Bennett knew he'd been too harsh with Jamie.

The stricken look on Jamie's handsome features had cut Bennett to the core, and after Jamie had left, Bennett sat at his desk, head in his hands, for a long while, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.

Bennett had panicked, and that panic had apparently translated to condescension, which Jamie didn't deserve. The situation wasn't Jamie's fault. If anything, Bennett was the one who'd apparently been hitting on undergrads.

As if he needed any more confirmation that he should just remain single and celibate for the rest of his life.

He pulled out his phone and called Peter.

"Shouldn't you be on a date?" Peter said as soon as he picked up. "Unless—is this a threesome invitation?"

Bennett rolled his eyes, even though Peter couldn't see him.

"You're not going to believe this, Peter."

"He stood you up?" Peter said.

God, if only.

"No," Bennett said. He inhaled, bracing himself. "He's my TA."

Peter was quiet for a moment, and then he burst out laughing.

"What?" Peter said, when he could talk again. "Are you joking?"

"I finally ask someone out, and this is what happens," Bennett said. He explained the shock of Jamie appearing in the doorway of his office, how his brain had screeched to a halt trying to come up with an explanation.

"So you're… not going out on a date with him then?"

"No, Peter," Bennett said, frowning. "Good god."

"Hmm," Peter said. "I suppose you're right, that probably would be frowned upon."

"Yes, yes it would."

"Well, that's a shame. He's very cute."

"I know," Bennett said, running a hand through his hair.

"I mean, it's not… illegal… you probably wouldn’t lose your job," Peter said.

"You're not helping," Bennett said.

"Oh, stop pouting, it's not that bad," Peter said. "Look, I'll pick up Thai food and come over, and you can whine about how you want to fuck your TA."

"Peter—" Bennett hissed.

"Don't tell me these things if you don't want me to tease you about them," Peter said, and Bennett could just imagine Peter casually examining his well-manicured nails the way he did when he'd made a point Bennett couldn’t argue with.

"Fine," Bennett grumbled. "I'll see you at six."

"See you soon, darling," Peter said.

He sat for a while, trying to get some work done in preparation for the semester, but his mind resolutely refused to cooperate, his thoughts ricocheting violently, drawn to and repelled by the thought of what had happened all at once.

At last, he gave up, slid his laptop into his bag, and packed up. He liked his office—long windows that looked over the campus and let in lots of light, bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling, a kind of cramped and comfortable chaos—but right now he couldn't stand to be there any longer. He kept thinking of Jamie, sitting across from him, how Jamie had crumpled after Bennett snapped at him, folding in on himself.

Bennett had just been so scared—scared by Jamie's beauty and charm, by the fact that a part of Bennett didn't care that Jamie was his TA, that Jamie was more than a decade younger, that it would be wildly inappropriate.

He didn't trust that part of himself.

Bennett shut and locked his office door behind him, as if he could similarly compartmentalize that part of his mind, that want.

He limped home. The walk to his house was short, less than half a mile, but the pain was particularly bad today. Bennett had learned by now that there was no rhyme or reason to the bad days. The muscles of his thigh cramped viciously as he walked, like some unseen creature had latched its fangs into his leg and refused to let go.

He found his front door already unlocked and was greeted by the rich aroma of spices as he pushed it open. Peter had a key to Bennett's house—ostensibly for emergencies, but Peter used it mostly to water the houseplants when Bennett was traveling or to barge in on him when he was bored.

Bennett found Peter sprawled out on his couch, lazily eating rice grain by grain with a pair of chopsticks.

"I thought we said six," Bennett said, raising an eyebrow, but he didn’t really mind. Peter was pushy, but he still had an innate sense of how far he could take things. He went up to the line but never past it.

"I was bored and Mo is in surgery all night," Peter said, sitting up.

"So glad to be your second choice," Bennett said with a crooked smile as he slowly lowered himself down into the chair and surveyed the spread of takeout containers. "What did you get?"

"The usual," Peter said, shoving a container of pale green curry towards Bennett. He gave Bennett an appraising look that was all too familiar and Bennett braced himself as Peter opened his mouth.

"Bad day?" he said.

Terrible day, in fact, Bennett thought, but he knew that's not what Peter was asking. They'd developed a shorthand in the past years, borne out of Bennett's chronic inability to communicate his feelings and Peter's refusal to let his friend suffer alone.

"Not great," Bennett said after a moment, not quite meeting Peter's eyes.

