Chapter 2: Disturbance Layer

Over the following days, work progressed steadily and methodically. We began excavating the first trench, uncovering Iron Age pottery sherds and burnt stone. I continued to handle recording, and my contact with Theo increased, yet his behaviour remained contradictory and confusing.

One afternoon, when the other students were working in different areas, Theo and I were alone in the shelter processing a batch of freshly excavated pottery. We needed to wash, number and carry out a preliminary classification.

“This one has clear cord decoration,” Theo said, pointing to a dark brown sherd. “Typical Iron Age style.”

I took it and carefully cleaned it with a soft brush. “There’s a perforation here, possibly a repair hole.”

“Brilliant,” Theo said, his voice softer. “A lot of people miss details like that.”

We worked side by side for over an hour, the atmosphere unexpectedly relaxed. Theo even told a story from the early days of his career that made me laugh. It was the first time I had seen him truly at ease, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening with his smile.

But when Emma and another student entered the shelter, Theo immediately withdrew into his professional, distant manner. The change was so sudden and so obvious that it stung.

That evening, something small happened in camp, yet it unexpectedly brought Linus and me closer. After dinner, I realised I had left my field notebook at the excavation area. The rain had stopped, and moonlight filtered weakly through breaks in the clouds. I took a torch and walked back towards the site.

At the edge of a trench, I saw a figure. It was Linus, alone, crouched beside the freshly excavated area.

“Professor Alder?” I called softly.

He turned, the beam of his torch lighting his face. “What are you doing here?”

“I forgot my notebook.” I walked closer and saw he was examining something. “Have you found something?”

He shifted to make space. “Look here.”

I crouched beside him. In the section face of the trench, there was a distinct layer of dark grey soil, sharply different from the surrounding natural deposits.

“This is a cultural layer,” Linus explained, his voice unusually clear in the night air. “Traces left by human activity. See the charcoal flecks and bone fragments.”

I leaned in, the torch beam moving across the soil. “What does it mean?”

“It means people once lived here, made fires, cooked, made tools.” He paused. “This is what makes archaeology fascinating. Through these tiny traces, we form a connection with people in the past.”

In the moonlight, his profile looked softer. In that moment, he was not the distant professor, but an archaeologist sharing the quiet joy of discovery.

“Why did you choose archaeology?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He was silent for a while, and I thought he would not answer. Then he said quietly, “Because truth is buried underground, waiting to be uncovered. History is not only what’s written in books. It has more layers, more secrets.”

We crouched there together, silence settling between us, but not in the uncomfortable way it usually did. It felt shared, a mutual calm, rooted in curiosity and respect for the past.

“I need your help,” Linus suddenly said, breaking the silence. “From tomorrow, I want you to take responsibility for integrating all the spatial data. Drone imagery, radar scans, excavation records, someone needs to bring them together into a single GIS model.”

I felt a rush of surprise. “I’d be happy to.”

He nodded and stood up. “Let’s head back. It’ll get colder.”

We walked back to camp together. His torch beam lit the path ahead of me. It was a small gesture, but it warmed me.

The next day, Linus announced the change in duties. I spent more time in the equipment tent handling digital data, while Theo continued to oversee excavation. This meant more contact with Linus, and less with Theo.

One afternoon, Theo came into the equipment tent. I was processing a new batch of drone orthophotos, while Linus stood beside me, guiding me through image correction.

“We need to adjust tomorrow’s excavation plan,” Theo said to Linus, his eyes flicking briefly towards me before shifting away. “Trench 3 has a possible hoard feature and needs more people.”

Linus nodded. “Move the team from Trench 4.”

Theo hesitated. “Actually, I’d like her to help. She’s very strong on recording.”

“Her work here is critical,” Linus said calmly. “The GIS model needs to be finished quickly.”

There was a subtle tension between them, like two taut strings. Watching them, I suddenly realised this was about more than task allocation.

“I can do both,” I offered. “Mornings here, afternoons on site.”

Theo looked at me, his expression hard to read. “Alright.”

After he left, Linus turned to me. “You don’t have to agree to every request.”

“I want to help,” I said honestly. “The excavation work matters too.”

Linus studied me, those grey eyes seeming to look straight through me. “Theo is an excellent field archaeologist, but sometimes he becomes too invested.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

But he had already turned back to the screen. “Carry on with the corrections. We need to keep the error under half a pixel.”

That night, an unexpected storm hit the camp. Violent winds nearly tore the dining tent loose. Everyone was mobilised to secure tents and rescue equipment.

In the chaos, I was tasked with moving some delicate instruments. Rain poured down, visibility was poor. I was carrying a total station through the mud when my foot slipped and I lost my balance.

A strong arm caught me just in time.

It was Theo. One hand steadied me, the other caught the instrument before it hit the ground. We stood there in the downpour, soaked, close enough for me to see the worry in his eyes.

