The espresso machine hissed, punctuating the silence of the early morning faculty lounge. Eleanor Langley, dressed in slate-gray slacks and a sleeveless black turtleneck, stood rigidly beside the counter, watching her coffee fill to the brim. Her reflection in the metal machine looked gaunter than usual—eyes shadowed, lips pressed into an unreadable line. She had barely slept. Instead, she'd stood in her studio with the lights dimmed and Winter's presence lingering like scent in the air.
Just thinking her name made something twist deep in her chest.
The door creaked open behind her.
"You're here early."
She didn't need to turn around to recognize the voice: Dr. Meredith Cavanaugh, Chair of the Literature Department, and unofficial keeper of every faculty secret.
"I prefer the quiet," Eleanor replied, keeping her tone light, distant.
"Ah," Meredith stepped closer, her heels tapping sharply on the tiled floor. "Working late and arriving early. You must be inspired."
Eleanor didn't respond. She sipped her coffee.
Meredith took a seat at the small round table near the window, crossing one leg over the other. "It's admirable. Passion. Devotion. But you know how people love to misinterpret… dedication."
Eleanor finally looked up. "If you have something to say, Meredith, say it."
Meredith's lips curved into a catlike smile. "I was simply wondering if you've grown especially fond of a certain student."
Eleanor's grip on her mug tightened.
Meredith continued, gaze unnervingly calm. "I saw Winter leaving the Art Annex around midnight. Alone. She looked… flushed. Distracted."
Eleanor said nothing, her jaw locking.
"She's talented," Meredith mused. "But also young. Vulnerable. Impressionable."
"She's twenty-two," Eleanor said coolly. "Not a child."
"No. But still a student. Still yours."
Eleanor's silence stretched.
Meredith leaned forward slightly. "I'm not threatening you. I'm warning you. There's a difference."
"A warning for what?"
Meredith's voice dropped. "Careless whispers become complaints. Complaints become investigations. It doesn't take much to ruin a woman's career. Especially when that woman's made it alone."
Eleanor stiffened.
Meredith softened her tone, almost too gently. "You've built a legacy. You're respected. Don't let that unravel over someone who might not understand the cost."
With that, she stood, smoothed her blazer, and left the lounge, her presence like the ghost of a storm just passed.
Back across campus, Winter sat at the dorm's tiny kitchen table, a mug of tea cooling between her palms. Rachel was on the couch, scrolling through her phone but watching Winter with occasional, not-so-subtle glances.
"You look like you slept in a kiln," Rachel finally said.
Winter blinked. "Thanks."
"What's going on?"
Winter shrugged. "Nothing."
Rachel raised a brow. "You disappear to the studio nearly every night. Come back smelling like turpentine and emotional chaos. And now you're drinking tea like it's going to fix your soul. So no, not 'nothing.'"
Winter hesitated. "It's complicated."
Rachel's tone softened. "It's Eleanor, isn't it?"
Winter didn't answer.
Rachel sat beside her. "You like her."
More silence.
"And she likes you back."
That, too, was met with silence. But Winter's eyes betrayed her.
Rachel exhaled. "Okay. So what are you going to do?"
Winter shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I thought I could handle it. I thought we could keep it quiet, keep it safe. But... someone saw us. Meredith."
Rachel swore under her breath. "That woman is a snake."
"She cornered me yesterday," Winter admitted. "Said I was a liability. That if I cared about Eleanor, I'd stay away."
"And Eleanor?"
Winter swallowed. "She's pulling away."
Rachel reached out, placing a warm hand over Winter's. "Then pull her back."
Later that afternoon, the air in Studio B was taut. Students milled about, preparing their canvases for critique. The scent of oil paint and charcoal lingered thickly in the air. Eleanor entered just before the hour, dressed sharply, hair pulled into a severe chignon, her expression unreadable.
Winter watched her from across the room. It was like looking at a stranger wearing a mask she knew too well.
Eleanor barely looked in her direction.
"Let's begin," she said, her voice clipped. "We'll go in alphabetical order today."
Which meant Winter would be near the end.
Student after student stood beside their works—some confident, some fumbling. Eleanor offered brief but fair comments. There was no warmth, no indulgence. Her praise was sparse.
When Winter's name came up, Eleanor didn't call it aloud. She simply looked down at the roster and nodded silently.
Winter stood anyway.
She wheeled her canvas forward.
It was a bold piece—two women painted in blurred shades of blue and violet, separated by a thin sheet of translucent glass. One reached forward, fingers splayed. The other stood frozen behind the barrier, face aching with a mix of longing and resignation.
The class was quiet.
Even the usually-snarky upper-level students stared.
But Eleanor said nothing.
She stared at the painting for a long moment, her expression unreadable. And then: "Thank you."
That was all.
Winter's heart sank.
After class, Winter waited outside the studio door, back pressed against the wall, arms folded. Her chest buzzed with indignation and sorrow.
Eleanor finally stepped out, her shoes silent on the polished floor.
"We need to talk," Winter said quietly.
Eleanor paused. Her eyes were tired. "This isn't the place."
"Then where? When? You're pretending nothing happened."
"I'm trying to protect us."
Winter stepped forward. "You're pushing me away."
Eleanor didn't deny it.
"You think I don't know what Meredith said to you?" Winter's voice was barely above a whisper. "She tried to intimidate me too."
Eleanor's shoulders sagged. "I can't let this turn into a scandal."
"It's not a scandal. It's us."
"You're my student."
"I won't be forever."
"But I am your professor now."
Silence stretched between them like wire ready to snap.
"I can't lose my job, Winter," Eleanor finally said. "Not over something we can't even name."
Winter's eyes glistened. "Then name it. If it's nothing, I'll walk away."
Eleanor said nothing.
Winter's throat tightened. "Say it's nothing."
Eleanor's lips parted—but she couldn't say the words.
And Winter knew.
"I never asked you to risk everything," she said, voice breaking. "Just not to lie to me."
Eleanor looked away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
But the words felt like goodbye.
Back in her dorm, Winter lay in the darkness, headphones pressed to her ears but playing nothing. The silence was louder than music. Her sketchbook lay open beside her, filled with page after page of Eleanor's eyes, her hands, her lips.
Rachel peeked in, but didn't speak. She just left a steaming bowl of soup on the nightstand.
Winter didn't touch it.
Outside, rain tapped gently on the window.
Inside, she curled into the blankets and stared at the ceiling until dawn painted everything gray.