "What is this, Jonny?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But it doesn't feel wrong. And it doesn't feel temporary."
She blinked. "Temporary?"
"I'm not here for a thrill, Karen. I'm not chasing you like some adolescent fantasy. I see you. I want to know you. And I think you want that, too."
She didn't answer immediately. Her heart was loud now, loud and aching.
"I can't give you youth," she said. "I can't be what you haven't had yet."
"I don't want what I haven't had. I want what I don't want to lose."
His voice was quiet, certain.
Karen's eyes stung.
"You're going to complicate my life," she whispered.
"I hope so," he said. "Because mine was too quiet before you."
She let out a breath. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Come by my office. Four thirty."
"Okay."
"And Jonny?"
"Yeah?"
"No more bookstore dates."
"Why not?"
"Because next time," she said softly, "it won't be public."