Her heart was behaving like it had ideas of its own, jittery and traitorous, as Tonks stood outside Professor Lupin's office with one hand gripping the doorframe and the other pressed over her chest as though she could hold it still.
Brilliant. She hadn't even gone in yet, and already she felt like she might pass out. Or combust. Or say something utterly inappropriate and then vanish into the floorboards out of sheer humiliation.
Why, in Merlin's name, had she arrived ten minutes early?
She was never early. She was the sort of person who slid into class on the final chime, usually after tripping over a staircase, a trailing bit of robe, or some poor unsuspecting first-year.
But here she was, pacing a tight circle like a niffler locked out of Gringotts.
Her hair was still brown. Not even a nice brown. Just… dull. Mousey. The kind of colour that whispered, "Don't look at me." She hadn't changed it back to pink after that night in the Room of Requirement. Not after seeing him smiling at her, at Lily, as though she'd just handed him a lifetime supply of chocolate and a day off from being complicated.
Lily with her brilliant red hair and perfume that lingered like a challenge. The sort of woman who probably knew exactly how to throw her head back when she laughed. The kind of woman who could wear heels in the Hospital Wing and mean it.
Tonks had stood there like a daft statue, blinked once, then scarpered without so much as a proper goodbye. Flawless.
She rubbed her temples with both hands. "Pull yourself together. He's your professor. You're here for lessons. Not… to pine. Definitely not to spiral."
Except it was hard not to spiral when she couldn't stop thinking about how he spoke, measured and kind, like he actually saw people. Like he listened. Or how he moved, careful in a way that didn't draw attention but somehow made you want to pay more of it. Always with that soft weariness about him, like he carried the weight of something he didn't talk about.
And then there was the office, warm and quiet, smelling faintly of old paper, worn leather, and tea leaves. A little bit like safety. A little bit like a secret.
"Oh, Merlin's beard," she muttered, dragging a hand down her face. "It is a crush, isn't it?"
A very stupid, very ill-timed, completely doomed sort of crush.
She lifted her hand to knock, but it came out more like a tap. Pathetic, really. A breeze could've done more damage.
There was a pause. Long enough for her to seriously consider legging it back to Hufflepuff and pretending she'd come down with something inconvenient but plausible.
Then came his voice, warm and even. "Come in."
Right. Too late to fake a hex now.
Tonks pushed the door open and stepped in, trying to walk like a person who hadn't just had a minor emotional crisis in the corridor.
"Hello, Professor," she said, her voice shooting up a note too high and landing somewhere between cheerful and utterly unhinged.
Professor Lupin looked up from his desk, quill still in hand, ink smudged on his fingers. His face shifted as he saw her, an ease in his shoulders, that quiet smile she hadn't been able to stop thinking about since the start of term.
"Oh. It's you," he said, like it was a good thing.
"It's me," she echoed, attempting breeziness and only just missing "panicked ferret".
"Good. Sit wherever you like. You've got the room to yourself today."
"Dangerous thing to say, that," she said as she crossed the room. "Give me too much freedom, and I might redecorate. Or start a mutiny."
He gave a soft chuckle. "Let's save the mutiny until after tea, shall we?"
She grinned, dropping into a seat and pulling out her notebook, wand, and a quill that promptly betrayed her by splattering ink across her fingers. Of course it did.
As she wiped it off with the hem of her sleeve, she glanced up. Lupin had already pushed aside his marking and was rolling up his sleeves—precise, unhurried, like everything he did. Merlin, even the way he unstoppered an ink bottle seemed calm.
Tonks forced herself to look away, scribbling nonsense into the corner of her notebook just to stop herself from staring. She was here to learn. Learn not to write sonnets in her head about the curve of his smile or the slight grey in his hair.
Still, despite everything, despite Lily and her perfect lipstick, despite Tonks's own hair still being the colour of a sad teabag, she was here. He was here. And for however long this lesson lasted, it was just the two of them.
She smiled, just a little. Even if this was a terrible idea.
Even if it killed her.
Or worse, made her blush again.
The room looked like it belonged to someone who spent more time in the past than the present, and honestly, Tonks rather liked that. There was something reassuring about it. The tall, overburdened bookcases loomed at the back like sentries standing to attention, their shelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes that looked untouched since before Merlin grew his first beard. Every surface bore the gentle chaos of magical clutter: a cracked goblet with questionable stains, a house banner so faded it might've once been blue, and a stuffed raven slumped on its perch like it had finally given up sometime during the last century.
