Make the Grade ☾ Part 3: All Nighter

Summary:

Out of the blue, you hear your name spoken in a familiar voice. You turn and see the person that matches the voice pushing his way through the crowd.

You stare. “Dr. Grant?” 

Standing in the middle of a dive bar in Michigan is Professor Steven Grant, wearing a black dress shirt and a name tag that’s completely redundant to you, considering you couldn’t forget him if you tried.

“Hiya,” he says, tipping his glass to you.

Or: An unexpected encounter leads to something more.

Rating: 18+ only* / minors: do not read/interact

WC:10k

Tags/warnings:slow burn; mutual pining; idiots to lovers; professor/student relationship (eventually)**; smut (eventually); Reader is a “blank slate” but has a backstory; yearning; kissing/making out; angst

A/N:big big shoutout to @nobodys-baby-now for helping me work out the kinks in this chapter after I realized I had to delete 5k words and panicked. thank you so much, bb!

*This series, and my entire blog, are 18+ only. To follow & interact, you must be 18 or older and have your age in your bio.

**Do as I say, not as I fictionalize. It goes without saying that the plot of this series would be extremely inappropriate IRL. Please don’t fuck your professors.

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Over winter break, the campus is quiet and lonely. 

You decide to stay in Chicago over the holidays. After all, plane tickets are expensive, you have research to do, and there are no archives back home. Your roommate leaves to visit her family, then your family comes to visit for a week, but after that you have the run of the place.

On one hand, it’s nice, because you get a lot of work done. The library is still open, so you hole up in a study room to slog through the first draft of your thesis and the outline for your conference presentation. With no distractions in the form of friends or disturbingly attractive professors, you’re able to make real headway on both. It’s just you and the handful of tired-looking student librarians who keep the place running, exchanging knowing exhausted looks when you show up for the nth day in a row. 

On the other hand, you’re lonely. Without your roommate around—constantly making noise, listening to the weirdest possible playlists on Spotify—the apartment feels very empty. You wander out of your room after a day of writing in search of companionship, and all you find is an empty living room and your dirty dishes still in the sink.

That said, there’s one reason to be grateful for the solitude that winter break brings: it keeps you far away from Professor Grant. After your little revelation following your date with Josh, the last thing you need is to see Dr. Grant in person. You don’t want to be anywhere near him with the knowledge that you got yourself off thinking about his hands and his cute accent. Nope. The universe seems to have your back for now, because Dr. Grant is nowhere to be found in the entire city of Chicago. Hopefully, that means you will be able to kill your ridiculous crush on him by the time that the spring semester rolls around. 

Hopefully. Operative word. 

The new year begins and finds you right where you were before: hunched over your laptop, typing furiously, and suppressing all thoughts of the handsome professor you haven’t seen in weeks. 

☾

After spending most of winter break floating in the fringes of Marc’s consciousness while he fronts, Steven comes back to an overflowing inbox and a lot of missed calls. Near the top of his email inbox is a message he most definitely wasn’t expecting: 

Thank you for registering to attend the 2022 Classical and Ancient Studies Conference at the University of Michigan — Ann Arbor!

Steven stares at the screen. He flicks his eyes up to the window across from him and glowers at himself in the glass.

“You did this?” Steven demands. 

His reflection shrugs, showing not a shred of regret.

“I’m going to give you the body just to punch you in the face,” Steven threatens. His reflection glitches, leaving him staring back at himself in the dark mirror of the window.

“This is the last thing I need,” Steven grumbles. He moves his mouse to cancel his registration, but right as his cursor hesitates over the button, he hesitates. 

He’s done such a good job keeping himself away from her. Marc taking control of their lives for a while helped. With a healthy distance between him and her, Steven thought he would be able to start the spring semester without that additional distraction. Now, it seems that Marc is setting Steven on a collision course with her. Everything cautious and logical inside Steven tells him to make a U-turn as fast as he can, but he can’t quite bring himself to. 

Instead of canceling his registration, he books a trip to Michigan, even though he knows he shouldn’t. When this inevitably blows up in his face, he reasons, at least Marc will have to share the blame.

☾

The first conference you ever attended was way back in sophomore year. You tagged along with the professor who ran your archaeology lab and a few students from your research group. While much of the conference was what you were expecting, the first night certainly wasn’t. When you read “Welcome Happy Hour” on the schedule, you were imagining a polite group of academics sipping champagne and discussing the finer points of their research—not full-on intoxicated debates about the most current controversies in the field.

Being only twenty at the time, you couldn’t drink, so instead you leaned up against a high table with a Shirley Temple and felt like a child eavesdropping on the adults in the room. From then onwards, every time you saw an esteemed name on an assigned article in class, all you could picture was said academic tipsy and shouting down a colleague at a conference center in the Midwest. 

Admittedly, you hadn’t understood it back then. What’s the appeal of drinking to excess surrounded by colleagues? Now, after a five-hour bus ride from Chicago to Ann Arbor that turned into six and a half due to construction on I-94, you get it. You dump your bags at your hotel, change out of your traveling clothes, and make a beeline to the bar where the welcome happy hour is being held. 

At the moment, nothing sounds better than a chance to unwind after being alone on an empty campus for weeks on end and cramped in a Greyhound for almost seven hours. The conference has cashed out to rent the back room of a campus bar, so it’s a short walk in the cold of Michigan winter to get to the venue. When you arrive, the bar is already bustling—it looks to be a popular spot for students and townies alike. 

The bar is no different than the dive bars back in Chicago. The familiarity of it is reassuring. As you weave your way through the crowd to the back room, your shoes stick slightly to the floor and the smell of stale beer fills your nose. When you make it to the back room, the door is already propped open. The sound of voices guides you through, and you enter and find a crowd of blazer-ed and nametagged academics milling around, drinks already in hand.

Okay, so a little different than the bars back home. Seriously, who gives out name tags at a casual happy hour? 

