The campus was quieter in the mornings.Winter had always liked that — the way the old brick buildings stood a little prouder beneath soft dawn light, the way her boots echoed on empty stone. Morning let her feel like she owned something, even if it was just time.
Today, she didn't feel like the world belonged to her. Not after last night.
Eleanor's lips had tasted like guilt and hunger. Her hands had trembled. And still, Winter had stayed.
She had slept curled beside Eleanor like they had done it a hundred times — like she belonged there, like she had the right to trace the hollow of her throat with her eyes and memorize the slope of her cheek in moonlight.
When she woke up, Eleanor was gone.
The office couch was empty, her bag gone, the desk cleared.
There was a note.
"I needed to think. Please don't follow me today. – E."
Winter folded the note once, twice, and tucked it into the breast pocket of her coat.
She didn't go looking for her. Not right away.
Classes came and went in a blur.
Winter stared blankly through seminars and skipped lunch, letting the hollow ache settle beneath her ribs.
By four, she was curled into the corner seat at the art building's rooftop café, watching clouds threaten another evening of rain. She hadn't meant to cry, but she did — silently, barely, just enough for her throat to ache and her lashes to stick together.
She didn't cry because Eleanor was cruel. She cried because Eleanor cared too much and still had to walk away.
That kind of love — or whatever they were spiraling toward — could devour them both.
It wasn't until late evening that her phone buzzed.
Eleanor: "Are you home?"
Winter blinked at the screen. Her heart surged.
Winter: "Yes."
The reply came almost instantly.
Eleanor: "Can I come?"
Winter stared at the blinking cursor. Then typed:
Winter: "I thought you didn't want to cross the line."
Eleanor: "I already did. Now I want to know where we land."
The knock came fifteen minutes later.
Winter opened the door to find Eleanor standing there, soaked from the rain, curls sticking to her temples, trench coat clinging to her tall frame. No umbrella. No hesitation.
She looked like the storm.
Winter stepped aside without a word.
Eleanor entered without one.
For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Both of them damp, tired, strung tight with something neither knew how to name.
Winter's voice was quiet. "I didn't expect you to come."
Eleanor's lips twitched. "I didn't expect to feel what I do."
Winter reached for the lapels of Eleanor's coat. Gently, carefully. "You're soaked."
"I walked here," Eleanor murmured. "I didn't think I should drive. I wasn't... thinking clearly."
"Still aren't," Winter said, almost fondly.
And Eleanor — the professor, the careful one, the one who knew better — stepped forward and whispered, "Then stop me."
Winter didn't.
She peeled the coat from Eleanor's shoulders, slow and reverent, and hung it by the door.
Underneath, Eleanor wore a slate-gray sweater and dark jeans. She looked less like a professor and more like a woman trying to feel real in her own skin.
Winter reached for her hand.
"You came anyway," she whispered.
"I shouldn't have."
"But you did."
Eleanor's fingers curled tighter around hers. "I tried to stay away. I really did."
Winter leaned in. Not for a kiss — just to breathe the same air.
"I don't need promises," she said. "I just need truth."
Eleanor's eyes burned. "The truth is, I haven't stopped thinking about you for weeks."
Winter's pulse quickened.
"Then tell me what you want."
Eleanor exhaled shakily. "I want you to let me hold you."
Winter took her hand and led her toward the small living room.
They sat on the couch, side by side but not touching.
For a moment.
Then Winter curled into Eleanor's side. Her head rested on Eleanor's shoulder, the curve of her thigh brushing against hers. The contact sent a ripple through both of them — not quite sexual, not quite safe. Somewhere in between.
Eleanor's fingers hesitated before sliding through Winter's hair.
Winter closed her eyes.
"I've never done this before," she said softly.
"Been with a woman?" Eleanor asked.
"No." Winter shook her head. "Trusted someone like this."
Eleanor's throat bobbed. "Me either."
They stayed like that for a long while. Breathing. Letting their bodies speak before their mouths could ruin it.
Eventually, Eleanor whispered, "You have to know what we're risking."
"I do."
"If someone finds out—"
"They won't."
"If they do, I lose everything."
Winter sat up slightly, eyes searching Eleanor's face. "You won't lose me."
"That's the problem," Eleanor said, brushing her fingers along Winter's cheek. "You're the one thing I can't afford to lose. And the one thing I'm not supposed to have."
"Then maybe we don't name it," Winter said. "Maybe we just feel it."
Eleanor's smile was small, bittersweet. "Is that enough for you?"
"It is right now."
They didn't sleep together that night.
But they did lie down — fully clothed, tangled beneath Winter's favorite blanket, her head resting against Eleanor's chest. Eleanor's heart beat a little too fast. Winter listened to it like music.
Fingers trailed across arms. Across hips. Along ribs.
Winter touched Eleanor like she was studying her. Memorizing each ridge and hollow.
And Eleanor — shaking, steadying, afraid — let her.
They kissed again. Not in a flurry like before, but slow. Deep. A kiss of knowing. Of patience.
Their hands slid under clothes. Not to undress — just to feel skin. Skin that had been aching to be seen.
It was the kind of night that felt suspended — as if time paused to let them exist in a pocket outside of judgment.
When they fell asleep — bodies curled together, limbs draped like sculpture — neither of them dreamed.
Because they were finally, finally real.