“Be honest,” I say firmly, even though my volume can’t reach above a whisper. “Were you thinking about me?”

“What makes you say that?”

I suppress a smile, taking note of the fact he didn’t deny it. “Well, I’d just left here, so…it would make sense.”

With the lightest smirk on his face, Teague puts one arm on the door beside my head. I see the muscles flexing out of the corner of my eye, can feel the gravity of his body as he leans closer to me. I’m scared and excited at once, lightheaded from the way he’s staring.

“Yeah,” he says. “I was.” He reaches for a piece of hair that’s fallen in my eyes, hesitant, until I tilt my head in silent agreement. The warmth of his fingers spreading across the side of my face and neck sends my heart rate soaring. “Is that…okay?”

I’m not sure what he’s asking: if I mind him thinking of me that way, or if I also think of him that way. Which, until right now, I hadn’t dared let myself do.

“Yeah,” I whisper, lifting my chin. “That’s okay.”

He leans in and presses his mouth to mine. I can still taste the chai tea on his breath, spiced like Christmas, when his tongue slips between my lips. His hand, rougher and larger than I’d expect from a professor, finds its place on my hip.

“Can I ask what you were imagining?” I ask, after he pulls back. My voice sounds like it’s far away, not mine. I decide that I like it.

His face reddens, but he smiles again. “It’s probably better if I don’t tell you.”

“I can handle it.”

Shifting his jaw, he laughs, a sort of exhale like he doesn’t entirely believe me.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says, after a beat. “That was unprofessional.”

“I wanted you to.” As he pushes off from the doorframe and puts space between us, I see him touch his lips. I touch mine. “If you’re worried I’m going to report you or something, I won’t. I promise.”

Teague braces one hand on his desk, in a fist. He looks like he’s thinking, but doesn’t say anything for so long, I wonder if he’s just waiting for me to leave.

“Maybe we could meet up tonight,” he blurts, just as my hand touches the doorknob. I turn. He shrugs, studying my feet, and adds, “You know…talk art history, get to know each other?”

Tempted as I am to ask what such a night would entail, I don’t want to make him skittish. “Okay. Like, in the library, or something?”

“I was thinking my house. At my last school I’d have students over for study groups and stuff, and…I don’t know, maybe I could help you with your major. If you want to.”

His stammering is cute, but leaves me wondering if I imagined the firmness of his hand on my hip, or the take-charge lean-in he just did, almost pinning me to the door as he kissed me.

Maybe he really does just want to talk art and get to know each other. Maybe he wants more, or both.

“Sure. That would be fun.”

He grabs a business card off his desk, scrawls his address on the back, and palms it to me.

“I live in the faculty houses at the back of campus,” he says. “22 Ridge Road. Any time after nine. And, um...you know. Be discreet.”

The stupid-crush hormones kick up again at the word. If he didn’t plan on more happening tonight, discretion wouldn’t be a concern.

I slip the card into my pocket as he opens the door for me. “I will.”

Relax, I coach myself. The stress ball in my hand—some faculty freebie with the school mascot emblazoned on the side—feels like it’s going to explode.

She’s a student. This is crazy, insane, stupid. It could cost me my job.

I think of Breton’s lips against mine, soft. How unflinchingly she stared at me when she asked if I was thinking of her, even though it was obvious she knew the truth already.

I’m hard again when she leaves, the sound of her feet on the tiles like a whispered goodbye. I close my door and remember the way she said, “I can handle it.”

My other classes pass in a daze. I take roll (miraculously, not stumbling over a single name) and hand out syllabi and assignments, answer questions, and manage to pretend I’ve forgotten about her altogether.

It’s been too long since I’ve felt like this: non-stop thoughts about someone. They aren’t just sexual. My mind keeps recalling the feeling of her hair between my fingers as I lifted it from her face, or the way she assured me our secret—secrets, now—would be safe. Even the memory of her storming out of class makes me smile.

Call it off. It’s not too late.

I almost do. Twice, actually, when I spot her near the dining hall during lunch, and again on my way home from my final class.

“I can handle it.”

There’s no way I’m calling it off. But pretending to consider it, at least, makes me feel a little better.