The familiarity of the bar evaporates as you hesitate at the threshold. You’re stuck, like the sticky linoleum has taken hold of the soles of your shoes and won’t let go. This is your least favorite part of social gatherings: the uncomfortable period between arriving and melting into the crowd, the moment where everyone turns around to see who walked in. Standing in the doorway makes you feel all too visible. Like you’re being sized up; like everyone is trying to decide whether or not you belong here. In a room full of career academics, that feeling is so much more intense. If Imposter Syndrome could be summarized in a single agonizing second, it would be this. 

Out of the blue, you hear your name spoken in a familiar voice. You turn and see the person that matches the voice pushing his way through the crowd.

You stare. “Dr. Grant?” 

Standing in the middle of a dive bar in Michigan is Professor Steven Grant, wearing a black dress shirt and a name tag that’s completely redundant to you, considering you couldn’t forget him if you tried.

“Hiya,” he says, tipping his glass to you.

He’s holding a sweating glass of some kind of amber liquid. The condensation wicks off the glass and onto his hand.

Hishands. 

You drag your eyes back upwards before you can get lost in the memory of that night after your date. The back of your neck starts to feel hot and you wish you had a cold drink to cool off.

“Hi,” you say, still sounding dumbstruck. “Um, I thought you said you weren’t going to be here?”  

He shrugs. “I didn’t think so either, but here I am. When’d you get in?” 

You take a deep breath. This is a normal conversation. Be normal.

“About an hour ago, I think? I checked into the hotel and then walked over here. Just wanted to unwind, you know?”

Dr. Grant nods. He takes a sip of his drink, and then steps out of your way and gestures towards the bar. A crowd of conference attendees—all older than you, all definitely more qualified to be here—are leaning up against the counter.

“By all means, don’t let me get between you and a drink,” he jokes.

Sparing a smile, you push past Dr. Grant and head towards the bar. It’s only when you arrive that you realize you’ve made an error: there’s no menu anywhere. The little plastic sign just says “Well drinks = $5.” What the hell is a well drink? You’re an adult and you should have a go-to order by now, but you don’t. Every time you have to order off-menu, you end up sounding like a teenager trying to buy liquor with a fake ID. It’s really embarrassing. 

To your relief, Dr. Grant has followed you over. While the bartender makes a drink for the man beside you, you turn to Dr. Grant.

“What did you get?” you ask, pointing at his drink.

“Me?” Dr. Grant looks down at the glass and grimaces. “Rum and coke.”

You tilt your head. If you had to guess what he was drinking, it wouldn’t be that.

He shrugs. “I panicked. It was the only thing I could think of. Terrible, I know. A disgrace to good liquor.” 

“I don’t think you’re in danger of getting good liquor here,” you joke.

Dr. Grant’s mouth quirks up into a smile. You hate how much your stomach flutters when you realize you’ve amused him.

When the bartender comes over, you point to Dr. Grant’s drink. “I’ll have the same,” you say, with false confidence that you hope sounds genuine. 

Please don’t card me, you plead silently. Please do not card me in front of a room full of my colleagues. 

The bartender doesn’t even blink an eye. He just turns around and begins fixing your drink. You let out a small, relieved sigh.

Beside you, Dr. Grant leans up against the bar and stirs his drink with the thin black straws sticking out of it. The ice clinks gently against the glass. “I know it’s a bit of a British stereotype to like a drink, but I don’t. Dunno what it is. I hate the taste of alcohol. Unless it’s in something sweet, I can’t get it down.” 

“Hence the Coke?” 

Dr. Grant nods and sips his drink. 

The fact that Dr. Grant hates alcohol and has a sweet tooth is incredibly endearing. Every new fact you learn about him just makes him more adorable, which is a very dangerous thought to have while completely sober. 

The bartender pushes your drink towards Dr. Grant, who picks it up and hands it to you. For a split second, your fingers brush his, and the coolness of the drink against your palm and the heat of his hand against yours sends shivers rippling up your arm. You haven’t even touched your drink yet, but just that brush of his hand makes you feel buzzed.

Picking up the glass, you tilt towards Dr. Grant. “Cheers,” you say, in your best imitation of his accent. It comes out sounding like Oliver Twist.

He almost spits out his drink laughing. You sip yours to hide your smile. 

In any other context, this would be called flirting. That’s what you’re doing, right? The banter, the teasing—this is flirting. The only reason that it’s different is that you’re a student, Dr. Grant is a professor, and you’re in a room full of colleagues. You can’t be seen sitting here and teasing him about his accent where anyone could overhear. The reminder of your surroundings makes the rum in your drink go bitter on your tongue. With every joke you share with Dr. Grant, you can feel yourself inching closer and closer to a line you’re not supposed to cross, and you need to pull back before you make an irreparable mistake.

Not here. Not in front of an audience.

Evenif Dr. Grant is standing so close to you, smelling like cedar wood and some kind of musky cologne. Even if you can feel the heat of his body from twelve inches away. Even ifhis glass is sweating droplets onto his hands and you want to lick it off his fingers.

Woah.You avert your eyes and glare at the dark liquid in your glass. Maybe this drink is a little too strong. 

You need to get away from Dr. Grant. Immediately. Casting your gaze around the room, you land on a familiar face—a classmate from your cohort at UC. Perfect.

“Well, it was a nice surprise to see you here,” you say. “But I gotta go say hello to some people, so…”

Dr. Grant looks around bemused, like he forgot you were in a crowded bar. Does he feel that same dangerous electricity crackling between you? Does he also feel like you two exist in a sphere of your own? Or is he just more intoxicated than he’s letting on? You can’t tell if the look on his face is one of tipsy confusion or if it’s the same haze of inappropriate desire currently fogging your brain. 

Before he can come up with a response to your statement, you’ve already disappeared into the crowd. 

☾

Steven still feels a little drunk when he lays down in bed that night. 

He shouldn’t have finished his first drink, and he really shouldn’t have ordered a second. In fairness, he had thought it would distract him from his current dilemma—so he did. 

It didn’t, and he regrets it.

