THAYER'S POV
She's still here.
I wake up slowly, brain foggy, and the first thing I register is warmth. A body pressed against mine. Soft breathing against my chest.
For one confused, painful second, I think it's Celeste. That the last three years were a nightmare. That I'll open my eyes and she'll be there, alive, smiling—
But the hair on my pillow is honey-brown, not black. The hand on my chest is smaller. Different perfume—vanilla instead of jasmine.
Tesslyn.
Reality crashes back. The bar. The whiskey. This beautiful, broken girl who kissed me like drowning. Who let me touch her like she needed saving.
What the hell did I do?
I'm thirty-two years old. A university professor. She's nineteen—barely legal, probably just graduated high school. Last night I brought her to my apartment, put my hands on her, made her scream my name.
I should feel guilty. Disgusted with myself.
But God help me, all I feel is peace.
For the first time in three years, the crushing weight in my chest is gone. The guilt that usually chokes me awake at 3 AM—quiet. The ghost of Celeste that haunts every corner of this apartment—absent.
Just this girl. This stranger. Breathing softly in my arms like she belongs here.
I study her face in the early morning light filtering through the windows. She's even more beautiful than I realized last night. Delicate features. Long lashes. A small scar on her chin—I wonder what story that holds.
She shifts slightly, making a small sound. Her hand curls against my chest, right over my heart.
Something cracks inside me. Something I thought died in that car accident.
This is dangerous. Whatever this feeling is—it's dangerous.
I need to wake her. Send her home. Forget this ever happened.
But I don't move. Can't move. I just hold her and pretend, for a few more minutes, that I'm not the man who killed his wife.
The accident wasn't my fault—that's what everyone said. Black ice. The truck that ran the red light. Nothing I could have done.
But I was driving. Celeste died. I lived.
And I've been half-dead ever since, going through motions, teaching classes, coming to this bar every year on our anniversary to drown in expensive scotch and memories.
Until last night. Until Tesslyn looked at me with those hazel eyes full of pain that matched mine, and something dormant woke up.
She stirs again. This time her eyes flutter open.
For a moment, she looks confused. Then memory floods her face—shock, embarrassment, something else I can't read.
"Hi," I say quietly.
"Hi." Her voice is rough from sleep. And from screaming, my brain helpfully supplies. I push that thought away.
"How are you feeling?"
She considers this. "Like I drank too much whiskey and made questionable decisions."
"Regrets?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want the answer.
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "No. Not about this." She touches my face gently. "You made me forget, just for a while. That's... that's a gift."
My throat tightens. "You made me forget too."
We lie there in comfortable silence. I stroke her hair. She traces patterns on my chest. It feels domestic. Intimate. Like we've done this a thousand times.
"I should go," she finally whispers. "This was... it was one night. Right?"
Right. That's what it should be. One night. Never see each other again.
So why does the thought of her leaving feel like losing something important?
"Stay for breakfast at least," I hear myself say. "I make good coffee. Terrible pancakes, but good coffee."
She smiles. It lights up her whole face. "I don't think I can handle food right now. But coffee sounds perfect."
We get up. She borrows one of my shirts—it swallows her whole, hem hitting mid-thigh. She looks young and rumpled and so beautiful it hurts.
I make coffee in the kitchen while she uses the bathroom. Try not to think about how right this feels. How easy.
When she emerges, she's looking at her phone. Her expression darkens.
"What's wrong?"
"Fifty-three texts from Callum." She sounds tired. "He won't stop apologizing. Says he loves me. Says last night was a mistake."
Anger flares in my chest. "You're not going back to him."
It comes out harder than I mean. Almost possessive. She looks at me, surprised.
"I... I don't know," she admits. "Part of me wants to. Three years is a long time to throw away."
"He threw it away when he cheated. You deserve better."
"Do I?" Her voice is small. Broken. "Maybe I'm not enough. Maybe that's why—"
I cross the room in three strides. Cup her face in my hands. Make her look at me.
"Listen to me. You are enough. More than enough. What he did—that's about his weakness. Not your worth."
Tears shine in her eyes. "You barely know me."
"I know enough." My thumb brushes her cheek. "I know you're brilliant and loyal and brave. I know you light up when you talk about literature. I know you're stronger than you think."
She rises on her toes. Kisses me softly. "Thank you. For last night. For this morning. For making me feel..."
"Feel what?"
"Wanted. Like I matter."
"You do matter," I say fiercely. "Don't forget that."
She smiles again, but it's sad this time. "I really should go. I have orientation soon. And you probably have... professor things."
The word "professor" makes me freeze.
She notices. "What? Did I say something wrong?"
"You said professor."
"Yeah, you mentioned last night you teach at a university. Literature, right?" She laughs softly. "That's what I'm studying. Maybe in a different life, I'd have ended up in your class."
Ice floods my veins.
No.
No, no, no.
"What university?" My voice sounds strange.
"Ashcroft. I start in two weeks. Why? You look weird."
The coffee mug nearly slips from my hand.
Ashcroft. Where I teach. Where I'm lecturing Advanced Literature this semester.
This can't be happening.
"Thayer? You okay?"
I force myself to breathe. To think. "Yeah. Just... surprised. Small world."
She grins. "Right? Crazy coincidence. But don't worry—Ashcroft's huge. We'll probably never even see each other."
Wrong. So completely wrong.
I teach Advanced Literature. Required course for English majors. If she's studying literature, she'll be in my class. In my classroom. Every week.
This girl I slept with. This nineteen-year-old student.
I could lose my job. My career. Everything I've built since Celeste died.
"I really need to go," Tesslyn says, grabbing her clothes from last night. "But this was... it was amazing. Thank you."
She kisses my cheek. Heads for the door.
I should tell her. Should explain. Should get her number so I can contact her before classes start, figure out what to do—
But the words stick in my throat.
She pauses at the door. Looks back. "I don't usually do this. One-night stands. But I'm glad I did. You're a good man, Thayer Murdoch."
Then she's gone.
I stand frozen in my apartment, coffee going cold in my hand, panic rising in my chest.
In two weeks, university starts. In two weeks, Tesslyn walks into my classroom.
And our one perfect night becomes an ethics violation that could destroy us both.
My phone buzzes. Text from Jensen, my colleague: Ready for the new semester? Fresh batch of eager students to traumatize with Victorian literature.
I stare at the message.
Then at the shirt Tesslyn left draped over my couch—she forgot to take it back.
It still smells like vanilla.
God help me, what have I done?