It rained for three days straight after Winter left Eleanor's office. Thin, cold sheets that blurred the world beyond the windows and turned Briarfield's ancient stone walkways slick and dark. Students disappeared beneath umbrellas and thick scarves, moving through campus like ghosts.
Winter didn't mind the rain. It suited her. It gave her a reason to keep her hood up, her head down — a reason not to talk.
Not that she wanted to talk. Not after what had almost happened.
Not after what she'd said."What if I want to know you?"And Eleanor's answer:"Because if I let you want me... I wouldn't be able to stop."
Words like that don't just go away.
They rooted inside Winter. Bloomed wild every time she closed her eyes.
In class, Eleanor didn't treat her any differently. She called on her as often as she always had. Responded to her insights with the same wry, careful nods. Never lingered. Never looked too long.
But Winter felt it — the slight pause when their fingers passed too near on the desk. The way Eleanor would glance toward her when quoting lines about longing. The small, sharp inhales she tried to mask as breath control.
And Winter knew herself well enough to recognize obsession when it began to take hold.
On Friday afternoon, Eleanor held her seminar in the library's west reading room instead of the usual lecture hall.
"The acoustics are poor," she explained, "but the atmosphere compensates."
Winter arrived early — of course — and watched from the back as Eleanor set out copies of today's reading. She wore a simple navy blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks, sleeves rolled again to the elbow, as if she'd had to push through too many thoughts to bother looking polished. Her hair was looser today, a strand falling forward. She didn't bother tucking it back.
She looked… tired. And more beautiful than Winter remembered.
When Eleanor turned and caught her watching, Winter didn't look away.
For a moment, the space between them seemed to breathe.
The reading was from Blue Hours, a collection of modern essays on intimacy and emotional delay. Eleanor's voice was steady, deliberate, but the subject matter made her restraint more obvious.
One passage was particularly loaded:
"Want is rarely loud. Sometimes it's a hand not taken. A door not closed. A name repeated in silence when no one's listening. Desire doesn't always want to be fulfilled. Sometimes it just wants to be allowed."
Winter didn't blink. She felt that line strike her like a quiet thunderclap.
Eleanor looked up after reading it. Her eyes went straight to Winter.Held there.Just a breath too long.
It was a whisper of acknowledgment. The kind that no one else would hear — but Winter did. And her pulse answered it like a drumbeat.
After class, Winter waited. Pretended to browse the shelves while the others filtered out.
Eleanor didn't acknowledge her at first. She packed her things slowly, methodically. She could've left. She didn't.
When the last student disappeared, Winter approached. Her voice barely above a murmur.
"That last passage," she said. "You chose it on purpose."
Eleanor didn't turn around. "I choose every passage on purpose."
Winter took a step closer. "You looked at me when you read it."
"I looked at several students."
"No, you didn't."
Silence. Then, finally, Eleanor faced her. Her expression unreadable — but her voice cracked just slightly when she said:
"This can't happen."
"Because it's unethical?" Winter asked, soft. "Or because you're scared?"
Eleanor's throat moved. "Both."
Winter's hand tightened around the strap of her bag. "I'm not trying to hurt you."
"I know."
"Then why do you keep pretending we don't feel the same thing?"
Eleanor walked past her, toward the tall window, resting a hand against the pane.
"You're twenty-one, Winter. You haven't lived with consequences the way I have."
Winter followed slowly, but didn't touch her. "That doesn't mean my feelings are less valid."
"It means I have to be the one who knows better."
Winter swallowed. "But you don't want to stop."
Eleanor's shoulders were rigid. "No."
There. Finally. A crack in the armor.
Winter moved closer — just a foot between them now. She didn't touch her. Didn't dare. But she let herself be near. Let Eleanor feel the pull between them.
She could smell her perfume — something clean, warm, barely floral. She wanted to lean in. Rest her forehead against Eleanor's back. Just to feel her breathe.
Instead, she whispered:
"I think about you all the time."
Eleanor turned. Her eyes were glassy, unreadable.
"I wish you didn't," she said.
"I don't."
A pause.
Eleanor's gaze dropped — to Winter's mouth. She didn't move. Just stared. Her voice broke.
"You should go."
Winter didn't move.
"Please," Eleanor added, softer.
Winter nodded. Left without a word. Her hands shook the whole way home.
That night, Winter dreamt of soft hands and silk sheets. Of whispers in the dark. Of being touched like something precious, and forbidden, and real.
The next week was different. Eleanor avoided eye contact. Avoided small talk. Avoided Winter.
And Winter let her. For four days.
Then, on Thursday evening, she returned to Eleanor's office.
She knocked. No answer.
She knocked again. Still nothing.
She reached for the doorknob, not expecting it to turn.
But it did.
The office was dim, lit only by the small desk lamp. Eleanor sat behind it, half-draped in shadow. Her jacket was off, her collarbone visible above the neckline of her blouse. She wasn't working. Just… sitting.
"Did you forget to lock the door?" Winter asked gently.
"No," Eleanor said. Her voice was low. "I left it open."
Winter stepped inside. Closed the door. Her heart pounding.
"I don't know how to stop wanting you," she said.
Eleanor's breath caught. "You think I do?"
Winter took one step forward. Then another. Until she stood right in front of the desk.
"I won't tell anyone," she said.
"That's not the point."
"I don't care about the point anymore."
Eleanor stood — slowly, shakily. Her fingers curled into the edge of the desk.
"You're making this harder than it already is."
"You want me to stop."
"Yes."
"Tell me to."
Silence.
"Eleanor," Winter whispered. "Tell me to stop."
Eleanor's lips parted. Her breath shallow.
And then — finally — she moved.
She stepped around the desk. Stood in front of Winter. So close, they were nearly touching.
Her fingers reached up — hovered — then finally brushed a lock of hair from Winter's face. The contact was so soft, so careful, it made Winter tremble.
"This is madness," Eleanor whispered.
Winter leaned in — not to kiss, not yet. Just to feel her. "Then let's be mad."
And then Eleanor's hand slid to her jaw. Held it gently. And Winter tilted into the touch, her eyes fluttering shut.
Eleanor's voice was barely there. "I've thought about kissing you."
"Then do it."
"I can't."
"You already are."
And then — then — Eleanor kissed her.
It wasn't gentle.
It wasn't hesitant.
It was the kind of kiss that bursts out of you like a scream. Years of silence breaking in one, searing second.
Winter gasped against her mouth, hands flying to Eleanor's waist. Eleanor pulled her closer, fingers digging into her spine. They were both trembling, mouths exploring, tasting, daring.
The kiss slowed. Deepened. Became something quieter. More reverent.
And when they finally broke apart, both breathless and wide-eyed, Eleanor whispered:
"You should go."
Winter searched her face. "Do you want me to?"
Eleanor's thumb brushed her lip, smudged from the kiss. "No."
"Then I'm staying."
They didn't make love that night.
But they sat together — Eleanor on the couch, Winter curled beside her. Talking. Touching. Not sexually. Just… contact. Human. Intimate.
Eleanor told her about Paris. Her divorce. The poems she never published. Winter told her about her mother. Her panic attacks. The tattoo she got alone after her first heartbreak.
By midnight, Winter was asleep with her head in Eleanor's lap.
And Eleanor — her fingers stroking through Winter's hair like she'd done it a thousand times before — looked down at the girl she wasn't supposed to love.
And let herself feel everything.