"Physical or mental?"

"Physical," Bennett said, his hand going automatically to his thigh, tracing the long, gnarled scar through the fabric of his pants.

"I know we've talked about this before, but why don't you just get—"

Peter stopped short as Bennett shot him a lethal look.

"Fine," Peter said, holding up a hand in surrender and returning to his curry. "Forget I said anything."

They ate in silence for a while, Bennett stewing in his own childish stubbornness. Peter was right—Bennett was cutting off his nose to spite his face, and a cane or walking aid would make his life infinitely easier. All his doctors and physical therapists had said that his current mobility level was about as good as it would ever get, but somehow Bennett clung to a superstitious belief that he could muscle his way to a full recovery through sheer force of will.

It hadn't worked so far.

"So," Bennett said after a while, figuring he owed an olive branch to Saint Peter the Infinitely Patient. "This is the year they'll decide whether or not I get tenure."

Peter's head snapped up, a wide grin on his face.

"Congratulations," he said.

"Well I haven't gotten it yet," Bennett said. "It's a long process."

Peter snorted.

"Oh, come on," he said, gesturing with his fork. "You're an award-winning journalist. How could they not give you tenure?"

"Not a journalist anymore," Bennett said. "Haven't been one in years."

"Award-winning," Peter said. "Those awards didn't just disappear."

"It's a lot of bureaucracy," Bennett said. "Greg Archer is not my biggest fan."

"He's that department head, right?" Peter said. "Always calls you Ben?"

Bennett rolled his eyes.

"Yes, that's him."

"But there's lots of other people on the… committee thing, right?" Peter said, tucking his legs underneath him on the couch and sitting up a little straighter. "I just don't see how they wouldn't want you."

Bennett mumbled something, poking at his curry.

"Bennett, do you want tenure?" Peter said, and Bennett sighed as he met Peter's gaze. As usual, his friend had zeroed in on exactly the thing Bennett wanted to ignore.

Bennett paused.

"I don't know," Bennett said finally.

In truth, he'd started teaching at Bellamy simply for something to do to get his life back on track after everything had happened. His marriage with Michelle was falling apart, his physical therapy was a horror show, and his mental health had been at rock bottom. Bennett had never felt particularly called to sculpt bright young minds, but having some place to be each day had given his fractured life some semblance of normalcy.

"The job security would be nice," Bennett continued, without any real enthusiasm in his voice. "I do like Bellamy. And I don’t know what else I'd do."

"Well, you could just do what I did," Peter said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. "Marry a doctor and be a trophy husband."

"Need I remind you that you are also an award-winning journalist?" Bennett said.

"These days the most writing I do is sending Mo dirty texts," Peter said. He pulled out his phone. "Speaking of which—"

Bennett made an exaggerated gagging noise.

"Check this one out," Peter said. "Thai leftovers for dinner, love you. Absolutely filthy."

"Depraved."

Peter's grin went sly.

"Speaking of depraved—"

"Peter," Bennett said in a warning tone, as if it would do any good.

"I had so many dirty professor fantasies when I was in school," Peter said and Bennett groaned, burying his face in his hand.

"Yeah, but you were probably the student in those fantasies."

"Well, maybe, but my point is—"

"Peter, please stop," Bennett pleaded. "I am teaching a class in journalism ethics—stop laughing at me—"

Peter had dissolved into what could only be called giggles.

"Are you done?" Bennett said as he waited for his terrible best friend to compose himself.

"You've got to admit, the whole situation is funny."

"Maybe," Bennett grunted.

"At least you didn't sleep with him," Peter said, shrugging. "In a few weeks you both will have forgotten all about the whole thing."

But given the way Bennett's heart kept skipping whenever he thought of Jamie's smile, his graceful hands, the way his hair fell into his eyes, Bennett didn't think he'd be forgetting any time soon.

* * *

At four that morning, Bennett finally caved and took one of his heavy-duty pain pills, the kind he could have earned a lot of money selling if he'd been so inclined. His leg ached, a sickening, bone-deep kind of pain that took up residence in his brain like an unwanted houseguest until it was the only thing he could think about.

Not exactly the way he wanted to start out the semester.

Peter had stayed until ten, and it had been a pleasant evening. But as soon as he left, the house felt even emptier than it usually did—the difference between loneliness and solitude, Bennett realized. For years, being alone had been all he could handle—he had been falling apart at the seams, had no emotional energy to give anyone else.

