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Faculty Mixer
publish date:
2026-09-15 15:12:05
Latest chapter
Torn Between My Boyfriend & the Professor HIS RULES
LENAThe apartment smells like garlic before I even get the door open.I stand in the hallway for one full second with the strap digging into my collarbone, the logger inside the canvas wrapped tight in a wool scarf from the backseat. The scent hits my throat, and my mind runs the calculations before I take another step: Sophie is home, Sophie is cooking, and the lie I texted Tyler forty minutes ago is currently taking shape in real time.I push the door open.Sophie stands over the stove with a wooden spoon in her grip, her hair piled into that crooked knot she never pins properly. Oil snaps in the skillet as she glances back over one shoulder."You eat yet?""No," I say, and the word lands flat and even."I made too much again." She turns back to the heat, flicking oil off the edge of the spoon. "Sit down if you want some."I drop my bag near the sofa rather than carry it straight down the hall; ducking into the bedroom right away looks like an evasion, and Sophie always registers a
Torn Between My Boyfriend & the Professor The Tracking Beacon
LENALate afternoon light settles flat across the campus lawns, giving the brick paths a dull, rinsed gold that looks exposed. I walk without hurrying. My canvas bag hangs off one shoulder, and the weight of Tyler's keys knocks inside the pocket lining with every stride, cold metal dragging against my hip.Before I reach the fountain, I pull out my phone. I type one word.Tomorrow.I tap send.The screen lights up before I cross thirty feet of pavement.Confirmed. Same time.Julian speaks in clean borders. No extra warmth, no open questions, nothing that could convict either of us if someone else looked at the glass. I file his message away the same way I stored his face when I stepped out of the coffee shop: functional, bounded, impossible to trust yet.The faculty parking lot has already thinned out by five, leaving only scattered student beaters near the back chain link. I find my car by rote. The gray sedan Tyler helped me choose three years ago sits under the light pole, safe and
Torn Between My Boyfriend & the Professor The Ring
LENAThe sheets are wrong. That is the first thing I register before my mind catches up; the thread count is too high, the pillow feels too firm, and the faint scent of cedar mingles with a floral note that never belonged to my detergent. I lie motionless across the mattress, staring up until the details overhead sharpen into view. Pale yellow paint coats the plaster beneath heavy crown molding; this is not my apartment.I wake inside Tyler's childhood bedroom.Memory returns piece by piece, like waking from an involuntary dream that leaves a dull ache behind. I recall the dark drive out here after dinner, Tyler telling me to stay because the hour was late and his parents would welcome it; I said yes the way I say yes to everything lately, offering a practiced smile that moves my mouth without reaching anything deeper. I cannot recall the exact moment of consent. What I remember is failing to refuse; there is a distinct boundary between the two, and I have learned to occupy that hollo
Torn Between My Boyfriend & the Professor Between Two Doors
LENAI can't decide. So I throw myself back into the ordinary and let the days swallow me whole.I don't text Julian back. I can't call him, can't risk a message that says more than it should - not when his apartment might be listening to every word meant only for him. If they bugged his walls, they could be bugging mine too, and the thought turns my own room into foreign territory. I catch myself scanning the smoke detector, the outlet by my desk, anything that might hide a lens or a wire, and I hate how quickly my mind goes there now, how fluent I've become in suspicion. So I don't say his name out loud, not even to Sophie, not even to myself in the shower where I used to whisper it just to feel something steady. I don't let myself think about the sentence that's still glowing behind my eyes every time I close them, the one that turned his dead child into a line he's used before, a tool instead of a wound. I file it away in the same place I file everything else these days, the place
Torn Between My Boyfriend & the Professor The Pregnancy That Wasn't
LENAJulian's voice drops when he starts talking, and that's how I know this is real. Not performance. Not another lesson disguised as conversation. I've spent enough hours in this apartment to recognize the difference between the version of him that performs and the version that simply exists, and right now, there's no audience left for him to play to - just me, and whatever this is.We came here separately, the way we always do now. I parked two blocks over and walked the long way, checking storefront windows for reflections that lingered too long. Julian insisted the blinds stay drawn before he'd even take off his coat. We're careful because carelessness has a cost we've already paid once, and yet here we are anyway, choosing this risk over the alternative, which is losing each other by degrees to caution.We're on his couch, the one piece of furniture in his apartment that looks lived in instead of staged. Everything else here feels curated, chosen for effect, but this couch sags
Torn Between My Boyfriend & the Professor Camille's Warning
LENAThe quad is still slick from last night's rain when I cross it, phone heavy in my pocket, Julian's unanswered message burning a hole through the denim. The library is the only place I can think to go - public enough to look normal, quiet enough to actually think. I pick a table in the back corner, half-hidden by the stacks, and pull out my phone before I even sit down.*I don't want to be careful anymore either.*My thumb hovers over the words. I read them three times, trying to decide if they're true or just the thing I want to be true. Then I lose my nerve, lock the screen, and slide the phone face-down next to my laptop. Just let me breathe first. I'll answer him in a minute.The library smells like old paper and the particular mustiness of carpet that's been vacuumed too many times to count. I've got four books open around me like a fortress, my laptop glowing with a cursor that hasn't moved in twenty minutes, my phone still dark and silent beside the keyboard, when a shadow
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