“Careful,” he said, his voice barely audible over the rain.

“Thank you,” I said, breathless.

He did not let go immediately. In that moment, in the storm, something seemed to break open. His gaze no longer avoided mine, but met it directly, intensely. Rain ran from his hair, down his face.

“I…” he began, but did not finish, as Linus’s voice called out nearby.

“Theo, I need you to help secure the equipment tent.”

Theo stepped back. “Coming,” he shouted, then ran into the rain.

I stood there, the instrument suddenly heavy in my arms. What had that look meant? Had I imagined it, or had it been real?

The storm lasted all night. By morning, the camp was in disarray, but thankfully nothing major was lost. Work continued, yet the atmosphere had changed. Theo grew quieter and more distant, while Linus became more focused, almost severe.

By the second week, we made a major discovery. In Trench 3, we uncovered an intact Roman pot filled with coins.

“This is a major find,” Theo announced, excitement spreading through the team. “We need to record the position of every single coin carefully.”

Everyone threw themselves into the work. I handled photography and documentation, Theo carefully cleared the soil around the vessel, and Linus used the total station to record the three dimensional coordinates of each coin.

We worked until dusk. When the last coin had been lifted, numbered and packed, we realised how dark it had become. The other students had already returned to camp, leaving just Linus, Theo and me in the shelter to finish the final records.

“This is a coin hoard,” Linus said, updating the GIS model on his tablet. “The dates span from Claudius I to Hadrian.”

“Which suggests long term occupation,” Theo added, turning a coin over in his hand. “Look at the wear on this one. It circulated for a long time.”

As I organised the photographs, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. This was the appeal of archaeology, touching history, understanding how people in the past lived, thought and endured.

“You’ve done well today,” Linus said, standing up. “Get some rest.”

Theo stood too, stretching his stiff shoulders. “You two go ahead. I’ll double check the equipment.”

Linus nodded and gestured for me to leave with him. As we stepped outside, the night sky was clear, stars scattered above us. The English countryside felt profoundly quiet, a stark contrast to London’s light pollution.

“You’ve done very well,” Linus said suddenly. “Not just today, but throughout the project.”

I looked at him in surprise. It was the first time he had offered such direct praise.

“Thank you,” I replied softly. “I’ve learned a lot.”

“Not just technically,” he continued, his voice gentler than usual. “You have the most important qualities of an archaeologist, patience and curiosity.”

We walked back towards camp under the moonlight. In that moment, I felt closer to Linus than ever before. Perhaps, just perhaps, the feelings I had carried for so long were not entirely hopeless.

But when I glanced back towards the shelter, I saw Theo standing in the doorway, watching our retreating figures. In the light behind him, his silhouette looked lonely and heavy.

As the project drew to a close, the final days were spent on backfilling trenches, organising records and packing samples. The camp was filled with a bittersweet atmosphere, excitement over discoveries mixed with sadness at the ending.

On the last evening, a small celebration was held around a campfire. We shared food and drinks, talked about the past two weeks, and students took turns recounting their most memorable finds or funniest moments.

Linus and Theo sat slightly apart, talking quietly. I noticed the same subtle tension between them, though it now seemed softened by a measure of mutual understanding.

When most of the students had gone to bed, I stayed by the fire, enjoying the last moments of calm. The flames crackled, sparks rising into the night. I thought about the experience, about Linus and Theo, about my own feelings.

Footsteps approached. I looked up to see Theo walking over. He sat opposite me, staring into the fire.

“We go back to London tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes.”

Silence fell, broken only by the fire.

“I want to apologise,” Theo said suddenly, still not looking at me. “My behaviour these past weeks must have confused you, maybe even hurt you.”

I had not expected such directness. “Why?” I asked. “Why did you keep avoiding me?”

Theo took a deep breath and finally looked up. In the firelight, his eyes were painfully bright.

Then he began to speak, more directly and painfully than I had imagined.

“Because I like you,” he said, his voice low against the crackle of the flames. “From the first time I saw you in class. But I’m a married man, and I’m your lecturer. That double taboo made me run from it every day.”

I watched the firelight flicker across his face, illuminating the pain he was not trying to hide.

“I have a family, responsibilities,” he went on. “A marriage that’s lost its warmth and survives only in form, for the child. But legally, I’m still married. That makes any feelings I have for you feel wrong.”

He reached out as if to touch me, then clenched his hand into a fist midway. “I know I have no right. But here, with everything about to end, I can’t lie to myself anymore. What I feel for you is real, even if it’s happening at the wrong time.”

The fire danced between us. His confession felt like a key, unlocking emotions in me that I had also been suppressing. Reason warned me, but in that moment, under the wild stars, on the eve of returning to reality, something broke through.

“Theo…” I said softly.

He looked up, his eyes open with pain and longing.

