Teague lets me kiss him this time, his arms seeming to melt around my waist. “New rule,” he mumbles.

I smirk and pull back, both of us panting a little. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Whenever we’re messing around in my office,” he says, his chest swelling as he takes a breath, “you have to call me Professor West.”

My hand works its way between us, brushing him through his khakis. “Sounds good to me, Professor.”

Logically, I know I shouldn’t be here. In the weeks we’ve been together, we’ve crafted a long set of rules to avoid getting caught or rousing suspicion: being alone in his office, with the door shut, is in flagrant violation of Rule Number One.

Then again, logic wasn’t why I wore the toy to class today. It wasn’t why he bought it for me in the first place. If we were being logical, we wouldn’t even be a couple. But here we are.

We make out a few more minutes, teasing each other, but not daring to cross the line. Right now, the rule is just fractured: we can stop on a dime if anyone knocks, our secret still safe.

His desk phone rings. It’s like a fire alarm in such a small room.

“Teague West,” he says, holding a finger to his lips as he answers. I nod, even though I don’t need the reminder.

I hear the voice on the other end mumble something.

“Uh-huh,” Teague says, listening. He gnaws his thumbnail. “Okay, yeah, that’s.... No, I understand. Whatever you think is best.”

I consider teasing him some more, but he looks so serious, I decide against it. I sit on his desk and pretend I’m enthralled with the Newton’s cradle, clacking the little silver balls against my palm in silence.

“Well, if that’s what you recommend, I’m fine with it,” he says. He notices me, as though he’d forgotten I was here already, and mouths, “Sorry,” before turning away again. “And that’s 500 milligrams?”

This gets my attention; up until now, I thought he was talking to another professor. Why would a doctor be calling him?

“Okay,” he says. “Right. Thank you. Um....” He cuts his eyes at me, quickly. “November.”

November? What’s happening in November?

“Mm-hmm. Goodbye.” He hangs up. I watch him touch the braided leather cord under his shirt, a habit of his; he’s always tucking it away, out of sight. Now that I think of it, actually, I’ve never seen what charm he keeps on it. He takes it off during sex, tucking it into the bedside drawer or the pocket of his pants like it’s no big deal.

“Who was that?” I ask, hoping I sound more casual than I feel.

“Huh?” He looks at me. His hand drops from the necklace. “Oh, uh...just a doctor I see, sometimes.”

Don’t stare. Don’t stare. Don’t stare. “Are you sick?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then why do you see a doctor?”

Teague looks at me again. He’s got a half-smile on his face, but his eyes are narrowed. “What’s with the questions?”

“Sorry.” I grimace at myself, embarrassed. “Just curious.”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing you have to worry over.”

I’m about to pipe up with one more question, maybe two, when he kisses me, his arms encircling my waist again so easily, and I forget every word.

Breton slips out my office silently; she’s become an expert at sneaking, which makes me feel conflicted. I’m proud and flattered to be the reason, someone she deems worthy of her time and effort (and Lord knows it takes a lot of effort to keep this secret)—but I also feel guilty, because why should she deem me worthy? Surely there’s somebody out there who could make her feel as good as I do, without all the fine print.

Because she loves you, I tell myself, and you love her.

The thought creeps up on me just as Breton rounds the corner, blowing me a kiss as she disappears from view.

Does she love me? I have no reason to believe that, after only two months.

You have no reason not to believe it, either.

I touch the ring I keep on the cord around my neck, spinning it as I hear the elevator slide open, the hush of her shoes as she steps inside. It’s a long time before I realize I didn’t even question the other part of my thought: you love her.

My smile’s shaky, and I feel this weird sensation in my stomach—hope and fear and pure joy, all competing for space.

It’s been a while since I felt that.

Professor Berkley steps out of his office with a file folder under one arm, a mug of coffee in the other. He takes it with more creamer than coffee. I can smell pumpkin spice from where I’m standing, even before he approaches me.

“Hey, West, you see the new server layout?”

I tuck the ring back into place, hidden away. “What? Oh, the, uh...the email server. No, not yet. Why?”

Berkley looks over his shoulder, in the direction my eyes were locked. He answers slowly. “Just confusing, if you ask me. Why put Spam at the top, you know? And the signature settings are so complicated.” He pauses, checks behind him again, and lowers his voice. “You hear about Julian?”

“Julian? No.” I lean closer, ducking my head. Berkley’s a short man, which is probably why he tries to compensate by driving big trucks, owning a big house—and spreading big gossip. “What’d you hear?”

Normally, I brush off rumors like dust. Teaching is a lot like being a student, in some ways, even at the college level: there are cliques and popular people, gossip mills and scandals. But if Julian’s rumors are to be believed, we have a few things in common. Or at least one. Kind of.

“He’s probably getting fired.” Berkley raises his eyebrows, nodding gravely when I step back. “Yep. Apparently some students he hooked up with got in a catfight over him, both girls got arrested, and one of them sang like a canary. Told the cops everything.” He sighs, running a hand over his thinning hair. “I tell ya, it’s amazing the university’s even deliberating at all.”

“Yeah, I mean...it’s not like Julian did anything illegal,” I say, shrugging. It’s only when Berkley gets quiet, instead of agreeing, that I realize my mistake.

“I, uh...I was going to say it’s amazing because, you know—since when don’t they automatically fire folks for that kind of thing? What’s to deliberate?” He sips his creamer, eyeing me like I’m someone he doesn’t recognize.

“Right, well.” I pick at my cuticles, playing it cool. If I defend my answer too much, he’ll get suspicious; if I backpedal, he’ll definitely know something is up. “I was just saying it’s not technically illegal, so maybe that’s why they’re deliberating. If the students aren’t in his classes, that’s a bit of a gray area to the university.” I look at him. “Let’s not jump to conclusions about anyone, though.”

Berkley’s face scrunches up: I’ve embarrassed him for being a gossip. “Yeah,” he says. I can smell his creamer even when he’s down the hall, at the same corner Breton disappeared behind, just a few minutes ago. “I guess you’re right.”