But now he was healing, he knew. Something had shifted recently—things hadn't gotten easier, but they'd gotten easier to bear.

And suddenly, Bennett no longer wanted to be alone.

At last, the painkillers began to kick in, and the ache was dulled, though Bennett could feel the full force of the pain still lurking at the edges.

Finally, he slept.

* * *

"Fuck—"

Bennett sat up in bed, and he knew without looking at the clock that he'd overslept. He leapt out of bed and sure enough—he had twenty minutes to get to Rice Hall.

Swearing loudly and profusely, he pulled on the first things he grabbed out of his closet and hastily brushed his teeth. He grabbed his bag and ran a hand through his hair in lieu of any other personal grooming. He glanced in the mirror hanging in the entryway as he rushed out the door—he wasn't going to land a modeling contract, but at least his clothing wasn't on inside out.

Bennett walked as fast as he could to campus, gritting his teeth at the stabbing pain that came with each step. The meds he'd taken last night had worn off, and on top of that, Bennett could feel the beginning of a brutal headache rolling in like a fog. His coffee dependency had reached almost lethal levels.

It was going to be a rough first lecture.

He reached the lecture hall with one minute to spare and dropped his bag onto the desk at the front, pausing to catch his breath so it didn't seem as though he'd woken up nineteen minutes ago.

"Oh, goddamnit," Bennett muttered to himself. He'd completely forgotten to print out the syllabi and handouts. He'd meant to wake up early, in time to get to the department office to use the copier before class, but the morning had gone off the rails.

"What's wrong?" a voice said, and Bennett glanced up to see Jamie, looking as eager as some sort woodland creature from an animated movie.

Bennett couldn’t ignore the way his breath hitched when their eyes met. Jamie's eyes looked almost green in the morning light, but not emerald green—Jamie's eyes were the green of tall grass in the late August sun, of rain-damp moss, of river water when—

"Um, is everything okay?" Jamie said, frowning, and Bennett shook himself.

Good god, get a hold of yourself, Bennett thought. He'd been staring at Jamie blankly, mouth slack.

"I—forgot to print out the handouts," Bennett said, looking away sharply and pulling out his folder of lecture notes—at least those he'd prepared ahead of time.

"Did… you not get my text?" Jamie said, dropping a ream of paper down onto the desk with a satisfying slap.

"No—" Bennett said. "Bit of a late start—" He looked down at the papers, and it took a moment to process what he was seeing.

"Oh," Jamie said. "Well, I texted you about the handouts, and you didn't respond so… I just… printed them off to be safe."

"Oh, god, you angel—" Bennett said, and he cut himself short as his gaze snapped up to meet Jamie's. He watched Jamie's cheeks flush pink.

Oops. The phrase was something Peter always said, and the words had just fallen out of his mouth.

"Er—thank you," Bennett said, gruffly now. "Would you mind handing them out." It was less of a question and more of a command, but he needed to put distance between himself and Jamie, needed to not see that lovely blush.

Jamie nodded, grabbing the stack of papers and handing it to a girl in the front row, who took the stack and passed it along.

"All right then," Bennett said, clearing his throat and summoning his professor persona, filling the lecture hall with a voice that sounded much more confident and collected than he felt. "I’m Professor Marlowe—welcome to Journalism Ethics. Let's get started."

The class—all underclassmen, overachievers still jockeying to find their footing at an elite school—immediately perked up, the chatter stopping almost instantly. Bennett's primary focus had always been written journalism, but before everything had happened, when he'd been at the top of his game, he'd been on talk shows and given commencement speeches and he'd always found the key was to pretend he felt in control of the situation.

This attitude had gotten Bennett far in life, had gotten him through the door to get unlikely interviews with hard-to-contact people, had elevated him from a gangly, acne-scarred copy editor just out of college to a well-respected, award-winning journalist.

He'd retired from writing, had stepped out of the public eye—and who could blame him? When he'd gotten back home, he'd gracefully declined interviews, had politely refused to write about his experience, and only the people closest to him—Michelle, Peter, a select few others—had seen that he was falling apart inside.

Bennett could tell this class would be a good group. They were just going over the course overview and the syllabus—the dry, perfunctory details of the course—but the students were attentive and engaged. He liked that about Bellamy. The students tended to be a little over-zealous, which wasn't particularly surprising at an top tier university, but they were passionate and cared deeply about everything they did.