Tonks gave the bird a sideways glance. "Cheer up, mate. Seventh-year Potions is still worse."
The windows mirrored the evening sky, streaked violet and navy, with stars just beginning to yawn their way into sight. It gave the room a soft, dusky sort of hush, as though the rest of the castle had paused for breath and left this corner untouched. It didn't feel like a classroom. It felt like somewhere time had forgotten. And she loved it.
Professor Lupin moved to lean against his desk, arms folded, not in that stiff, look-at-me-professorial way some of them did, but loose and easy, as though he'd done it without thinking. His cardigan, predictably old, now had a bright green patch on one elbow that didn't match anything else he was wearing. Tonks noticed it at once.
Most people would've chucked the whole thing. He'd just fixed it. Quietly. Like that was the obvious thing to do.
He cleared his throat, and her heart somersaulted in a way she did not appreciate.
"The study of mediaeval magic," he began, voice low and steady, "isn't just a list of spells or ingredients. It's about people. The strange things they did, the choices they made, and the trouble they got themselves into when no one was watching."
Tonks grinned. Merlin help her; she already loved it.
He began to pace, slow and thoughtful, one hand flicking in little gestures as he spoke. Just enough to keep her watching. Not that she needed the help.
"Take Wendelin the Weird, for instance," he said. "Brilliant with Charms. Possibly a touch mad. But then, most truly exceptional witches are."
Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Is that meant to be a compliment to the weird ones, sir?"
He looked over, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Take it however you like, Ms Tonks."
She let out a soft laugh, resting her chin in her palm. There was something oddly calming about listening to him talk. Like the rest of the world didn't matter for the moment.
"Wendelin," he continued, "had this curious habit of allowing herself to be caught by Muggle witch-hunters. On purpose. She'd let them tie her to the stake and everything, fully aware she'd already cast a Flame-Freezing Charm. To the Muggles, it looked like she was screaming her head off. In reality?" He paused, eyes gleaming. "She was perfectly comfortable. Usually reading. Or knitting."
Tonks let out a delighted snort. "You're joking."
"She did it forty-seven times."
Without missing a beat, Lupin flung both arms in the air and staggered back like he was aflame. "Oh no, my robes! The agony! Somebody fetch the chamomile!"
His voice jumped up two octaves, and his expression twisted into the most ridiculous parody of mortal terror. Tonks nearly toppled off her chair laughing.
"You're such a menace," she gasped. "Wendelin would've adored you."
That got a proper laugh out of him. Not just the quiet chuckle he usually gave, but a warm, from-the-belly sort of laugh. For a moment, he didn't look tired or worn or older than he should've. He just looked happy.
And that smile, well, that was going to live rent-free in her head for weeks.
Then, as though he'd remembered himself, he glanced towards the blackboard and cleared his throat. "I do hope Wendelin's escapades haven't put you off entirely. History does have a rather dreary reputation."
He said it as a joke, but Tonks caught something underneath it, a flicker of real doubt.
She straightened in her seat. Her heart gave another inconvenient thud.
"You clearly love it," she said quietly.
He blinked, as though the thought had surprised him.
"Oh," he said. "I suppose I do." His hand drifted to the back of his neck, brushing through his hair in that absent, awkward way that made her stomach twist. "Sorry, I tend to ramble."
Tonks grinned, folding her arms and tipping her chair back just enough to look like she wasn't trying. Not enough to fall, though with her luck it was always a possibility. "No, really. You make it feel different. It's not just dates and dead blokes with pointy hats and questionable beards. It feels alive."
She hadn't meant it to sound quite so earnest. Normally she'd have stuck a joke on the end or said it with a smirk to take the edge off. But this didn't feel like something to hide behind. It felt right. He needed to hear it. And if she was honest, she needed to say it.
Professor Lupin's smile shifted and softened. It wasn't flashy; he wasn't the sort, but it warmed his whole face. The quiet kind of smile people kept for themselves, the kind that meant, 'Thank you, I'll remember that, and you saw me properly.′
"Thank you," he said quietly. And the way he said it made something flutter in her chest like a snitch trying to break free. "That means more than you might think."
For a moment, something settled between them. Not awkward. Not charged. Just gentle, quiet, and strangely easy. Like the room had taken a breath. Like being seen didn't have to be terrifying.