Now, as the clock ticks closer to midnight, Steven finds himself lying spread-eagled on a hotel mattress that’s about as hard as a rock, staring at the ceiling as the room spins around him. He locks his eyes on the overhead lighting fixture, as if that will help steady him.

“How does Marc do this?” Steven wonders aloud. Steven has watched from mirrors as his alter downs multiple shots in a row and comes up seemingly sober. “Don’t we have the same body? You’d think we’d have the same metabolism.” 

The ceiling doesn’t answer his question.

Groaning, Steven rolls over onto his side. The mattress is no more forgiving in this position. The room still spins, and the alcohol pumping through Steven’s bloodstream is making him feel even more melancholic than usual. The absurdity of this situation finally sets in: he’s drunk and alone in a hotel in Michigan, of all places, at a conference he doesn’t know anything about, because—

Because what? 

Steven can’t even admit it to himself. He knows why he booked a flight to Ann Arbor instead of canceling his registration, and it’s the same reason he left the Art Institute miserable all those weeks ago, and it’s the same reason he let a student audit his class for no real reason. 

Her.

She’s the reason behind all of this. The brilliant student with pretty eyes and razor-sharp wit. Steven has never properly been in love before, but being around her makes him feel stupid and happy at the same time, and that sounds a lot like people describe love on the television and in books. 

Steven rolls over again, this time laying face-down on the mattress. His cheek mushes against the hardtack mattress. Apparently, closing his eyes doesn’t help the whole spinning-room thing, but at least it keeps the ceiling light from glaring into his sensitive pupils. Conveniently, the mattress also muffles the sound of him groaning his misery out of the pit of his stomach. 

The thing is, he had been doing so well up to this point. In comparison to his first semesters as a professor—all the late arrivals to his own classes, all the missed appointments and deadlines—the fall semester went well. He only missed a week of classes (thanks, Jake), he turned in all of his grades on time, and he even got a handful of positive course reviews when December rolled around. By all accounts, that’s a good semester. Steven had proved to himself that he could live his own life and live it well. No distractions, no major mistakes. 

Except for her. 

He hadn’t seen her since that day at the Art Institute, the date with her boyfriend that he accidentally crashed, and he had been doing a good job of staying away from her and letting her live her life without him breathing down her neck. Seeing her at the bar was like a punch to the gut. Still bright and kind as always, she had managed to be sweet to him and tease him in a fifteen-minute span, and his fingers are still tingling from when his knuckles brushed against hers around the cold glass of her drink.

Pathetic, Steven thinks. She’s the first person to be properly kind to him in ages, and he falls head over heels for her, despite the fact that she’s a student. Like, seriously?

He thought a break in his corporeal existence would help him, but it didn’t. Now that he’s back in his body, it’s a hundred times worse. It’s worse because he’s in his body—now he can feel all the ways his traitorous physical form responds to her. When she brushed past him at the bar to go greet her friend, he felt that passing touch like an electric shock. When he thinks about seeing her at the museum with her boyfriend—watching that tall, blond kid wrap his hand around her waist—he feels that strange, sick feeling boiling in his stomach again. 

Now he has a name for it: jealousy.

“Pathetic,” he says again, this time out loud. It bounces off the dingy walls and echoes back to him. 

He can’t be jealous of her boyfriend. He isn’t allowed to be jealous of her boyfriend. Still, though, the images from that day keep popping up in Steven’s mind. One: when she leaned over to read the label on the statue of Khonshu and looked up at Steven for his approval when she tried to pronounce it. Two: the cute little dress she was wearing, the floral fabric skimming her thighs and cinching in at her waist. Three: that blond bastard wrapping his hand around her hip and pulling her closer to him, even when her face said she didn’t want it. 

The jealousy in Steven’s stomach morphs into something like anger at that particular memory. She deserves someone who will pay attention to her. She deserves someone who will touch her only when she wants it, only the way she likes it. She deserves someone who will appreciate her brilliant mind and laugh when she tells those jokes that are so quick you almost don’t even realize they’re jokes. She deserves someone like that, because she’s good. 

And you think you can be that for her?

The sarcastic voice in Steven’s head could be Khonshu or Marc or Jake or it could be Steven himself. Sometimes it’s hard to tell. At this point, he’s too tipsy and too tired to care. 

What makes you think she would want you to be that for her?

“Shut it,” Steven mumbles, half-muffled in the mattress. 

Pathetic. 

“I said shut it,” Steven grunts. 

He fumbles for the pillow to his right and drags it over his head, hoping in vain that it will muffle out the sounds of a voice coming from inside his mind. Too tired to get undressed, and feeling too nauseous from the alcohol and the revelations of the evening to do anything else, Steven curls up on top of the comforter and falls asleep. 

☾

The conference is going great, other than the looming sense of doom as the day of your presentation grows closer and closer. The panels are informative, the presentations engaging, and the networking opportunities excellent. You get a free tote bag and slowly fill it up with business cards and email addresses scribbled onto cocktail napkins—seemingly everyone is curious about your research and wants to chat later, which makes you feel both very appreciated and extremely out of your element. When you’re not spiraling out into panic about your upcoming presentation, you’re thriving. 

Throughout all of it, you barely see Dr. Grant. He appears to be on the entirely opposite schedule to you. Over the course of two days, you only see him exiting rooms that you’re entering and walking in the opposite direction as you. It’s so frequent it almost seems intentional. You would be offended, were it not a relief that your schedules are keeping you apart. After the night at the bar, you’re all too happy to keep your feelings towards Dr. Grant at arm’s length while you have more immediate problems at hand. 

Focus, you tell yourself. Stop thinking about him.

You jerk your eyes upward. After staring at the abstract pattern of the conference floor carpet for several minutes, the negative of it still stains your vision. Fanciful shapes dance across your eyes as you focus on the presentation in front of you. There’s a grad student standing behind a lectern, presenting a lengthy talk on recent advances in carbon dating technology. Is it really a surprise your mind wandered?

