The next class was on a Thursday, and Karen Higgins had spent the intervening days trying—unsuccessfully—to forget the way Jonny Westlake had looked at her. She'd dismissed it as youthful bravado, a bored student playing games, and nothing more. That's what she told herself, anyway.
But she still put on lipstick that morning.
It was subtle—just a muted coral that matched the floral scarf she never usually wore—but it was enough to catch her reflection and pause for a moment longer than usual. She scoffed at herself. "You're not some lovesick undergrad," she muttered. Still, she lingered at the mirror, smoothing the front of her blouse before heading out.
The classroom was full when she arrived. Students sat straighter as she entered, like children caught misbehaving. She appreciated the fear. Fear kept things orderly.
"Today," she began, placing her folder on the desk, "we delve into Lord Byron. Arguably the first modern celebrity. Poet. Swordsman. Libertine."
A soft chuckle came from the back. Jonny Westlake. Of course. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, a faint smirk dancing on his lips. Karen continued without acknowledging him, but her spine tingled with awareness.
"Byron once wrote, 'The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.' What do you think he meant by that?"
A few hands hesitated in the air. She pointed to a young woman in the front row.
"He's romanticizing pain," the student offered. "Like suffering makes you more alive?"
"An interesting point," Karen said. "Anyone disagree?"
Jonny's hand went up, leisurely, like he was stretching rather than participating.
"Yes, Mr. Westlake?"
"I think he meant that existence is flat without intensity. That even pain is preferable to numbness. Kind of like…" he paused, eyes locking on hers, "…the thrill of saying something you're not supposed to."
Karen blinked. Her heart fluttered in a way she hadn't felt in years. She hated it.
"Well," she said, masking her discomfort behind a practiced smile, "as long as we keep those unsanctioned thrills out of my classroom, we'll get along fine."
Laughter rippled across the room. Jonny nodded, accepting the jab. He looked amused, not chastised.
Class went on. Karen guided the students through Byron's Childe Harold, through brooding landscapes and internal despair, through the mythology of a man whose life was his greatest poem. But the whole time, she could feel Jonny watching her. Not in a lascivious way—no, worse. With curiosity. With focus.
She dismissed the class early, needing air more than they needed another ten minutes of discussion.
"Professor Higgins," a voice called as she packed her things.
She didn't need to look. "Yes, Mr. Westlake?"
"You're not really like Byron," he said, approaching her desk.
She arched a brow. "I should hope not. He died of syphilis at thirty-six."
Jonny laughed. "True. But I meant your style. You're more Wordsworth. Sharp intellect, tight emotional reins."
She stared at him, mildly impressed. Most of her students barely remembered the names, let alone their differences.
"Flattering me with accurate literary analysis," she said. "Very clever."
"It's not flattery if it's true."
There it was again—that steady confidence. Jonny had a way of speaking that wasn't rehearsed, yet carried weight. It wasn't just his words. It was how he looked at her, like she was worth the trouble.
Karen crossed her arms, firming her tone. "We are not friends, Mr. Westlake. And I don't engage in extended conversations after class unless they're academic."
"Then I have a question about the reading."
She sighed. "Of course you do."
Jonny pulled a dog-eared book from his bag and held it open. "This passage—about 'the weary weight of all this unintelligible world'—Wordsworth is talking about disillusionment, right? The loss of childlike wonder?"
Karen leaned over slightly, peering at the lines. Their shoulders nearly touched. She inhaled sharply, catching the faint scent of cedar and something earthy. A moment too close.
"Disillusionment, yes. But also responsibility. Age. Experience," she said.
"Sounds bleak," Jonny said softly.
"It's reality."
He looked up. "You don't seem disillusioned. Just… guarded."
Karen froze. The words struck too close to home.
"This is wildly inappropriate," she said, stepping back. "You need to understand the boundaries of this relationship."
"Of course," he said gently. "You're my professor. I respect that. I just—" He hesitated, then shrugged. "Never mind."
She expected him to argue, or push again, but instead, he just nodded, slid the book back into his bag, and left.
---
Karen drove home in silence that afternoon, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. Jonny's words echoed in her head like verses she couldn't forget.
"You don't seem disillusioned. Just… guarded."
She hated how accurate it was. She was guarded. Years of disappointment had made sure of that. Her first marriage ended in infidelity, her second in exhaustion. Two decades of giving too much, asking too little, and winding up lonelier for it.
She pulled into her driveway, the sun sinking low behind the trees. Her modest brick townhouse looked warm, but tonight it felt sterile. She fed Milton, poured herself a drink, and tried to grade a few papers—but her eyes kept drifting.
To nothing. To everything.
To thoughts of a student with laughing eyes and a voice like a dare.
She was too old for this. Too smart. Too careful.
And yet.
That night, her dreams were vivid and strange. She stood in a library lit by candlelight, surrounded by worn books and velvet shadows. Jonny stood across from her, reading from a page she couldn't see. He looked up and said only one thing:
> "Guarded doesn't mean closed."
Karen woke before dawn, her heart thudding hard in the still darkness.
She told herself it meant nothing.
But something had shifted.