Tonks looked away, though only half-heartedly. Her gaze drifted back to him, drawn like a Niffler to glitter. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, faint lines framed his eyes, and his voice dipped when he spoke about the past, as though he was remembering someone he used to care about.
And that cardigan. With the green patch that absolutely didn't match. It was stupid, really, how much she liked that he wore it anyway.
He didn't even realise, she thought, her stomach turning over in quiet betrayal. How ridiculous and quietly lovely he was. That was the worst part. Or the best.
He'd moved on by then, talking about Beatrix the Batty, a witch from the thirteenth century who'd once bewitched her cauldron to sing sea shanties while it brewed. And just like that, the lesson shifted. It wasn't a lecture anymore. It was a story. The sort you never wanted to stop listening to.
Tonks leaned in without even realising, resting her chin on her hand. She asked questions, proper ones, not just to fill the air, and he answered with this easy, patient calm that made her feel clever just for trying. There was no judgement in him. No ego. Just someone who loved what he did and wanted to share it.
And she wanted to learn. From him, not just the subject.
Somewhere between the laughter and the singing cauldron, something shifted. Not suddenly. Not loudly. Just a slow, steady change, like the tide coming in.
Tonks felt it, the warmth, the pull, that low buzz under her ribs she kept trying to swat away like an irritating fly.
She wasn't just enjoying the lesson. She was enjoying him.
The way his fingers brushed book spines like they were old friends. The way he occasionally glanced over to check she was still with him, not because he doubted her, but because he cared. The way he said her name, not Nymphadora, never that, just Ms Tonks, like it fit.
Her heart thudded once, rude and obvious.
She didn't know what this was, not really, but it felt real. And it was hers, quietly blooming like a secret note folded in the pocket of her robes.
Time slipped by unnoticed. The candles burnt lower, casting long, flickering shadows across the room. She hadn't even realised how late it had got or how long they'd been talking, learning, and laughing.
She'd spent most of it perched forward, hanging on every word like he was telling her the only story that mattered.
At last, Professor Lupin glanced at the clock on the wall and gave a soft sigh. "Well," he said, reaching for a bit of parchment, "we'd best leave the rest for next time. Same time next week?"
He scribbled a quick note, probably planning the next twist in this quietly brilliant magical mystery tour.
Tonks bit the inside of her cheek to stop from grinning like a third-year with a crush. "Sounds good to me, Professor."
She bent down to pack her things, suddenly all thumbs. Her satchel strap refused to behave, and her parchment had folded itself the wrong way. The silence that followed wasn't awkward exactly, just different, like someone had taken the music away mid-song and neither of them quite knew what to say now it was quiet.
As she stood, Professor Lupin looked over at her again.
"I'm glad you came," he said, and there was no false charm in it, just something steady. Honest. "You're a bright one, Ms Tonks. And curious. That's a rare combination."
He said her name again, just Ms Tonks, like it belonged to her and nowhere else, and her breath caught. Her cheeks flushed, hot and immediate, like someone had cast a Warming Charm on her from the inside out.
"Thanks," she said, quiet but clear. "That… that means a lot."
And it did. More than she could explain. More than she wanted to explain. He'd seen something in her. And for once, she hadn't felt like the clumsy one or the loud one or the one who always knocked over the ink bottle. She'd just felt herself, fully, properly.
And that, somehow, felt more magical than anything written in a textbook.
Professor Lupin turned back to his desk, gathering up his parchment, his quill slipping behind one ear in that slightly scattered, absent-minded way of his. And Tonks lingered. Boots planted, fingers twitching at the edge of her sleeve, heart doing something wholly inconvenient in her chest.
She wasn't good at these moments, the ones where you had to say the thing. Usually she would trip over the words or cover them with a joke. Not this time. Pride, that noisy little thing, stepped politely to the side.
"Professor?" she blurted, voice too quick.
He paused mid-reach and looked over his shoulder. "Yes, Ms Tonks?"
Deep breath. Right. Time to be brave, or at least not catastrophic.
"I… I wanted to apologise. For how I acted in the Hospital Wing." She shifted her weight, rubbed at her neck, and let her eyes dart anywhere but at him. "I was rude. Completely out of order. And I do not even know why, really. I just… I should not have spoken to you like that."
Her gaze dropped. Merlin, when had the floor become so fascinating?