Maybe if you were a proper archaeologist, this would be fascinating. You’re not, though, and you zone out every time someone says the word dendrochronology. Unfortunately, the student is saying that word a lot, so your mind keeps providing unhelpful thoughts about Dr. Grant and his annoyingly perfect hands and annoyingly charming demeanor to keep you occupied. Okay, you might actually be grateful that he has been nowhere to be found for the past two days—you don’t want to look him in the eye after this. 

After the presentation is a panel and then a happy hour. You stick around for the panel, fill two pages in your notebook with notes and doodles, and then decide to head back to your room before the happy hour begins. Your presentation is at eleven tomorrow morning, and the last thing you need is to be carousing rather than practicing. Plus, with everyone downstairs, there’s no one on your floor and therefore no one to bother as you pace around your room presenting your PowerPoint over and over like you’re possessed by the ghost of Steve Jobs. 

By eight in the evening, you’ve run through your presentation three times. Each time, you record yourself and watch it back, giving yourself notes like a director on a power trip.

At nine, you’re laying upside down on your bed and shuffling through your presentation notes, trying to decide if you need to reformat them to make your transitions clearer.

At ten, you decide to do another run-through. For some reason, this is the one where you trip up. You’re approaching the middle of it—when you really get into the meat of your research—and you stumble on something you’ve never stumbled on before. The words trip out of your mouth, and suddenly every phrase on your outline tumbles out of your head. It sends you scrambling for your notes, where you realize that you unknowingly skipped through an entire section this time around.

What?How did you miss that? How did you just skip over an entire section? What if that happens tomorrow morning? What happens if you stutter and then draw a blank in front of dozens of experts in your field?

You’ll look like an idiot. They’ll all regret giving you their business cards. You’ll get laughed out of the room. 

No, no, no. 

Pacing around the room, you try to take calming breaths, but they don’t do much to help. All you can think about is the horrible image of you standing at the front of a makeshift lecture hall and completely freezing up in front of a full audience. This is a familiar kind of panic: the deep-rooted fear that you’re not good enough, you’re just pretending to be smart, and someone will eventually find out that you’re not worth your scholarships and grant money. Normally, you would seek out your roommate or your friends to talk you down. But you’re not at home, and they’re not here to help you, and you feel yourself creeping closer and closer to a full-blown doom spiral. 

You’re alone in Michigan, but not entirely. There is someone else here who could help you; all you have to do is ask for it. You think it over for about two and a half seconds, but you need someone to talk to so badly that you don’t hesitate.

Hi Dr. Grant,

I’m sorry to bother you so late. I’m working on my presentation—it’s tomorrow at 11 AM—and I would like a second opinion on some elements of it. Do you happen to have some time tonight to review it with me?

I’m on the third floor, room 306. 

Thank you. 

In the back of your mind, a very sensible voice reminds you that the last time you were in close proximity to Dr. Grant, you ended up dreaming about his fingers in your mouth. If it weren’t late in the evening, and if you weren’t about five minutes from a panic attack, you might have listened to that sensible voice. Now, though, all that practical bullshit feels very far away.

Barely two minutes after you sent the email, your phone buzzes on the bedspread. 

From: Dr. Steven Grant <[email protected]>

Subject: Presentation tomorrow

Sure, in 10 minutes ok?

You blink. You can’t say you were expecting that response, especially not so quickly. You type back a quick confirmation and then hurry around the room, attempting to make it presentable for a guest. Your suitcase has to go in the closet—you definitely can’t have it open and showing off your bras and panties that you packed for the trip. Then, you have to clean up the printed copies of your notes that are scattered everywhere, even though Dr. Grant is more than used to that kind of mess.

Oh, and you’re not wearing pants. Maybe you should find pants. 

Unfortunately, it seems that you didn’t think to pack proper lounge pants—the only options in your suitcase are slacks or business casual dresses. There’s one lone pair of sleep shorts folded into your bag, which will simply have to do. After giving the room a final once-over, you determine that it’s clean enough, so you unlock the door and slide the deadbolt to prop it open. 

Dr. Grant arrives almost exactly ten minutes after sending his email. It might be the only time he’s ever been perfectly on time, now that you think about it. 

When you open the door, you’re greeted by the sight of Dr. Grant looking a little worse for wear: his hair is slightly unrulier than usual and the dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced. As far as clothing, he’s dressed as casually as you: a long-sleeved, dark sweater that looks two sizes too big and gray sweatpants. Something inside you squeezes at the sight, something you might call yearning. 

You lean against the door. “Thank you so much for this. I know it’s late, but I just…I really need someone to look at this presentation and tell me it’s not awful.”

Dr. Grant smiles. “I’m sure it’s not.”

You sigh and look down at your feet. You’re not wearing shoes—only a pair of fuzzy socks. “Yeah, I know. You can come in, by the way.”

Stepping out of the way, you give Dr. Grant space to walk past you and into the room. As he passes by, you catch that particular scent of his. It’s grown familiar over time: cedarwood and musk, familiar and homey. The yearning in your chest twists tighter. 

You follow him into the room. “Okay, so, I only want to run through it one more time. Well, maybe two. It depends on how the first one goes. Like, I thought I had it all memorized, but I messed up the last time and now I’m second-guessing myself. Can you listen and just let me know if there are any, like, massive holes in my argument?” 

Dr. Grant nods. “Sure, of course.” 

He looks around the room in search of somewhere to sit, and you both seem to realize at the same time that the only option is your bed. Your stomach flips. Why does that feel so intimate? 

“Er,” Dr. Grant says, looking at the bed.

“Oh, go ahead,” you encourage. “It’s fine.” 

As he settles down, the mattress dips under his weight. He rests his hands in his lap and nods for you to take the lead. You gather your papers off the dresser and put your presentation in full-screen mode on your laptop. You take a deep breath, summon your confidence, and start your prepared remarks. 

“Hello, everyone, and thank you for taking the time—”

“So sorry,” Steven interrupts. “I can’t see.” 

