Elena did not drink it immediately.
That was the first mistake.
She held the glass between her fingers and let the scent rise—smoke and oak and something faintly sweet beneath it. She told herself she was merely collecting herself, restoring order. Professors did not lose composure over students. Especially not over students with insolent mouths and steady hands.
Across the bar, Julian leaned back as though he had all the time in the world.
"You going to grade it," he asked lightly, "or taste it?"
She lifted the glass, finally, refusing to rise to the bait. The scotch burned down her throat in a clean line of fire. It steadied her. Or at least, that's what she pretended.
"I didn't know you needed a second job," she said. Her tone was crisp again. Academic. Controlled. "Northmont's tuition doesn't allow for much leisure, I imagine."
A flicker crossed his face—something unreadable.
"It allows for what matters," he said. "Rent doesn't count as leisure."
That, she hadn't expected.
In her classroom, Julian Thorne was composed arrogance. The student who leaned back too far in his chair, who challenged Kant with surgical precision, who once asked her—without irony—whether moral duty had any value in a world that rewarded manipulation.
Now he was a man behind a bar, wiping condensation rings from scarred wood.
"How long?" she asked before she could stop herself.
"How long what?"
"Have you worked here?"
"Two years."
Two years.
That meant before he took her class. Before she had ever noticed him. Before she'd marked the first essay where he dismantled deontological ethics with unnerving clarity.
She took another sip. Slower this time.
"You're full of surprises, Mr. Thorne."
"Julian," he corrected.
"In my classroom—"
"We're not in your classroom."
The words landed between them with more weight than they should have.
She felt it. That subtle shift. That erosion of hierarchy. Here, she was simply a woman in a trench coat nursing expensive scotch in a place she wasn't supposed to be.
And he knew it.
Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. The sharp vibration sliced through the moment. She ignored it.
"You should go," she said abruptly, though she didn't move.
He tilted his head. "You want me to?"
"I mean I should go."
"You don't look like you want to."
Heat crawled up her throat. She hated that he was right.
"I don't make a habit of socializing with students."
"Socializing implies mutual intention." His mouth curved slightly. "You came in alone."
"And yet I'm not alone."
Silence.
The bar hummed around them—low laughter, the clink of glasses, the muted thud of bass from a speaker in the corner. Outside, the rain continued its slow descent against the windows.
Julian stepped back finally, creating distance. The sudden absence of him felt louder than his proximity.
"I'm off in ten minutes," he said casually. "If you're still here."
It wasn't a question.
Elena swallowed the rest of her drink.
"I won't be."
—
She was.
Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.
She ordered another scotch. Told herself it was the weather. The fatigue. The oppressive quiet waiting for her at home.
When Julian reappeared from behind a back door, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair slightly damp from a quick wash, she felt something tighten in her chest.
He paused when he saw her still seated there.
"Strong pour?" he asked.
She held his gaze. "Manageable."
He nodded, as if she had passed a test.
"Walk you out?" he asked.
"I can manage that too."
He didn't argue. He simply fell into step beside her as she slid off the stool.
Outside, the mist had thickened into real rain. The streetlights blurred into halos.
They stood under the narrow awning of The Copper Bolt, neither quite stepping forward.
"I assume this is where we pretend this never happened," Julian said.
"This is where you remember boundaries."
His jaw shifted.
"Boundaries are contextual," he replied quietly. "In class, you're Dr. Vance. Here—"
"Here I'm still your professor."
He stepped closer. Not touching. Just enough that she could see the tiny scar near his eyebrow she had never noticed before.
"And if I drop your class?" he asked.
Her breath hitched. It was subtle. But he saw it.
"That would be unwise," she said. "You're doing well."
"That's not why I take it."
"Then why?"
The question slipped out before she could cage it.
His eyes darkened.
"You really don't know?"
The rain filled the silence for him.
Elena stepped back first.
"Goodnight, Mr. Thorne."
"Julian."
She turned and walked into the rain without looking back.
She felt his gaze the entire way to her car.
—
The next morning, Northmont University looked scrubbed clean.
Elena arrived early, as she always did. Precision was her armor. She reviewed her lecture notes, adjusted her glasses, sipped black coffee.