"And I would like to apologise to your girlfriend as well," she added in a rush, the words tumbling out before her brain could catch up. "For my… everything."
There was a pause. Puzzlement flickered across Professor Lupin's face, followed by something close to amusement.
"That's quite all right. But Lily is not my girlfriend. She is my best friend's wife."
Tonks blinked. "She is married?"
He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. "To James Potter. Has been for years. I promise, it is not what you think."
The relief hit so fast it made her dizzy, then shame followed close behind. Merlin, she had built an entire heartbreak out of nothing.
A boulder rolled clean off her chest and vanished into some unseen ravine. "Really?" Her voice brightened with ridiculous relief.
"Really," he said, with a fond, slightly knowing look, tapping his wand to darken the lamps and close the door behind them. "Now, you ought to head back to your common room. It is late."
He turned towards the corridor. Tonks followed a few paces behind. A touch too close to be casual. She had no intention of going straight back to Hufflepuff like a model student.
Professor Lupin noticed. He came to a gentle halt and turned towards her with that trademark raised eyebrow. "Why are you following me?" he asked, dry and amused.
Tonks shrugged, aiming for casual rather than wildly transparent. "Because you are here."
That stopped him for a second. His expression faltered. Surprise, then something softer, then the barest hint of disbelief.
He gave a quiet chuckle and shook his head as he started walking again. "You do realise this is how stalkers begin."
Tonks grinned, wide and unrepentant, something wicked curling at the corner of her mouth. "Have you ever seen a stalker as cute as me?"
He stopped mid-step. His eyes widened only slightly, but enough to show she had caught him off guard. He looked stunned, like she had hit him with a well-placed Confundus, and now he was not entirely sure which way was up.
The air between them shifted, bright and crackling, like the fizz before a lightning strike. It was not a confession, not really. Just a spark tossed into the space between them, waiting to see if it would catch.
Before common sense could march in waving its prefect's badge, Tonks spoke before she could think. "Professor, fancy grabbing a bite? I have not eaten since lunch."
That did it. He blinked. "What?" Then, more firmly, "What? You have not eaten since—Ms Tonks, that was hours ago." He glanced towards the windows, as though the moon might confirm the offence.
His voice dropped, gruff and full of quiet concern that did unfortunate things to her knees. "That is completely unacceptable. Come on—"
He hesitated, eyes flicking briefly toward the corridor as if checking for witnesses. For a heartbeat, she saw the internal debate cross his face, the tug-of-war between caution and care. Then, with a quiet sigh that sounded more like resignation than permission, he added,
"You'll have dinner in my quarters. Kitchens'll be shut by now."
Her eyes widened, and a grin flickered. "Your quarters?"
He blinked. "For food." He sounded amused in spite of himself.
She snorted. "Right. Food. I do vaguely recall that being mentioned."
He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. He already knew she would make this difficult, though not in a way he seemed to mind.
"Let us go before I change my mind."
"You say that like I do not already have half a dozen jokes ready."
"Oh, I am counting on it."
They set off down the corridor, side by side, Tonks's heart hammering somewhere between delight and danger. She probably ought to feel at least a little guilty. This was not exactly in the Hogwarts handbook, tagging along after a professor like a stray Kneazle. She did not feel guilty. She felt… electric.
Professor Lupin flicked his wand, and his office door swung open with a creak that sounded more apologetic than forbidding.
Tonks stepped through and blinked. It was lovely. Not grand or showy, but warm, lived-in. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting gold over worn floorboards and overstuffed armchairs. Velvet curtains framed tall windows. The air smelt faintly of parchment, cedarwood and something clean and herbal, mint perhaps.
It felt like him. Quiet. Scuffed at the edges. Full of odd warmth.
"Sit wherever you like," he said evenly. "I'll call a house-elf to bring something up for you."
She nodded, though her chest dipped slightly. Just food, then. Just being sensible. Not that she had expected more, but she could not help hoping. Just a bit.
But she was not letting the moment slip away without trying.
"Won't you join me, Professor?"
The words came out soft but clear, and as soon as they had left her mouth, she felt exposed. A little too bare.
He hesitated. For one tight second, she thought he might politely deflect. But instead, he offered a half-apologetic smile.
"I have already eaten," he said, gentle as ever. "But I will sit with you."
Her stomach did something ridiculous and cartwheeled.
She collapsed into an armchair, ridiculously plush and about twice the size of her, trying not to look too smug. Progress, she thought. Tiny, cardigan-wearing progress.