While you wait, your hands awkwardly curled around your notes, Steven fumbles for his glasses. Usually he keeps them tucked into the pocket of his dress shirt, but today he’s sporting a sweater with no pockets, so he ends up fumbling at his chest for nothing. You bite back a smile and point to his hair, where his glasses are perched on the top of his head.

He lets out a chagrined laugh. “Of course. Alright, sorry for the interruption. Go on.” 

His laughter breaks the tension. Before, you were nervous about the idea of presenting to Dr. Grant—after all, he is another academic, the kind of austere professional you will be presenting to tomorrow morning. Then again, he’s not. This is Dr. Grant, with his kind eyes and friendly demeanor. His presence puts you at ease. When you look down at your notes, the words that had seemed like alphabet soup just twenty minutes ago organize themselves in perfect order. Glancing back up, you realize Dr. Grant is watching you patiently with his dark eyes focused on your face. It makes your stomach flip again, but it’s from excitement rather than fear. Sharing your hard work with him is exciting, not terrifying.

You clear your throat and start again.

It takes about seventeen minutes total. You barely have to look at your notes, you don’t stumble, and you don’t forget anything this time. At the end of the PowerPoint, you click to the final slide and turn to Dr. Grant. You imagine that he is your real audience: not one professor sitting in your hotel room in his pajamas, but an entire hall full of academics in blazers and pantsuits. You give your most professional smile and give your concluding remarks.

“Thank you for your time. If you have any questions, I am happy to answer them in the next ten minutes.” 

Dr. Grant grins and claps. “Wow, that was amazing!”

Your heart leaps. “Really?” Are you sure?” 

He nods. Dr. Grant has a very expressive face and he looks genuinely excited for you. “Yeah, no, that was amazing. Really great work. This is what you were worried about?” 

Without the pretense of your presentation, you feel a little shy standing in front of him. You rub your arm. “Um, yeah. I don’t know. Is that dumb?”

Dr. Grant shakes his head. “No, not dumb at all. Being nervous is normal. But, I have to say, you don’t have anything to be worried about. I really can’t come up with any critique. Do you think you just needed someone to listen and tell you that it’s okay?”

Ouch. That was perceptive. 

You shift your weight between your feet. “Yeah, maybe.” 

“‘s nothing to be embarrassed about. I do it too. Why’d you think I always show you my lecture slides when you come by office hours?”

“That’s why? I thought you were just helping me with my research or something.”

Dr. Grant shrugs with a smile. “Yeah, of course, but it also helps to have someone else look at your work and say it’s good. Which it is, of course. Your work is very good. I’m—”

He stops short and closes his mouth in the middle of his sentence. You want to know what he was about to say, but before you can ask, he changes the topic. “How’re you feeling now?”

You glance over at your notes, now sitting on the dresser. “Good. Good, I think. I mean, I still feel like maybe I shouldn’t have skipped happy hour, but… I’m okay.”

Dr. Grant huffs out a laugh. “I might be able to help with that, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Hang on.” He gets up from the bed and adjusts his sweater. The sleeves are too long—they hang over his wrists and cover his hands. “I’ll be right back, yeah?”

Bemused, you nod, and watch Dr. Grant hurry out of the room. As he leaves, it strikes you how odd this situation is. It’s past ten in the evening and there’s a professor in your hotel room in his pajamas. On paper, this is a very weird situation. Somehow, though, it feels natural; it feels like you’re just hanging out with a friend.

This isn’t the first time you’ve wondered what your dynamic with Dr. Grant would be like if he weren’t a professor and you weren’t a student. You like to think that you could actually be friends. Maybe more. 

You’re still lost in thought when Dr. Grant returns. He knocks lightly on your door and slips through without waiting for your response. You look down at what he’s brought with him. 

“Is that whiskey?” you demand.

“Er, scotch, but close,” Dr. Grant says, looking down at the bottle in his hand. 

You stare. “I thought you said you don’t like alcohol.” 

He shrugs. “It’s for a friend, actually. I mean, I don’t think he would mind if I told him it was for an emergency.” He looks from the bottle to you. “Does stage fright count as an emergency?”

You tilt your head, contemplating it. “Well, considering I emailed you and begged you for help at eleven in the evening…yeah. I think it’s an emergency.” 

“Then we’re in the clear.”

Sure. We’re in the clear, you think.

You settle yourself at the foot of the bed, so Dr. Grant sits at the top, near the headboard. He sets the scotch down on the bedside table. The warm light from the lamp makes the bottle glow rich amber.

Dr. Grant looks around. “D’you have cups, or anything?” 

“Um.” You look around the room and land on the plastic-wrapped disposable cups by the coffeemaker. Presumably, they’re meant for your morning coffee, but they’ll suffice. You grab them off the counter and come back to the bed, carefully peeling off the plastic and chucking it in the trash. While you dispose of the plastic, Dr. Grant opens the bottle and pours a pinch of scotch into each cup. He passes a cup to you and then takes a sip from his, winces, and sets it aside.

“Not a fan?” you ask, smiling.

“How can you be?” He nods towards your cup. “Try that and tell me it’s not like drinking paint stripper.”

You sip the scotch and wait for the burn. To your surprise, though, it’s not a scorching burn like bad vodka—no, it’s just warm, spreading heat along your tongue and the back of your throat. “Woah,” you say, looking down at the cup. Honey-colored liquid sloshes around the bottom.

“Youlike it?” Dr. Grant demands. He stares at you incredulously, his eyes wide. 

With that boyish look on his face, he doesn’t look like the studious professor you know. He looks ten, fifteen years younger with his curls hanging over his forehead and the pink flush on his cheeks.

“Yeah, I think so,” you say, and then realize your voice is raspy from the alcohol. 

Dr. Grant reaches for his cup and gives it a skeptical look. He takes a second sip and pulls a face. “Nope. Still not good. S’all yours, if you want.” 

You smile and take another tiny sip of the scotch. Not too much, though—you’re not trying to get drunk. Honestly, when you said you wanted a drink, you just wanted an excuse to spend more time with Dr. Grant. After passing by him like ships in the night for two days straight, you’re happy to just sit and chat. 

