Charlotte looked over at her, her gaze searching Taylor’s face. “Are you surprised to still see me here?”
Taylor picked up on the sharp strain in Charlotte’s voice immediately, the subtle drag of guilt and shame pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“Honestly? Yes,” Taylor said.
Charlotte nodded, pressing her lips together into a firm line as she looked down at the sheets. “I uh… I don’t know where we go from here.”
Taylor held her breath, her stomach knotting tightly as she nervously waited for Charlotte to continue. The quiet in the room felt heavy, stretching her nerves thin while she prepared herself for the worst.
Charlotte took a slow breath, letting her hand drop to the mattress between them. “Whatever this thing is between us… It’s real.” She licked her lips slowly as she gathered her thoughts. “I don’t think I’m capable of walking away from you again. I’m…” She sighed, rubbing her forehead with her fingertips. “But I’m still your professor, and I can’t believe I’m going to even say this out loud but… I want to keep seeing you.”
Taylor stared at her, her pulse thumping wildly in her throat. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, but underneath the sudden burst of hope, she caught the raw pain in Charlotte’s voice—the agonizing fear of getting caught, of throwing away a twenty-year career for a student in her upper-level seminar.
“I want that too,” Taylor said, shifting toward her. “And I think… I think we can be careful. No one will know. And by the time the summer comes, I won’t be your student anymore.”
Charlotte stared at her, the heavy strain in her jaw releasing all at once. The thick air of anxiety evaporated, replaced by a sudden, undeniable heat. Charlotte didn’t pull back or try to cover herself with the sheet. Instead, she shifted closer, her bare knee sliding between Taylor’s thighs, the friction of her soft skinagainst Taylor’s aching nerve endings feeling like a live wire sparking underwater.
Charlotte reached out, her fingers cupping Taylor’s jaw, her thumb tracing the curve of Taylor’s bottom lip with deliberate slowness. There was no attempt to hide the desire in her face.
“You’re going to make this entire semester completely impossible,” Charlotte whispered, her eyes dark with an unhidden heat that made Taylor’s core throb. She leaned in, pressing her mouth to Taylor’s in a kiss that wasn’t cautious or guarded, as her hand trailed down Taylor’s stomach to grip her hip, pulling Taylor’s skin flush against her own.
21
Snow fell in slow, fat flakes beyond the office window, drifting sideways in the wind before vanishing against the glass. Charlotte’s fingers wrapped around a mug of tea while she stared out her window. Her office felt too quiet today, too still.
The semester was flying by. It was hard to believe that it was already December which meant that she’d spent the last two months sneaking around with Taylor.
At first, they’d only met at Taylor’s place—Friday nights after the bar closed, and gradually, Charlotte started spending the entire weekend there.
But then Charlotte started noticing regulars from campus at the bar, and suddenly The Blackwood felt like it had a spotlight.
Charlotte couldn’t risk anyone seeing her there so often or coming and going from the apartment above it.
One Tuesday night in late October, Taylor had come over instead. She’d stayed the night. And then again the next week. Tuesday and Wednesday night. And the week after that Taylor spent the weekend with her too.
Now Taylor’s guitar case sat in Charlotte’s living room corner. Her toothbrush lived in the second drawer of Charlotte’sbathroom vanity. Taylor knew where the spare key was hidden, how Charlotte liked her coffee, which throw blanket she preferred when they curled up on the couch with a movie.
Sam had asked her last week if she’d started seeing someone. “You’re glowing,” she’d said, leaning against Charlotte’s desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Charlotte had laughed it off, too brightly, and changed the subject to the next faculty meeting. But later that night, Taylor had traced Charlotte’s jaw and whispered, “You’re not going to lose your job over me, okay?” as if she could promise it.
Charlotte hadn’t answered. She’d just kissed Taylor, trying to drown the fear in the heat of Taylor’s mouth.
The problem wasn’t just the risk. It was the constant calculation. Which nights were safe. Whether a colleague had seen them leave campus at the same time. The way Charlotte’s stomach dropped every time her office door opened unexpectedly. What if one of Charlotte’s neighbors started asking why Taylor’s car was always parked near their home?
More than once, she’d sat exactly like this—staring out the window, heart pounding—and decided it had to end. She’d rehearsed the words in her head:It’s too dangerous. I can’t do this to you. Or to myself.But then Taylor would show up at her door with that crooked smile, and Charlotte would forget every single reason she’d ever wanted to walk away.
Because when Taylor was with her, Charlotte didn’t feel forty-seven. She didn’t feel divorced, or cautious, or like the woman who’d spent twenty years measuring her worth in achievements. She just feltwanted.
She turned the mug in her hands, the ceramic warm against her palms. Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the campus in a hush that felt like both warning and invitation. She wasn’t sure which scared her more—the thought of getting caught, or the thought of never seeing Taylor in her kitchen again, barefootin Charlotte’s oversized sweater, humming along to some song only she knew the words to.
22
The kettle hissed on the gas burner, a thin curl of steam rising into the dimly lit kitchen. Taylor leaned against the counter, wearing in a hoody she’d stolen from Charlotte’s closet, the soft worn cotton bunched at her wrists. Underneath, she wore a faded t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. The house smelled like cedar, old paper, and the sweet herbal tang of chamomile steeping in two stoneware mugs.
She loved Charlotte’s kitchen. She loved the way the wooden floorboards held the day’s heat long after the sun went down, and the way they’d been cooking so many meals here together lately.
She’d been here for a week now. The bar was closed through the New Year, her gig schedule was empty, and Taylor was trying so hard not to get used to this.
They hadn’t stepped foot in public together—not once. They couldn’t walk down Main Street holding hands, couldn’t grab a morning coffee at the place near campus, couldn’t tell a single soul why Taylor was rarely free on weekends anymore.