The soft glow of paper lanterns scattered across the courtyard, their light flickering like captured fireflies. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and rain-soaked grass. The party music had faded to a distant thrum inside the building, leaving only the sound of laughter carried on the night wind.
Amelia and Alexander walked side by side in silence, the space between them charged with unspoken thoughts.
"Do you often escape from your own events, Professor?" she asked finally, glancing at him with a shy smile.
Alexander's lips curved. "Only when the company inside is loud, and the company outside is… better."
Her heart skipped. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"I shouldn't," he admitted softly. "But I'm tired of everything I shouldn't do."
Amelia looked away, her pulse racing. The night pressed close around them, tender and heavy.
---
They reached the quiet garden behind the auditorium, where the world felt smaller, more private. Strings of light framed the benches, and the fountain in the center caught the moonlight like liquid silver.
"I used to come here after classes," Amelia said. "It's peaceful. No noise. No expectations."
Alexander studied her face for a long moment. "It suits you. You always look like you belong to calmer places."
"You notice things like that?" she teased.
"Too often."
She laughed softly, the sound catching in her throat. "You don't talk like a professor tonight."
"Maybe tonight," he said, stepping closer, "I'm not your professor."
Amelia's breath caught. The space between them vanished by slow degrees. His hand lifted, brushing a loose curl from her cheek. The touch was light, tentative, asking permission.
"You should tell me to stop," he murmured.
"I can't," she whispered. "Because I don't want you to."
For a long, suspended heartbeat, neither moved. The world seemed to hold its breath—then he leaned in, and she met him halfway.
It wasn't a rush, but a slow recognition—of every look exchanged in class, every unspoken word.
When they finally drew apart, the garden was utterly still.
---
"Amelia," he said quietly, voice rougher than before, "this shouldn't be happening."
"Then stop me," she replied.
He didn't.
They stood there, caught in the pull of something too strong to name.
"I've tried to forget how I feel," he admitted. "But when I saw you tonight…" His gaze softened. "I couldn't."
Amelia felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. "I thought you'd never notice me at all."
"I noticed," he said, almost smiling. "From the first day you walked into my lecture."
A faint breeze stirred the lanterns. Somewhere, the clock tower chimed midnight.
He took her hand slowly. "Come with me."
Her heart raced. "Where?"
"Just… away from here. For tonight."
Something in his tone—gentle, certain—made her trust him without hesitation.
She nodded.
He entwined his fingers with hers, leading her out through the garden path, past the sleeping trees and the stone steps that led toward the staff quarters. The night swallowed their footsteps, leaving only the echo of what had begun in that quiet, forbidden place.
---
That night, the moon hung over the campus like a witness—silent, distant, and merciful. By morning, everything between them would change.
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