By 7:58 AM, the classroom was half full.
By 8:00, Julian was in his usual seat in the back row.
Hoodie. Neutral expression. A pen twirling lazily between his fingers.
If someone had told her the night before had been imagined, she might have believed it—except for the way his eyes found hers the moment she began speaking.
Today's topic: Moral Restraint and Forbidden Action.
She nearly laughed at the cruelty of it.
"Kant argues that morality exists independent of desire," she began smoothly. "That inclination must never override duty."
Her voice did not waver.
But her pulse did.
"However," she continued, "modern critics suggest that suppression of desire can distort moral judgment."
A hand rose in the back.
Of course.
"Yes, Mr. Thorne?"
Julian didn't stand. He rarely did.
"Wouldn't suppression," he said, voice measured, "create the very obsession it seeks to eliminate?"
A ripple moved through the class.
Elena met his gaze evenly.
"Only if the individual lacks discipline."
His mouth curved—barely.
"And if the discipline is artificial?"
"Then it collapses under pressure."
The words hung there. Too sharp. Too personal.
For a second, the rest of the class disappeared.
Then someone cleared their throat. The moment shattered.
Elena turned back to the board.
"Open your texts to page 214."
Her hands were steady.
Her mind was not.
—
After class, she gathered her materials quickly.
She almost made it to the door.
"Dr. Vance."
She closed her eyes briefly before turning.
Julian stood closer than she expected. The other students filtered out around them.
"Yes?"
"I had a question about the midterm essay."
"Office hours are posted on the syllabus."
"I know."
He didn't move.
"Then I'll see you Thursday."
"Why Thursday?"
"Because that's when my office hours are."
A pause.
"And if I need clarification sooner?"
She stared at him.
"You seem capable of independent thought."
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice.
"I prefer direct instruction."
Her stomach tightened.
"Thursday," she repeated.
For a fraction of a second, something vulnerable flickered in his expression. Then it was gone.
"Thursday," he agreed.
—
She didn't sleep that night.
She told herself it was caffeine.
On Thursday, she wore her most severe blazer.
Her office was small but orderly. Bookshelves lined one wall. A single window overlooked the quad.
At precisely 3:17 PM, there was a knock.
"Come in."
Julian stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
The sound echoed.
He did not sit.
"You had a question," she prompted.
He watched her for a moment before speaking.
"I'm considering changing my essay topic."
"To?"
"Forbidden attachment."
Her pen stilled.
"That's vague."
"It's relevant."
"To what?"
"To the concept of power imbalance."
Her throat went dry.
"Be specific, Mr. Thorne."
He finally took the chair opposite her desk.
"What happens," he said slowly, "when two people operate within a structured hierarchy… and the hierarchy begins to blur?"
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.
"The ethical answer," she replied carefully, "is that one party must reestablish the boundary."
"And if neither wants to?"
The air shifted.
Her office felt smaller.
"That's not how ethics works."
"No," he agreed softly. "It's not."
Silence stretched.
She could hear students laughing faintly outside.
Normal. Everything was normal.
"You're playing with hypotheticals," she said.
"Am I?"
His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.
"Careful, Dr. Vance," he murmured.
The same words from the bar.
Her composure fractured—not outwardly, but internally. A hairline crack.
"This conversation," she said evenly, "is academic."
"Of course."
"But if it stops being academic—"
"It won't."
They both knew that was a lie.
A long, dangerous pause.
Then Julian stood.
"I'll see you Monday," he said.
At the door, he hesitated.
"By the way," he added quietly, "I won't be dropping your class."
The door closed behind him.
Elena remained seated long after the sound of his footsteps faded.
On her desk lay the printed syllabus.
Under the heading Course Expectations, one line stood out:
Professional boundaries must be maintained at all times.
Her hand hovered over it.
Outside, the campus bell rang the hour.
And for the first time in years, Dr. Elena Vance wasn't entirely certain she could follow her own rules.
—
Monday would come.
And with it, consequences.
But for now, the tension remained—unresolved, coiled, and waiting.
Like a lesson neither of them was prepared to unlearn.