Joren didn't move.
Professor Hart was sitting beside him now, her face buried in her hands. The silence between them wasn't awkward—it was loaded. He could hear her breathing. Not calm. Not steady. Just... trying.
He glanced at the floor. Her bra was still there. His boxers were half under the couch. The wine glass hadn't been touched since last night. Everything looked like a paused scene. Like someone had hit stop and forgotten to come back.
She didn't say anything for a while.
Then:
"You should go."
Joren turned his head.
"You want me to leave?"
"I need space. And you need to not be here when I start spiraling."
She was right. He didn't need to be there... and didn't want to be there either. Staying felt like volunteering for emotional jury duty.
(And let's be honest—you, yes you—wouldn't want to be in that situation either.)
He nodded, stood slowly, and started collecting his clothes. No rush. No commentary. Just quiet movement. Shirt. Jeans. Socks. Shoes. He didn't look at her while he dressed. Didn't ask questions. Just let the moment breathe. Then he paused, shirt halfway on, and glanced at her.
She still hadn't looked up.
Finally, he spoke, just to avoid looking like he was desperate to leave.
"So, um... I'm gonna head out."
She lifted her head slightly, eyes tired.
"Okay."
He nodded, pulled the shirt over his head, and walked to the door. His hand hovered over the knob.
"Don't stress yourself too much," he said.
She didn't respond.
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the hallway felt colder than it should've. He didn't check his phone. Didn't scroll. Just walked.
Outside, the city was already awake. People moving. Cars humming. Life continuing like nothing had happened.
But something had.
And it was bothering the person still sitting on that couch, hands covering her face, trying to figure out what came next.
The walk back to campus was quiet.
Joren kept his hoodie up, earbuds in, but no music playing. Just static silence. His thoughts were loud enough. The streets were already busy—students rushing, vendors setting up, the usual morning chaos—but it all felt distant. Like he was watching it from behind glass.
He reached the dorms, climbed the stairs, and unlocked the door to his room.
Dale was on his bed, propped up against a pillow, eyes glued to his tablet. Anime. Something loud and fast-paced. Joren didn't recognize it.
Dale looked up, paused the episode.
"Where've you been?"
Joren opened his mouth.
"I..."
He wanted to say it. Wanted to talk. But the words stalled.
"Just crashed at a friend's place."
Dale stared at him for a beat longer than necessary.
He knew.
There was a way Joren held his face when lying—tight jaw, eyes slightly too wide. It made him look stupid. Dale had seen it before. He didn't call it out.
He just nodded.
"Cool."
Joren dropped his bag, kicked off his shoes, and sat on his bed. He didn't lie down. Just sat there, staring at the floor, replaying everything.
The couch. Her voice. Her fingers. Her panic.
"Hey," Dale said suddenly, still looking at his tablet.
"Today's Wednesday, right?"
Joren blinked.
"Yeah. Why?"
He turned to Dale.
"You been watching anime so long you forgot what sunlight feels like?"
Dale frowned, but didn't take the bait.
"Don't you have a class every Wednesday morning?"
Silence.
Joren froze.
Then it hit him—like truck-kun in a reincarnation arc.
"Shit."
He grabbed his phone. Checked the time.
8:30 a.m.
The class was at 9:00. And the lecturer?
Strict. Ruthless with attendance. No entry after 9:01. No makeup. No excuses.
Joren tensed.
If he was going to make it, he had to lock in.