My roommate this year, a girl from Hawaii named Colby, likes pandas. A lot.

The day we moved in, actually, she gave me a stuffed one holding a jar of macadamia nuts as a present, which I thought was sweet, but weird. The macadamias made sense because, well, Hawaii. The panda, judging by the giant World Wildlife Fund poster she’d already taped above her bed, also made sense. But together? I spent a long time staring at it while she unpacked, like it was a joke I didn’t get.

She’s studying to be a veterinarian and wants to own a wildlife refuge, so I’m not totally surprised when I get back to my dorm after dinner and hear weak chirping from a box on her windowsill.

“Hey, Colby,” I say. “Find another bird?”

She nods, not looking away from her computer. “This one’s a baby. He was lying on the sidewalk in front of Jackson. If he didn’t get stepped on, it would’ve been a stray cat getting him.” She peers into the box. “Poor thing.”

I’m dying to get to Teague’s house, but I remember his warning: be discreet. I’m not sure the definition of stealth would be running over to the faculty houses when it’s still light out, with no believable excuse to give your roommate.

Instead, I walk over and look into the box with her. It’s stuffed with leaves and pine needles and old newspaper; she’s mashed a worm up in a plastic bottle cap, like a tiny bowl. The baby bird shivers against a shredded-up Classifieds ad.

He’s barely got any feathers left, or maybe he’s so young he didn’t have many to begin with. “He must be terrified,” I whisper.

Colby nods. “He hasn’t eaten anything yet, so I guess he’s still shaken up.” Her mouth twists into a worried knot. “I wish I had an incubator or something, to keep him warm. Like the ones in the Bio labs.”

I’m not as big an animal lover as Colby—I’m not sure anyone could be, really—but still, I’m far from heartless. I grab my desk lamp and position it on her windowsill, plugging it in while she adjusts the angle.

“That’s a great idea,” she smiles. “I should’ve thought of that.”

“You can keep it,” I tell her, flicking the metal cone of the lamp. “I do my homework in my bed, anyway. The Colby Foundation could use this a lot more.”

She laughs and thanks me again. I flop on my bed and start reading Tess of the d’Urbervilles for my lit class while she types away at her laptop, pausing now and then to check on the baby bird—who, as she informs me, has now left his newspaper blanket to nibble at some worm mush.

The sunset goes from clementine-orange to a dusty mauve, the same color as my grandma’s guest bathroom. I think about her little seashell soaps in the glass dish. I wonder what kind of soap Teague has in his bathroom. If he does his work at his desk, or in his bed, like me.

When it’s officially dark enough to be called “dark,” I sigh and grab my sweatshirt. “Better head over to the Pullman Building,” I tell Colby. “Lots of shit to print off for class.” I pause, gathering my keys and entry card. “I might be a while, actually—you know, just get some work done there, where I can’t distract myself? So, like, don’t feel like you have to wait up, or whatever.”

Colby and I met last year, in our Biology 101 class, where she was absolutely brilliant and the only reason I even passed, I’m sure. Still, we haven’t known each other long enough for her to sense I’m lying. Which I’m grateful for, since I’m not that good at it.

“Okay,” she says, sticking one headphone bud into her ear. “Don’t you need your backpack, though?”

I must turn every color of that sunset outside and more as I realize my mistake, but Colby’s already working again and doesn’t even notice. “Oh, duh,” I laugh, pulling a face at myself. “Thanks.”

The night is cool and misty, my favorite weather—when summer starts to sink into fall. My footsteps get louder the farther I get from the dorm block; crickets stop singing when they sense me.

Faculty housing is spread out all over campus, so I have to check the map in my student planner. Ridge Road isn’t far, maybe half a mile if I cut through the soccer fields and a strip of woods.

By the time I find Teague’s house, the sky has changed again to a deep purple-black, like the center of a bruise. I get so caught up staring at the stars after I ring his bell that I forget, for a moment, what I’m doing.

The door swings open. I jump.

“Hey,” he smiles, stepping back, “come on in.”

All the faculty houses are pretty much the same: fireplace with white painted bricks, small kitchen off the living room, and a half-bath under the stairs. I’ve been in a few before, for impromptu classes or small-group tutoring sessions. My literature teacher had seven cats in hers, every surface coated in fur.

But Teague’s house, I notice, is hardly furnished. He’s got a microfiber sectional and four bookshelves, crammed full of art history tomes, and an old wine barrel for a coffee table, cut in half with a piece of glass on top. It’s all nice, but doesn’t really fill out the space.

“I, uh, live kind of simply,” he explains. “Can I get you anything? Soda, water? Wine?”

I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m not twenty-one, or if he just doesn’t think it matters—I do drink, after all, and aren’t we probably going to break some much bigger rules tonight?—but I don’t mention it. “Um, soda is fine.”

He brings back two cans of cherry cola. “Cheers,” he says, and I say it back, wondering what we’re toasting to.

The curtains, thick, blackout ones, are drawn. I look all around the room and confirm that, yes, we’re alone. No one can see us.

“Privacy is important to me,” he says, noticing. “Not just because you’re a student and I’m a teacher, but...I’d be lying if I said that doesn’t make me nervous.”

