Aria Zhao had spent the last three hours in the linguistics lab, her eyes burning from staring at phonetic transcriptions of Middle High German texts. The fluorescent lights in the basement of the Humanities building had given her a headache, and she'd finally admitted defeat. Fresh air. She needed fresh air and maybe actual sunlight.
October in Princeton was her favorite time of year, warm enough to work outside, cool enough that her laptop wouldn't overheat. She grabbed her messenger bag, ensured her thesis notes were backed up on three drives (a habit from her mentor, Professor Nakamura), and headed for the quad.
Most of the benches were occupied by students cramming for midterms, couples having intense conversations that would probably end in dramatic breakups by next week. But there was one spot left, occupied by a single person who seemed absorbed in grading papers.
"Excuse me," Aria said as she approached, keeping her tone polite but not overly warm. "Would you mind if I sat here? Everything else seems to be taken."
He looked up. She caught a flicker of surprise in his expression. Men often looked at her that way; she'd inherited her mother's Shanghainese features and her father's Swedish height, and the combination tended to draw attention. She'd learned to ignore it.
"Sure thing." He gathered his papers. "I'm Noah, by the way. Noah White."
She recognized him immediately. Professor White. She'd seen him around campus, heard other students talking about his classes. He was younger than most of the faculty, probably early thirties, with the kind of casual style that told her that he either didn't care about academic dress codes or was deliberately cultivating an approachable image.
"Aria Zhao." She settled onto the bench, maintaining a respectful distance. "You teach creative writing, don't you? I've heard good things about your classes."
"Guilty." He smiled, genuine rather than performative. "Are you a student here? I don't think I've seen you around."
"Linguistics, finishing my master's thesis." She pulled out her laptop, half-expecting this to be the end of the conversation. Most people's eyes glazed over when she mentioned linguistics. "I spend most of my time in the language lab or the library stacks. Not much time for wandering campus."
"The one in the Humanities basement?" He grimaced. "With the flickering lights and the vending machine that steals your money?"
Aria laughed, surprised he knew about it. "That's the one. I think I've lost about forty dollars to that machine this semester."
"Campus maintenance is a black hole." He set his pen down, seeming genuinely interested. "What's your thesis focus?"
Most people asked out of politeness, then quickly changed the subject. But his attention seemed focused, present. Aria found herself relaxing slightly.
"Narrative structure evolution across Germanic languages," she said, watching for the usual signs of boredom. "How cultural migration patterns influenced storytelling traditions. The same basic archetypes: hero's journey, cautionary tales, origin myths, transform as they move from one linguistic community to another."
She paused, then added with a self-deprecating smile, "I know it sounds incredibly dry."
"That doesn't sound dry at all." He leaned forward slightly. "It sounds like the kind of research that could reshape how we understand cultural transmission. Are you working with Professor Nakamura?"
Aria blinked. "You know her work?"
"I've read some of her papers on linguistic drift and narrative theory. She's brilliant."
"She is," Aria agreed, feeling a genuine spark of enthusiasm. It was rare to meet someone outside her department who understood what she was studying. "She's demanding as hell, but in the best way. She actually suggested I audit a creative writing class. She said understanding how stories work from the inside out would strengthen my analysis."
"That's smart advice." Noah glanced at his stack of papers, then back at her. "What's your take on European versus American narrative structures? From a linguistic perspective."
And just like that, they were talking. Really talking. Not the normal shallow campus small talk Aria usually endured, but a genuine exchange of ideas. She told him about the café in Prague where Kafka used to write, how the physical space of those cramped tables created an atmosphere where strangers shared intimate stories.
"The cultural difference shows up in the literature," she explained, her hands gesturing as she warmed to the topic. "European writers from that period, Kafka, Rilke, Havel, they're obsessed with the tension between public and private identity. American writers from the same era focus more on individual psychology, internal landscape."
Noah nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense when you consider the different social structures. European social culture versus American individualism."
They talked about Berlin and her semester abroad, about the way language shaped narrative possibilities, about the books they'd both read and interpreted differently. Aria found herself enjoying the conversation in a way that surprised her. She'd been so buried in her research for months that she'd forgotten what it felt like to simply discuss ideas with someone who understood them.
She checked her watch and realized thirty minutes had passed. "I should probably let you get back to your grading."
"Right." He glanced at his stack of papers reluctantly. "This has been really enjoyable, though. I'd love to hear more about your research sometime."
Aria hesitated. She'd come to the bench for fresh air and solitude, not to make new connections. But the conversation had been stimulating in a way that she didn't encounter often. And she would be graduating in December; she'd be off campus soon anyway.
"I don't suppose you'd be interested in continuing this conversation over lunch sometime?" she asked, keeping her tone casual. "There's a new Italian place downtown, Osteria Luna. The chef is from Milan, and she does incredible house-made pasta."
She saw the brief hesitation cross his face and added quickly, "Just as colleagues who appreciate good conversation and better food. I promise I'm not one of those students who develop inappropriate crushes on their professors."
The directness seemed to surprise him, but he smiled. "In that case, Saturday sounds good."