You set the cup down on the floor and reach for your water bottle. Dr. Grant sits with one leg hanging off the bed and the other crooked in front of him. It strikes you again how different he looks like this: in his soft pajamas, ready for bed, looking sleepy but happy to be here. Yearning pangs deep inside your chest. It’s so easy to imagine what it would have been like if you met him some other way. If you had met for the first time two days ago, just two strangers in a bar, would you still end up here? Would you ever get to see him beyond these stolen moments? 

You think so. You like to think that the two of you would be like this in any world, any timeline. 

“How’re you feeling about tomorrow?” he asks. His voice is raspy from the liquor, too. 

You shrug. “Okay, I guess. I mean, I can’t change anything now.” 

Dr. Grant studies you, which makes you feel shy. It’s overwhelming to be the subject of his entire focus. “You’ll do great.”

You smile and take a sip of water. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” 

“No, I’m serious. It’s a brilliant presentation. You know exactly what you’re doing, and you’re doing amazing work. You’re gonna do great.” 

The sincerity of Dr. Grant’s words and the earnestness of his gaze are too intense. You look away. He seems to notice he’s made you uncomfortable, so he clears his throat and changes the topic. “What does your boyfriend think of your presentation? Have you shown it to him?”

Your boyfriend? You look up again, brows furrowed in confusion. 

At your confusion, Dr. Grant looks equally confused. He gestures awkwardly. “The blond bloke. What was his name?” 

Your confusion turns into amusement as you realize his meaning and you practically double over laughing. “Oh my god, he is not my boyfriend.” 

Dr. Grant stares.

You sit up and try to catch your breath. “His name is Josh, and he is definitely not my boyfriend. That was a blind date. First andlast.” 

“Oh,” Dr. Grant says. He blinks rapidly, trying to process that information.

Meanwhile, you try to decide if you should be offended that Dr. Grant thought you would actually date Josh. Like, really, Josh told you that your thesis was worthless and then spent half an hour explaining cryptocurrency to you after you already said you know what it is. Would you really date a guy like that? 

You take another sip of water in the hopes of cooling yourself off after laughing so hard. “So, no, not my boyfriend. Don’t have one of those, actually. What about you? Is there anyone waiting for you back in London?”

Dr. Grant’s amused expression flickers. “No,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. “No, just a goldfish. Well, I actually brought him here, so…yeah, no one.” 

Your heart squeezes in your chest. The universe is cruel that someone like Dr. Grant—someone so funny, handsome, intelligent, kind—has only a goldfish waiting for him at home. You’re lonely, too, but you’re not alone: you have a roommate and friends and family back home. As far as you can tell, Dr. Grant has none of that.

Before you can think better of it, you reach over to take Dr. Grant’s hand and squeeze it tight. He doesn’t reject your touch, but his eyes flicks down to where your hand rests on his, like he’s trying to verify that this is actually happening. He looks up at you and his expression is both lost and vulnerable all at once. 

“Dr. Grant,” you murmur. 

He squeezes your hand back. “Steven.” 

“Steven.” As you say it, his name tastes sweet and forbidden in your mouth. He turns his hand over and lets you interlace your fingers with his. 

You meant for this gesture to be comforting, but all it does is crack your heart wide open and let every emotion you tried to hide spill out. Without thinking about it, you close the space between you, and all you can do is hope that he does the same. 

He does. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he does. Steven meets you in the middle and your eyes slip shut as his mouth presses against yours. It’s a short, chaste kiss, but it makes your skin prickle and heat creep up your face all the same. When he pulls away—too soon—you don’t open your eyes. You’re not ready for it to be over. You don’t want to see Steven retreat into himself and hear him tell you that you shouldn’t do this. If you could, you would linger in this moment forever, with the memory of his lips on yours and the smell of cedar and malt all around you. 

Finally, you force yourself to open your eyes. You’re greeted by the sight of Steven’s sweet, handsome face marred with worry. He almost looks afraid. The concern in his eyes douses the flicker of desire in your chest, and then it’s you who jerks back, too embarrassed to be caught pining for a man who probably wishes you hadn’t just kissed him. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, covering your face in shame. “I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry.” 

Steven wraps a firm hand around your wrist, making you startle. He gently tugs your hand away from your face. “It’s okay,” he says. “Do you… do you want this? Is this something that you want?” 

Do you want this? 

“This”could mean anything—everything from another kiss to the entire concept of Steven Grant. When you finally allow yourself space to contemplate that question, you find that the answer is yes. Yes to all of it; yes to everything he might mean. Yes to Steven. 

You nod, short and sharp. 

Steven turns your hand over and laces his fingers with yours. “It’s okay if you don’t. And if you do…I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes.” You nod again, more confident this time. “Yes, I want this.” 

“Okay,” he says softly. 

His clever mouth tilts up into a smile and you can’t resist any longer. This time, when you lean in, and you don’t have to worry about whether or not Steven will meet you in the middle. He kisses you, and it becomes immediately apparent that neither of you really know what you’re doing, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the feeling of Steven’s hand squeezing yours and the warmth of his lips pressed against your mouth. You tilt your head to kiss his lower lip and reach up to cup the side of his face in your palm. His breath shudders out of his lungs and fans across your face in stops and starts. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded and he leans his face into your touch like a particularly affectionate cat.

Your fingers creep up to his hairline to card through his curls and his eyes slip shut entirely. To see him so affected by the simplest of touches—it throws open the doors to your desire and you fall through headfirst. 

When was the last person to touch him like this? How long has it been for him?

Shuffling closer, you cup Steven’s face in both hands and kiss him again. He lets out a weak noise in the back of his throat when he feels your left hand creep back into his hair, and it’s the perfect opportunity to try and deepen the kiss. In response, he reaches towards you clumsily, and you guide his hands to rest on your thighs. 

“Steven,” you whisper, against his mouth.

“Yeah, love?”

Oh. 

He called you love. 