When the food arrived, hot, proper food, the sort that made her whole body feel warmer just smelling it, Tonks tucked in with all the dignity of a starving Niffler. She did not bother trying to impress him. If he was going to act like a distant, unbothered academic, she was at least going to enjoy her chips.
He picked up a book and opened it. Not that he read a single page. His eyes were not moving. He was holding it as though it were armour.
She watched him in between mouthfuls, his fingers resting against the spine, jaw set as though he were somewhere else entirely.
"What is wrong, Professor?" she asked, not unkindly. "You do not seem all that into your book."
He looked up, caught off guard. "Oh," he said, brushing it off. "It is nothing."
She did not buy that for a second. Nothing did not wear someone's shoulders like that. Still, she did not press.
They sat in a quiet that was not uncomfortable. Companionable, really. The kind of quiet you did not mind sitting in. The fire crackled gently, throwing warm light across the room, and bit by bit she could feel the tension begin to ease out of him, like snow softening under steady sunlight.
Maybe it was the fire or the flicker of it on his face. Maybe it was just the sheer absurdity of the evening, but suddenly Tonks found herself wanting to know more.
Why was someone like him so alone?
He could make people laugh with a single offhand comment about ancient wizards and the like. He spoke as though history was something he had lived through personally. There was kindness in him, and wit, and a depth she could not quite stop falling into.
So she asked, too casually to be truly casual, "Are you married?"
He blinked, surprised. "No."
She tilted her head, still chewing on a bit of roast potato. "Dating anyone?"
Again, a brief, clipped, "No."
She considered that for a moment. "Seems like a waste."
His brow twitched. "A waste?"
"Someone like you," she said quietly. "Clever. Kind. You have that quiet mystery air, but it is not annoying, which is honestly rare. I just think someone ought to have snatched you up by now."
That earned her a proper look. One of those steady, unreadable Professor Lupin looks that made it feel as though he saw more than you meant to show. Not unkind. Just cautious.
"I am not really interested in that sort of thing," he said finally. "Relationships. They tend to be complicated."
Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Or do you just not fancy girls?"
The look on his face was absolutely worth it.
"What? No!" he said, scandalised.
She grinned. "Just checking. You give off tragic, brooding-poet vibes. Hard to tell."
He rolled his eyes. "I am not offended," he added when she offered a mock apology. "I just do not do this sort of thing."
"Socialising?"
He gave a faint nod. "Not very well."
She watched him for a moment, the playful glint in her eye dimming a little. "That must be hard."
His voice was low, barely audible. "Sometimes."
She leant in slightly, not too much, just enough to close some invisible space between them. "But do you not ever get lonely?"
He paused. Then, after a breath, he said, calm and matter-of-fact, "Loneliness is not something I really experience."
Tonks blinked. Something about the way he said it, like it was a line he had repeated to himself so often it felt true, caught her off guard. She did not believe it, not entirely. And it made her chest ache.
So she did what she always did when emotions grew too big for thinking. She acted.
"Well," she said, too bold now to take it back, "what if I kept you company?"
Professor Lupin turned to her, startled. "What?"
Her heart thudded. "I mean… I'll be your girlfriend."
For a moment, there was only silence. Not awkward silence. Not angry silence. Just stillness. The sort of stillness you get just before a charm backfires.
"You cannot," he said quickly, as though the words had to be out before he let himself think about them.
"Why not?" she challenged, forcing a crooked grin. "You think I am ugly?"
"No, Merlin, no. You are young, charming, and pretty."
She shrugged. "Then what is the issue?"
He did not answer.
And there it was, that wall. That invisible barrier she kept running into, made of fear and old wounds and guilt that did not belong to him but stuck anyway. She could see it in the way his shoulders tensed and the way his jaw tightened. Not rejection. Just someone who had been alone so long he had forgotten what it meant to be chosen.
So Tonks softened, leaning forward a little, voice dropping low.
"You do not have to be alone, you know."
He sighed. Not the sort of sigh that meant he was annoyed, but the sort that came when you were tired of your own thoughts. Worn out by them. When it felt easier to push people away than risk letting them in.
His voice, though still steady, carried a new edge of restraint. "Well," he said carefully, "you are still underage, which matters. A great deal."
