The sky cracked open with morning light, bleeding soft gold through the tall windows of the university's east wing. Eleanor Langley stood beside the espresso machine in the faculty lounge, her fingers loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug. She hadn't slept. Not really. The studio still smelled like Winter—faint citrus, pencil shavings, that ineffable something like skin warmed by sunlight.
Her hands trembled slightly as she poured the milk.
"Late night?" came a voice behind her.
Eleanor stiffened.
Dr. Meredith Cavanaugh—sharp as the edge of a scalpel, always dressed in moody hues and perfectly-coiffed judgment—hovered near the doorway. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes were too knowing.
"Just working," Eleanor replied calmly.
"Of course." Meredith gave a tight smile. "I've heard your studio light's been on at unusual hours lately."
Eleanor stirred her coffee with careful precision.
"I like to paint when the building's quiet."
"Alone?"
Eleanor's eyes met hers over the rim of her mug. "Yes."
Meredith tilted her head. "Mm. That's not what I heard."
Eleanor's spine stiffened.
"I saw a student leaving the Art Annex just after midnight. A brunette. Sketchbook under her arm." Meredith's gaze sharpened. "Winter, isn't it?"
Eleanor's silence answered for her.
"Eleanor." Meredith's tone lowered, cold now. "You've built your entire reputation on restraint. Professionalism. Are you really going to throw that away for a girl barely out of her teens?"
The word "girl" hit like a slap.
"She's a student," Eleanor said evenly, "but she's also an adult."
"That distinction won't matter when someone reports you."
"I haven't done anything wrong."
"Yet," Meredith said, voice like crushed glass.
Meanwhile, Winter stood in front of the studio mirror in her dorm room, brush in hand, wrestling her hair into something passable. Her eyes were tired. Her sketchbook sat open on the desk, a half-drawn portrait of Eleanor's hands—long fingers, paint-smudged knuckles, delicate tendons. She'd sketched them from memory after leaving the studio last night.
It was stupid.
But it helped.
A knock on her door pulled her from her thoughts.
It was Rachel, her best friend and roommate—sharp-eyed and fiercely loyal.
"You have a visitor," Rachel said.
Winter frowned. "Who?"
But she didn't have time to ask. Meredith Cavanaugh's silhouette was already filling the common room entrance, all draped silk and faint perfume. Winter's stomach turned cold.
"Professor Cavanaugh?" she asked, stepping forward.
Meredith offered a tight, unreadable smile. "Winter. Could I speak with you privately?"
In the hallway, Meredith's tone changed.
"I won't waste time," she said. "You've been spending time with Professor Langley. Alone. After hours."
Winter didn't respond.
"You do realize what that looks like?"
"I don't think that's your business," Winter said carefully.
Meredith's expression hardened. "It becomes my business when a faculty member's career is at stake—and when a student allows herself to become a liability."
Winter's jaw locked. "Is that what I am? A liability?"
"If you care about Professor Langley," Meredith said coldly, "you'll walk away. Quietly. Before someone else forces the issue."
Winter's chest thudded with anger—but she didn't speak. Not yet.
That afternoon, the class met for their scheduled critique in Studio B. Eleanor was present, but different—tense, distant, dressed more severely than usual in a navy blazer and low bun. She didn't look at Winter once.
Winter noticed.
The critique session dragged, each student presenting their projects while Eleanor gave dry, polite feedback. The usual warmth in her voice was gone, replaced by a professor's mask. Winter sat near the back, sketchbook closed, fists clenched.
When it was her turn to present, Eleanor didn't even call her name.
Winter stood anyway.
She pulled her canvas to the front. It was a portrait—a half-abstract image of two women on either side of a veil, neither quite touching. Their hands reached through the haze, desperate. Longing. Trapped.
The class went quiet.
Eleanor stared at it for too long.
And then, softly, she said, "You may sit down."
No comments. No critique.
Just dismissal.
After class, Winter waited outside the studio, pulse hammering. She watched the others leave, one by one, until the hallway was empty.
Eleanor stepped out last.
"You're avoiding me," Winter said.
Eleanor paused, but didn't look at her. "We can't keep doing this."
"Did Meredith talk to you?"
Eleanor didn't answer.
"She talked to me," Winter said. "She tried to scare me off."
"She's not wrong to be concerned," Eleanor said tightly.
Winter stepped closer. "Do you regret it? Last night?"
"No."
"Then why—?"
"Because I'm not going to be the professor they whisper about in faculty meetings. The one who loses her job because she couldn't keep boundaries."
"I'm not asking you to throw your life away."
"You're asking me to risk everything I've built."
Winter's voice cracked. "And what about me? Do I mean so little that walking away is that easy for you?"
Eleanor flinched. "You mean too much."
That silenced Winter.
"I don't know how to protect you," Eleanor whispered.
"You don't have to," Winter said. "I'm not a child."
"But you're my student."
"And you're not just my professor."
They stared at each other, months of tension collapsing between them.
"I can't do this," Eleanor said.
Winter's voice was barely a whisper. "Then say goodbye."
Eleanor opened her mouth.
But no sound came.
That night, Winter lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, phone glowing beside her. Her heart felt hollow, too loud in her ribs. Her canvas stood in the corner, untouched. The sketch of Eleanor's hands sat folded beneath her pillow.
Outside, rain began to fall again.
And inside, Winter closed her eyes—but sleep did not come.