Your hand slips down to his chest, where you feel his heart pounding through his sweater. The fabric is soft over his firm chest and you curl your fingers into the dark material. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you confess. 

“Really?”

The incredulity in his tone surprises you. You look up. Steven’s heavy brows are knitted in genuine confusion, like he can’t fathom the concept of you wanting him. 

You frown, too. “Of course I have. How can I not?” 

Steven shrugs. “I mean, it’s just me, innit?” He’s half-joking, but it doesn’t completely hit the sincere insecurity underpinning that question.

You scoff. “Well, if ‘it’s just me’ means ‘it’s just me, the handsome professor who genuinely cares about me and what I have to say, then, yeah, I guess it is justyou.” 

Steven tilts his head. The shadow of a smile plays across his lips. “Handsome?”  

“Yes,handsome,” you say, even as your face burns with embarrassment. “I mean, have you ever seenyourself?”

Steven’s little ghost-smile spreads into a broad grin. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Even if it’s a joke, your heart leaps into your throat at the idea of Steven thinking about you the way you think about him. You scoot closer and your knee bumps against his. “What, I’m handsome?” you tease.

Steven’s grin slides down his face. “No! I mean, you’re not handsome, but you’re pretty. Very pretty. Really pretty, actually. I mean, beautiful? Both, I guess,” he stumbles.

With every word, Steven’s face turns redder and redder. It’s adorable. Finally showing some mercy, you wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and draw him in. “I think you’re pretty too,” you whisper, and kiss him again. 

Steven melts under your touch. His hesitant touch resting on your thighs becomes more insistent, and soon you shuffle forwards and sink into his lap while he leans his head back against the headboard. This new angle is different: like this, Steven has to look up at you, and the sight of his handsome face tilted up in supplication sends a shimmering wave of desire through you. Even with the warm light of the bedside lamp casting amber rays across his face, Steven’s eyes are still dark as night. His pupils are twin black holes, wide and beautiful and endless, and you feel yourself drawn in by their irresistible gravity. 

Surging forward, you deepen the kiss and savor the weak noise of desire from the back of his throat. He holds tight to your hips, clutching at your gray sweatshirt like an anchor in a storm. With your eyes shut, you can focus entirely on the feeling of his hands on you. His touch is equal parts greed and hesitation. 

Resting your forehead against his, you let out a warm sigh across his face. “Is this your first time doing this?” you murmur.

You open your eyes just in time to see Steve nod. There’s something curious about his expression that makes you pause. 

“I meant with a student,” you clarify.

Steven swallows hard. He nods again. “That too.” 

As realization dawns, all you can do is lean in and press the sweetest kiss to his lips. Your heart cracks open at the idea of sweet, lonely Steven living his entire life without knowing what it feels like to be touched gently and with affection. You want to be the one to give him that. When you rest your forehead against his again, you cup the nape of his neck and his breath rattles out of his chest. 

You twirl one of his curls through your fingers. “It’s okay, Steven,” you murmur.

“I feel like I’m gonna have a heart attack,” he confesses. “Is that normal?”

In fairness, you don’t really know what’s normal, either. It’s not like you do this very often, and you’ve certainly never kissed a gentle, handsome professor that you’ve been secretly pining after for months. You let out a soft laugh and run your hands through Steven’s hair. 

“I think so.”

He nods. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Can I touch you?”

You nod, maybe a little too eager, too hungry for him to care. “Yes. Please.” 

Something snaps, then. Maybe it was the last thread of your hesitation or perhaps the lingering shadow of Steven’s insecurities. Whatever it was, it’s gone, and you crash together with all the greed of two lonely people aching for connection. When you meet in the middle, you trade hungry kisses that grow less and less hesitant as Steven slowly gains confidence. He allows his hands to skate up your back, cupping the curves of your ribcage and exploring the notches of your spine. Even over your clothing, his touch feels amazing, and you find yourself kissing him harder to stifle the needy noises rising up in your throat. 

Having thought about this for so long, you’re shocked to learn it’s even better than you imagined. You never could have imagined the reverence of Steven’s touch or the way he draws back from kissing you to periodically ask if you’re still okay. 

“Yes,” you tell him, every time. 

With every whispered confirmation, he gains courage, eventually gripping your hips and helping you sink further into his lap. Soon, your kisses migrate from his lips to the sharp line of his jaw and down to his neck. His skin tastes like salt and you fight the urge to suck it between your teeth to leave a mark. His hands fall to your thighs, his fingertips dimpling your soft flesh, and he grips tight as your messy kisses cascade down his neck. His head falls back against the headboard and he swallows hard. With all your attention on his throat, you notice the thin gold chain around his neck and press your lips along the line of it. His entire body shudders from the contact. 

He rasps out your name, and soon he pushes off the headboard to return the favor. Copying your motions, he leaves hot, messy kisses across your jaw and under your ear. He doesn’t have technique so much as a desire to have his mouth on as much of you as he can. The humid press of his mouth on your skin feels like something out of your wildest dreams. Every press of his lips makes you burn hotter and hotter. No one has ever touched you like this and you never want anyone else to, either. No one except him.

Somewhere along the way, Steven gets the idea to bite you, and his teeth grazing over the tender skin of your neck strikes you like lightning.

“Steven!” you gasp.

He jerks backwards. “Sorry,” he says, reflexively. “Oh, shit. Did that hurt? I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head and cup the nape of his neck to draw him back in. “N-no, keep doing that. It felt good,” you murmur shakily. “Do it again, please.” 

With his hands planted on your hips under your sweater and his curls brushing the underside of your jaw, Steven returns to kissing your throat, alternating each gentle touch with a nip to the sensitive skin of your neck. If it leaves a mark, you don’t care. You want it to leave a mark: you want to wake up tomorrow morning with evidence of Steven on your skin. 

That’s the thought that finally makes you moan aloud. It’s a high-pitched, girlish sound, one you’ve never made in front of another person.

Steven freezes. He looks up at you, his face the picture of innocent surprise.