Tonks sat up straighter, her spine rigid, like a wand snapped to attention. Heat flared beneath her skin. Not embarrassment. Not confusion. Fury. Cold and clean. Not because he had rejected her, but because of the implication that her feelings, her choices, and her understanding of herself could be reduced to a number scrawled on parchment.
Something in her cracked, not from anger, but from being dismissed, again, as though she were still pretending to understand the world. It stung more than she wanted to admit.
"I am not a child in the ways that matter to me," she said sharply, her voice low but unmistakably firm. "Do not mistake school robes for ignorance."
The words dropped into the silence. The air went tight.
Professor Lupin blinked, visibly caught off guard. She had not meant to strike so directly, but the truth had been too close to the surface to dress up in politeness. For a moment, he simply looked at her as if he were seeing someone new, someone he had not prepared for.
"What?" he said at last, his voice quieter and deeper, startled.
Tonks tilted her head, a smirk curling her lips. She could see the crack in his composure, and part of her, small but victorious, grinned at the sight. "Cat got your tongue, Professor?"
His eyes went wide. "No, I have not."
His horror was so immediate, so honest, that she had to bite back a laugh. Merlin help her; he was adorable when he panicked.
"Thank you for dinner," she said breezily, plucking up the last piece of bread and popping it into her mouth with theatrical delight. She chewed, grinning at him as if he had just won her a prize at a fair.
"You are welcome," he replied, but he sounded dazed, still mentally trying to rewind to the moment where he had lost control of the conversation.
The banter made it easier. For both of them. Easier than sitting in the heavy quiet that had settled between admissions and silences. It was safer here, in teasing and boldness, than on the raw edge of something that might be real.
She caught him looking at her again. Not inappropriately, not even intently. Just… seeing her. Like she was more than a joke, more than a nuisance, more than a girl with odd hair and too many opinions.
It warmed her in a way the fire could not touch.
"Could I eat here again sometime?" she asked, before she had the chance to coat the words in sarcasm or charm. It came out plain. Honest. Unprotected.
Professor Lupin shifted in his chair. She saw it, the discomfort, the internal step back. He did not meet her eyes.
"Now hang on a moment."
"No?" she asked, too quickly. Too quietly. The disappointment leaked through despite her best efforts. She hated the vulnerability in her own voice. She hated how much she wanted this, not just for his sake, but for her own. Because somehow, when she was near him, things felt less messy. She felt solid. Like herself, but steadier.
He exhaled that sigh he used when he was trying not to say something unkind. He raked a hand through his hair, as if that might help untangle his conscience. "As I said—"
"If I get full marks in History of Magic," she blurted, fingers twisting in her lap, "you have to humour me with one evening."
His head snapped up so fast she thought he might give himself whiplash.
"An evening with me as a reward?" He looked utterly bewildered. "Why?"
She gave him a look. That look. The one that meant, really? You are going to make me explain the obvious?
"Professor," she said, all mock seriousness, "what sort of educator are you if you will not even pretend to support academic achievement?"
For a second, it hung in the air, this ridiculous, hopeful challenge, and then, slowly, the corners of his mouth twitched. He looked like someone caught between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
"All right," he said at last. Dry, but not unkind. "All right."
It hit her like a charm gone right. Victory, bright and unexpected and dangerously thrilling.
"Yes!" She beamed, leaping to her feet with enough enthusiasm to set the stack of books on his desk trembling. "Just tell me when."
He stared, thrown by the speed of her mood shift. "When what?"
She folded her arms and tilted her head, as if it should be obvious. "When my age stops being an issue for you. Until then, I will graciously ignore any tragic flirtations elsewhere."
This time, his smile came slower. Quieter. Not all the way to his eyes. It was the kind of smile that was not about humour at all. It was about sadness. Private. Weighty.
And it cut through her glee like the ghost of something he had not said aloud.
Because she could see it now. It was not really about her age. Not properly. Not even about rules. It was about him. About whatever he carried. Whatever he believed about himself. The idea that he did not deserve something good. Something warm. Something true.
Even so, he smiled. As though she had offered him something he had not let himself hope for. Not properly. Not in years.
"Goodnight, Professor," she said, not pushing her luck. She gave him a jaunty wave and turned, her boots clicking against the floor as she walked out.
She left glowing, head buzzing and heart soaring.
Maybe she had gone too far. Maybe she had not gone far enough.
Either way, she knew one thing for certain—she'd made him see her, and there was no taking that back.