Borrowed Heat part 6

Six weeks felt longer than they should have.

I kept the door open during every remaining office hour. I called on him in class only when the work demanded it. I graded his final portfolio with the same ruthless precision I gave everyone else and refused to let my eyes linger when he packed his things on the last day of the semester. He never pushed past the boundary I had drawn that rainy night in my apartment. He simply looked at me the way he always had, and left the room each time without a word that could be misread.

Graduation was held under a white tent on the main lawn. The air smelled of cut grass and warm champagne. I stood near the edge of the faculty section in a dark dress and watched him cross the stage, receive his diploma, and shake the dean’s hand with the same quiet composure he had shown in every seminar. When his name was called I felt the old familiar pull low in my stomach and forced myself to clap like every other professor.

The after-party spilled across the department courtyard as evening settled. String lights hung between the trees. Someone had set out folding tables with wine and cheese. Students in dresses and suits drifted between clusters of faculty, laughing too loudly, already half in love with the idea of freedom.

I was mid-conversation with a colleague when I felt him approach.

Ellis stopped a careful distance away, diploma tube under one arm, tie loosened. The six weeks had not dulled anything. If anything the enforced distance had sharpened it.

“Professor Voss,” he said, voice polite enough for anyone listening.

“Hart.” I kept my tone even. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” His eyes held mine a second longer than necessary. “There’s something I need to say, privately, if you have a minute.”

I excused myself and followed him around the side of the building, away from the lights and the noise, into the narrow service alley that ran behind the English department. The second we were out of sight he turned, and the careful distance collapsed.

He kissed me like the six weeks had been a single held breath.

The want that had sat unanswered since the night I sent him away surged back full force. He tasted like champagne and scent I still remembered on my sheets. One of his hands braced beside my head; the other slid to my waist and pulled me flush against him. I could feel how hard he was already. The discovery sent a fresh rush of heat between my legs.

We stayed like that, hungry kisses broken only for air, his thigh pressing between mine until I was rolling against it without shame. My dress rode up under his hand. I bit his lower lip the way I used to and felt the low sound he made vibrate against my mouth.

A burst of laughter from the courtyard made us freeze.

We broke apart, breathing hard. His forehead rested against mine for a second. My lipstick was almost certainly on his mouth. My pulse was loud enough that I was certain anyone walking past the alley mouth would hear it.

“I’m not your student anymore,” he said quietly.

I looked at him in the half-dark, the same steady eyes, the same refusal to scramble, and felt the last of the old performance fall away.

We fixed our clothes in silence. I wiped the trace of my lipstick from his mouth with my thumb. He straightened the shoulder of my dress. Then we walked back into the courtyard separately, the way we had arrived, and rejoined the party as if nothing had happened.

An hour later, when most of the students had drifted toward the bars downtown and only a smaller group of faculty and graduates remained, I found him again near the wine table. This time I didn’t keep my distance.

I stepped close enough that our arms brushed and said, clearly enough for the two colleagues standing nearby to hear, “Ellis is coming to dinner with me tomorrow. We’ve waited long enough.”

The words landed in the mild evening air without drama. One of the professors raised an eyebrow, the other simply smiled into her glass. Ellis looked at me, surprise flickering for only a second before that quiet certainty returned.

No one made a scene. The boundary that had ruled every locked door and stolen hour was gone, and we had chosen in the open to step across what remained of it.

Later, after the last of the lights were taken down and the courtyard emptied, he walked me to my car. This time when he kissed me it was slower, the kind of kiss that belonged to people who no longer had to watch the door.

“Six weeks,” I murmured against his mouth.

“Worth it,” he said.

I drove home with the windows down and the night air cool against my still-flushed skin, the decision already settling into something solid and irreversible. For the first time since the afternoon he stayed after class and refused to scramble, I stopped calculating the cost and simply let myself want him in the light.