I did not speak again, only leaned slightly forward. That shortening of distance became an answer without words. He froze for a moment, then the barrier he had built for months collapsed.

He stood and held out his hand. I took it. His palm was warm and rough, marked by years of fieldwork. He led me away from the firelight towards the edge of camp, to his small, separate tent.

Inside, it was dark, lit only by the faint glow filtering from outside. We stood facing each other, able to hear each other’s breathing.

“One last chance,” he said hoarsely. “Say no, and I’ll understand. Say no, and we go back to our tents, back to London tomorrow, and pretend none of this happened.”

I looked at his outline in the dim light, the face that was usually so alive now filled with struggle and desire. I knew it was wrong, I knew there would be consequences, but in that moment, I wanted only to follow what I felt.

I rose onto my toes and answered with a kiss.

It began tentative and gentle, as if testing for permission. But when my arms went around his neck and his hands pulled me closer at the waist, it grew urgent and intense. Months of suppressed desire surged forward, drowning out every rational warning.

His kisses moved from my lips to my jaw, to the side of my neck, each touch charged with something almost desperate. I felt his body tremble, not only with desire, but with release, something long held down finally finding an outlet.

“God knows how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured against my skin. “Every time you walked into a room, every question you asked, every time you smiled, I had to force myself to look away.”

His hand slid into my hair, the other moving over my back. Through the fabric of our clothes, I could feel the heat and strength of his palm. We fell onto the narrow camp bed, the sleeping bag rustling beneath us.

In the darkness, we stripped each other’s clothes with urgent, unsteady hands. His fingers trembled slightly with intensity. When my skin met the cool air, he paused, studying me in the faint light from outside.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, with something like reverence.

Then his kisses moved over my collarbone, my chest, my stomach, each touch lighting sparks. I responded, fingers threading through his thick hair, feeling the solid muscle of his shoulders and back. He smelled of earth, sweat and clean soap, the scent of fieldwork.

When he finally entered me, we both released a breath we had been holding. It felt like perfect alignment, as though our bodies had been waiting for this moment. He moved slowly at first, almost cautiously, but soon passion took over.

We were like two people who had wandered too long in the desert and finally found water, drinking greedily from each other. Every movement, every friction carried a pleasure so intense it was almost painful. Guilt and ecstasy intertwined, creating something I had never experienced before.

“Look at me,” he whispered at one point, sweat on his forehead. “I want to see your eyes.”

I opened them and met his gaze in the dim light. In that moment, it was not only physical, but something deeper, two people acknowledging desire in the midst of taboo.

When release came, it was like a gentle wave breaking over us. I bit my lip to keep quiet, my body shaking beyond my control. He buried his face in my neck, letting out a low, restrained sound, his body tensing and then easing.

Afterwards, we lay together, damp skin pressed close, breathing slowly settling. His hand moved gently over my back, the softness of the touch a sharp contrast to what had come before.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, his voice full of conflicting emotion.

“Why are you apologising?”

“For all of this. For dragging you into this mess. For not being able to control myself.”

I turned to face him, touching his cheek in the darkness. “I chose this too. We both knew what this was.”

He caught my hand and kissed my palm. “I know. But it doesn’t change the consequences. Tomorrow… tomorrow we go back to London, back to the real world, back to my marriage, your studies, our roles.”

“Then let’s at least have this night,” I said softly, resting my head against his shoulder.

He tightened his arms around me. “Just this night.”

We made love again later, slower this time, gentler, filled with a sense of farewell. Afterwards, I fell asleep in his arms, and his heartbeat was the last thing I remember.

The next morning, I woke in my own tent. I did not know when Theo had brought me back, or remember the details. Only sore muscles, faint marks on my skin, and a complicated mixture of emptiness and fulfilment remained.

At breakfast, Theo treated me as he did the other students, polite but distant. Only once, when our eyes met by chance, did I see that familiar spark, but it vanished instantly, replaced by a professional mask.

On the return coach, I chose a window seat and pretended to sleep to avoid conversation. My thoughts raced, replaying the night before and worrying about the consequences.

At the service station stop, I ran into Linus. He was buying coffee and nodded when he saw me.

“Didn’t sleep well?” he asked.

“A bit tired,” I replied.

He studied me, those grey eyes seeming to see more than he said. “Theo’s been strange this morning. Very quiet.”

My heart sped up. “Maybe he’s just tired.”

“Maybe,” Linus said, though his expression suggested he was not fully convinced.

We returned to the coach, and the rest of the journey passed in silence. Back in London, the chaos of unloading and farewells distracted me for a while. But when I finally returned to my room, alone, reality came rushing in.

What had I done? Slept with my lecturer, a married man, my supervisor’s colleague. It violated every professional and personal code I knew.

And yet, when I thought of that night, of Theo’s touch, of the passion beneath the stars, what I felt was not only regret, but a profound sense of connection. That made everything even more confusing.