Bennett was jealous, in some small way, of his students, of feeling so alive with want for something, anything—he'd felt that way long ago, about writing, about chasing down and teasing out a story from the rubble of facts, but that part of him had been snuffed out six years ago.

Jamie was sitting in the front row, off to the side, and Bennett's eyes kept flicking to him. Jamie was sitting up straight, listening intently, even though he'd heard it all before when Bennett had gone over it with him yesterday.

The morning sun slanted in, making his sandy hair glow almost golden. He looked beautiful and so young, all light and sparkle. Bennett couldn't remember the last time he'd been so infatuated with someone, electrified by their mere presence across the room. Perhaps, he told himself, it was simply the odd, interrupted way they'd met—the aborted promise of something more had left him aching and unfulfilled.

Surely he'd get over it soon—he had no other choice.

Despite the stiffness in his leg and the pounding in his temples, Bennett made it through the class. He dismissed the students a little early, more for his own benefit than theirs, and the bubbly animated chatter resumed, mixing with the scrape of backpacks zipping and the squeak of a hundred pairs of sneakers.

"Jamie," Bennett said, calling him over. Bennett glanced over, waiting for the bulk of the students to filter out of the lecture hall. Jamie shifted from one foot to the other, looking uncomfortable. He wasn't extraordinarily tall—Bennett had a few inches on him, and it was a struggle not to picture how their bodies might fit together.

"Thank you," Bennett said. "For getting those papers printed out."

"No problem," Jamie said. "Seriously, whenever, just let me know—"

"Well, hopefully I won't oversleep like that again," Bennett said wryly. The last of the students straggled out, and Bennett cleared his throat.

Jamie looked up at him, his open expression a mix of apprehension and expectation.

"I wanted to apologize," Bennett continued. "Yesterday I was… unnecessarily rude to you."

"It's fine," Jamie mumbled, glancing away.

"No, it's not," Bennett said, and Jamie looked back at him.

Something flickered in Jamie's eyes, so quickly Bennett barely caught it—something like hope.

"I was… startled," Bennett said. "And I reacted badly. I just wanted to say that—I'm looking forward to working with you, and I think you'll be an excellent teaching assistant—"

Jamie tried unsuccessfully to bite back the crooked smile spreading across his face.

"I was a little worried," Jamie said. "I kind of thought you hated me."

"No—" Bennett said, flushing with guilt. "The opposite—I hadn't been expecting to have to work with someone I was so attracted to—"

Jamie's whole face lit up and Bennett clapped a hand over his mouth.

What had possessed him to say that? Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or the caffeine withdrawal, or the low throb of pain in his leg, or maybe Bennett was just an idiot.

"I—shouldn't have said that," Bennett said quickly. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be sorry," Jamie said, smiling like a kid who'd just gotten a new bike for Christmas.

"Jamie, you know we can't—nothing can—"

The situation was spiraling away from Bennett quickly, and he felt like he was falling, scrabbling at the side of a cliff as he tried to keep from slipping.

Jamie's smile faltered for a moment and he bowed his head.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he said. He glanced back up, looking at Bennett through a fringe of impossibly long brown lashes, the ghost of a sly smile on his face. "It's still… nice to hear."

"Please don't—tell anyone—" Bennett said, and as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt sleazy and predatory and he wished he could take them back.

Jamie's face softened.

"Look, Benn—uh, Professor Marlowe," Jamie said. "I get it, okay? I won't tell anyone. I know it would… look bad for you." He shrugged.

Something relaxed in Bennett, some worry he'd been holding onto, but he still felt shamed and guilty for turning this into a dirty secret for Jamie to carry alone.

His face was flushing. Bennett had at least fifteen years on Jamie, but at the moment Jamie seemed lightyears ahead of Bennett in terms of maturity.

They were quiet for a moment. Jamie opened his mouth to say something, and Bennett braced himself.

"I… should get to my next class," Jamie said at last. Bennett exhaled.

"Right," he said. "Yes. I'll—I'll see you Wednesday."

"Yeah," Jamie said, nodding. "See ya." He headed to the door.

"Jamie—" Bennett called. Jamie glanced over his shoulder, his hand resting lightly on the handle of the door. "Thank you."

"You said that already," Jamie said with a half-smile.

"I mean—thank you for—" Bennett snapped his mouth shut.

Stop while you're ahead, Bennett thought. Or while you're only kind of behind.

Jamie said nothing, just gave Bennett a knowing smile, and then he was gone.