"Perfect." Aria stood, shouldering her bag. "Let's exchange numbers and I'll text you the details."
As she walked away, satisfaction settled over her. It was nice to meet someone who could hold an intellectual conversation without their eyes glazing over. Better yet, he was someone whose own work intersected with hers in interesting ways. She told herself that the conversation had been intellectually stimulating, nothing more.
But despite that, she had noticed that he was attractive. Very attractive. But that was irrelevant. She was graduating in two months and already had interviews lined up at research institutes in New York City, Berlin, and Copenhagen. So this was only about having an intellectual exchange, nothing else.
Still, as she walked back toward the library, Aria found herself looking forward to Saturday.
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Mai sat in the back corner of Room 247, her notebook open but mostly blank. She'd tried to take notes during Professor White's lecture on Raymond Carver, but her mind kept drifting. She'd written "minimalism" and "iceberg theory," then her pen had just hovered over the page for the rest of class.
Around her, students packed up, talking about weekend plans and upcoming exams. Jessica was complaining about calculus. Marcus was already half-asleep. The normal rhythm of campus life continued, but Mai felt separate from it, like she was watching everything through glass.
She needed to talk to him. She'd been thinking about their conversation last night, about the text messages and the phone call, and she couldn't make sense of it. She'd been angry, then confused, then something else she didn't have a name for. And then she'd written. God, she'd written for hours, words pouring out of her in a way they never had before.
But now, in the cold light of day, sitting in this classroom that smelled like old radiators and chalk dust, she didn't know what to think.
Mai waited until the door closed behind the last student who had left, then approached his desk. Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat.
"Professor White?" Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. "Can we talk for a minute?"
He looked up from gathering his papers. "Of course. What's on your mind?"
Mai glanced at the open door. "About yesterday's... about what happened. After class. Our conversation."
"Okay." He settled back in his chair, expression unreadable. "What about it?"
She shifted her weight, fingers twisting the strap of her messenger bag. "I've been thinking about it nonstop. I can't focus on anything else."
"Okay," he said carefully. "And here I thought you were going to report me to the school for discipline. I mean, since you were so angry last night about everything that happened?"
"I was… Angry, I mean. At first, like… really angry. I thought you'd pushed me into something I wasn't ready for." The words tumbled out before she could stop them. "But… then I started writing, and…" She paused, trying to organize her thoughts. "The writing was different. Better. More honest than anything I've ever written."
Her words hung in the air as the building groaned around them, settling into its evening quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a janitor's cart rattled past, but otherwise they were alone in the silence.
Professor White studied her face, and Mai felt exposed under his gaze. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
"How does that make you feel?" he asked. "The fact that it worked."
Mai's cheeks burned. "Confused. Like I should be angrier than I am. Like I should report you or something, but instead I'm here asking for... I don't even know what I'm asking for."
She pulled several pages from her bag, the story she'd written last night. Her hands were shaking slightly as she held them out. "I wanted you to read this. To see if I'm crazy for thinking it's actually good, or if I just convinced myself it is because I want to justify what happened."
He took the pages, and their fingers brushed briefly. Mai pulled her hand back quickly.
She watched him read, trying to gauge his reaction. The room felt too small suddenly, too quiet. She could hear the janitor's cart in the hallway, the distant sound of a door closing.
"This is strong work, Mai." He looked up. There was something in his expression she couldn't quite read. "The anger comes through clearly in the beginning. The protagonist tears into her partner with real venom. But then it transforms into something more complex."
He pointed to a specific passage. "This line here, 'She throws him down violently and mounts him like a beast.' There's no pretense, no literary bullshit. Just raw honesty."
Mai felt her face burning hotter. "I didn't plan to write something so aggressive. It just came out."
"The best writing usually does." He set the pages down. "Was the anger directed at me?"
The question was too direct, too probing. Mai looked away. "Some of it, I guess. The confusion, the feeling used, all of it got mixed together in the story."
Professor White moved slightly closer, and Mai found herself taking a small step back, bumping against a desk.
"I remember telling you that you weren't allowed to think about me," he said, his voice quieter now. "That you had to focus on your writing. Did you follow those instructions?"
Mai's breath caught. "I tried. I really tried. But the feelings were still there, like background noise I couldn't turn off."
"Mai." The way he said her name made something tighten in her chest. "Did you touch yourself last night?"
The question hit her like a physical blow. "What? No, I…" She stopped, her mind reeling. "I was so worked up from our conversation that I couldn't sleep. I kept replaying it, but I didn't... I don't think..."
Actually, she wasn't sure. She'd been so keyed up, tossing and turning, her body responding to the memory of his voice in ways that felt beyond her control. Had she touched herself? The line between restless sleep and conscious action felt blurred now.
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I did without realizing it. Everything was so confusing."
He was watching her carefully, and Mai felt pinned under that gaze. The analytical part of her mind, the part that was usually so good at reading subtext, started screaming warnings. This wasn't normal. This wasn't how a professor should talk to a student.
But another part of her, the part that had produced the best writing of her life last night, wanted to know what would happen next.
Author's NoteThis book was written in full before release and will update weekly until completion.