“Did you— did you like that?” you ask.

He nods dumbly. “Yeah. Yeah, I liked that a lot.”

“Okay,” you murmur. 

Steven hitches you forward in his lap, which makes you yelp in surprise. “Can you make more of those pretty noises for me?” he rasps. 

With your chest pressed against his, you barely have time to register that he feels unexpectedly broad and firm before his hot mouth returns to your neck. Reaching up, he tugs at your collar with his thick finger, exposing the hollow of your throat and your clavicle to his hungry mouth. His tongue laves over your collarbone like he wants to devour you and you find yourself wondering what else he might be able to do with that smart mouth. 

Following the instincts of your body, you let your head tilt backwards and arch your body into Steven’s. Without every thinking about it, you press yourself down into his lap, pushing your hips needily against his and—

Oh. 

If you weren’t paying attention before, you certainly are now. The bulge in Steven’s pants is unmistakable: he’s hard for you, because of you, and you clench so suddenly that you’re sure he can feel it. You freeze in place, the hard length of him pressed against your clothed sex, and suddenly you’re imagining a whole new array of images: being under Steven, his arms caging you in, his hips thrusting into you while he kisses every bare inch of your skin.

Your chin tilts forward and you look down at the place your thighs are spread around him. You roll your hips again, slowly, but Steven’s hand flies out to stop you. His grip is iron on your hip. He looks up at you, his expression guilty as sin.

“Steven,” you murmur, his name slurred with need. 

He’s frozen in place, his gaze distant and focused on something over your shoulder. You look behind you, but there’s nothing there—just your closed laptop and presentation notes scattered over the dresser.

“Steven?” you ask. Where your hands grip his shoulders, you knead gently, trying to work out some of the tension there.

He shakes his head. His gaze snaps back to yours. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” 

You frown. “What?” 

He hides his face in his hands, pressing the heels to his forehead. The movement jostles you and you practically fall out of his lap and onto your rear on the mattress. 

“Steven, it’s okay. It’s normal, it’s just how your body reacts. I’m not bothered—”

“Stop,”Steven pleads. He’s not looking at you, his face still hidden in his hands. His ears are bright red where they peek out from under his curls. “Just— stop. Please. I should— I should go.” 

“Steven.” You rest your hand on his knee. He flinches, and you draw back like you were burned. “Steven, please look at me.” 

He drops his hands and looks at you. His dark eyes look haunted, replacing the richness of desire that was just there a few moments ago. “You don’t understand.” 

“What? What do you mean, I don’t understand?”

“I can’t. I shouldn’t have come here. You have a presentation tomorrow, it’s late, I should go.” 

He’s rambling. You recognize an anxious episode when you see one, and Steven is spiraling out. You wish you knew how to comfort him, but he doesn’t want you to touch him—he doesn’t even want you to look at him. What can you do?

You watch, lost and bereft, as Steven awkwardly climbs off the bed and tugs the wrinkles out of his sweater. He’s retreating back into himself, hiding in plain sight the way he does when he’s around strangers. No, you want to say. Come back. Don’t hide. Not from me. 

“I should go,” he repeats. He’s a broken record.

“Okay,” you say. “Yeah, okay.” 

“I shouldn’t have… we shouldn’t have,” he says, his voice broken. 

“Yeah,okay,” you snap. You feel a headache starting—your punishment for letting your desire lead you into this place you don’t belong. “I get it. We made a mistake.”

When you look up, he doesn’t look so scared. He looks apologetic, more than anything. “I’m gonna go now,” he says softly. 

“Okay.” 

He starts to walk towards the door and you follow him from a few feet behind. When he reaches the door, he pauses.

You fiddle with the sleeves of your sweater, falling over your hands. “Will you still come tomorrow? To my presentation?” 

He doesn’t say anything. You start to feel betrayed—angry, almost—but you don’t know if you’re allowed to feel that. Are you allowed to be mad that the person you shouldn’t have kissed tells you that you shouldn’t have kissed him? Isn’t he just telling the truth?

He doesn’t answer your question.

“Goodnight,” he says. There’s a hollow quality to his voice and it hits you like a gut punch.

“Goodnight,” you echo. 

He opens the door, steps through, and he’s gone. The sound of the door clicking shut rattles you like a tornado passing through. He’s gone, but you can still feel the ghost of his curls through your fingers and the tingle of his lips on yours. You feel dazed, hollowed-out, stunned.

What did you just do?

☾

Steven needs to get out. 

He needs to breathe. He needs to crack open a window, fill his lungs with the cold air of the Michigan winter, suck down the ice-cold breeze until it clears the panic rapidly clouding his brain. He sucks in a deep breath and wets his lips and immediately regrets it, because he can still taste her on his tongue. 

This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here. Was he really so naive that he thought he could be alone with her and just talk? He should have known better. He knows he can’t resist her, and right now—so far from home, so distant from the roles they play back in Chicago—it was all too easy to give in. 

The lines had blurred. Steven doesn’t do well with blurred lines. He needs clarity to keep him on the right path. He needs barriers and boundaries to keep from his life from descending into chaos. Chaos, it turns out, is kissing a student in a hotel room when he can still taste the liquor on her lips. How can he know she really wanted to kiss him anyway? He’s a professor, she had been drinking—it’s all wrong. He feels bile rise up in his throat and wishes there were somewhere he could retch out all the guilt burning inside him. 

Just as he was about to lose himself in her, Marc had appeared in the mirror over her shoulder. Steven waited for his rebuke, but it didn’t come—the mere sight of him was enough to remind Steven of all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this. He’s a broken man, fractured into pieces, every part of him chained to a vengeful deity that holds his soul in a withered hand. After all, there’s a reason the three of them only have each other.

He isn’t right for her, not with her gentle heart and trusting ways. She wants to be closer to him, but she doesn’t know that getting too close will just mean that she gets cut on Steven’s broken edges.

He needs to go. He never should have come in the first place. The only thing left for him to do is leave before he makes it any worse. 

☾

TO BE CONTINUED