“Same.” I bite my lip. “How much trouble could we get in, hypothetically?”

“Hanging out together? None. But people like to talk. Make up stories.” He plays with the tab on his soda can, bending it back and forth until it breaks. “And if—hypothetically—those stories and rumors were found to be true….”

“We’d be in deep shit?” My attempt at lightening the mood makes him laugh, but it’s just a bark of air, forced.

“Well, not you. I’d lose my job.”

“Why? I mean, I’m over eighteen. We aren’t doing anything illegal.” I cringe at my phrasing. Right now, we really aren’t doing anything illegal. Now he knows where I expect this night to lead.

Then again, he isn’t correcting me. And he’s the one who talked about stories and rumors being true. Hypothetical or not, taking things further is obviously on both our minds.

“University policy,” he shrugs. “Professors and students can’t, uh…get involved.”

I can tell I’m making him uncomfortable, and the likelihood of anything else happening between us seems ridiculous now. He wouldn’t risk his job for a night or two with me, right?

The rational answer, of course, is no, but I’m still surprised at how disappointed I suddenly feel. I decide to change the subject. “For an art history professor,” I say, “it’s kind of weird you don’t have any art on your walls.”

He looks around again, both of us studying the shifting shadows from the candles. “Yeah, I guess it is kind of weird. I just can’t pick my favorites. If I hung up, say, ten paintings, I’d have to buy ten more in just a few weeks, because I’ll have changed my mind.”

“I like Impressionists,” I say, and swallow about half my soda when he moves closer, touching his leg to mine. So much for rationality. “Renoir is my favorite, I think.”

Teague smiles. “I’m surprised you didn’t say Monet. Everyone says Monet.”

“Well, I like Monet too, but Renoir painted more life forms. And I think he utilized shadows better than Monet.”

“Some people don’t like the way he demonstrated shadow,” he counters. “They criticize his work for overusing them.”

I roll my eyes at this. “But that’s life, you know? Life isn’t all flowers and airy, bright colors. You can’t really demonstrate the effect of light if...if you don’t show the shadows, too.”

Teague studies me. “Yeah,” he says, after a silence so long, I feel fluttery and stupid. But when he nods, that vanishes. “I guess that’s true.”

“Stop.”

I dodge Breton’s hand as she swats at me, both of us laughing. “No, really! You are brilliant.” I nod at the coffee table, where we’ve stacked row after row of art books, cracked to their spines and lying flat. It’s like a Jenga tower by now, wobbling every time we add another to the top.

“I just like art.” She shrugs. “I don’t have formal knowledge or training or whatever, like you do.”

“You could.”

“Right. My parents would have heart attacks if I told them I want to major in art history.”

“So don’t tell them.”

She glances sideways at me. “What’s sad is, I could actually pull that off. It’s this ‘out of sight, out of mind’ thing with them: now that I’m out of the house, they don’t stay too involved with my life.” I pause. “Except to tell me I’m somehow screwing it up, even though they have no idea what I’m doing or not doing.”

“My folks were too involved in my life,” I offer, “and it still sucks. If that’s any consolation.”

She shrugs again, not answering.

By now, we’ve been talking for two hours about art and parents and where we each grew up. It’s weird, how normal this all feels. Like a regular date, almost.

“I, um...I have to leave soon,” she says. “My roommate will get suspicious.” There’s a lilt in her voice, hinting at something.

I’m pretty sure I know what it is.

“Would you like a tour of the house?” I ask, getting to my feet and holding out my hand for her without an answer. She takes it, her palm damp.

The second bedroom is empty. “You could use it as an office,” she says, stepping inside and looking at the cobwebs in every corner.

“Yeah, I could, I guess. But I prefer to work in my bed, honestly.”

Breton turns and smiles at this.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, following me out.

In my bedroom, she takes her time exploring: running her hands along the wainscoting, studying the photographs above my bed. “This is in Greece, right?” she asks, pointing to one. “I went with my parents in high school.”

I nod, hands in my pockets. “That was taken…wow. Seven years ago.” My eyes hurt, looking at it. How has it been that long?

“It’s good. Maybe you should be teaching photography.”

“No, I can’t even take a picture that isn’t blurry,” I laugh. “A, uh, a friend of mine took those.”

“They’re stunning. Your friend has talent.”

“Had,” I correct, before I even realize the word was in my mouth. I turn away, nodding at her quiet apology.

I hear her sit on my bed. “So,” she says, sighing it.

“So.” I turn back and sit beside her. It’s been years since I was in this situation, the static moment when someone—me—has to make a move. I basically thought it would happen on its own, as easily as kissing her in my office. We’d pick up right where we left off.

Now, though, the weight of everything hits me at once. To say I feel nervous is an understatement.

In the end, it’s Breton who leans into me, initiating the kiss. Her bravery should make me braver, too, but instead, makes the weight heavier. This was my idea: I should take the lead, here. Back in the day, I had no problem making the first move—no problem jumping into the moment. So why can’t I now?

She breaks the kiss and shrinks away, suddenly shy. “Should I…um, undress for you?” she asks, as the blush I fantasized about all day spreads across her face.

And just like that, the weight is gone.