“Penelope,” Brose says, pulling me back. “Would you post the slides after the lecture and add the office hours link? Students always struggle to find my hours on the school’s site.”
“Of course,” I say, and I sound calm. My hand is steady as I write a note on my pad. Post slides. Add link. Check submissions.
I should not look at him. I know better but I do it, anyway.
He’s angled just enough to keep me in his peripheral while he listens. His jaw is hard. His mouth keeps doing a slow grin when Brose makes a joke that’s not actually funny. He looks restless in his seat, like he needs to move or he will crawl out of his skin. When the class laughs, his eyes flick back to me instead.
I drop my gaze fast and feel heat crawl up my neck. I write “labeling theory” in the margin and put a box around it like I’m going to test them on it later. My mind won’t hold the information. I could’ve taught this lecture in my sleep yesterday. Today, it feels like a foreign language.
Brose moves from the desk to the whiteboard and starts sketching a simple diagram with three circles. “What is normal in one group,” he says, “looks like deviance in another. Context is everything. Who has the power to define it is everything.”
I take a breath and force my shoulders to relax, then reach for the Yeti on the corner of my desk. I sip the cold coffee and pretend it tastes fine before pulling my phone out, slide it face up without unlocking it, and stare at the wallpaper like it has answers. The lock screen is a photo of a lake at sunrise because my therapist once said I should look at water when I feel trapped. I trace the edge of the screen with my thumb and count four breaths in, six out. It helps. A little.
My phone buzzes against the table.
Gideon: How’s the first day of class treating you? Work’s boring. Send me a picture so I can imagine what you’d look like bent over my desk.
I breathe out through my nose and lock the phone screen again. I’m not answering him or sending a picture from inside this room, where my worlds just collided.
“Okay,” Brose says, clapping once. “Logistics. Reading schedule on the site. Office hours posted. TA hours will be updated by the end of day. Penelope?”
“I will update everything by lunch,” I say.
He nods. A boy in a backwards hat raises a hand and asks about late work. A girl in a denim jacket asks if we can move the quiz date because of a game. I answer what I can and point the rest to the syllabus. I do the job well enough that no one sees how inside I’m losing it.
Brose lets them go. I wait until every student files out before I stand.
“Thank you,” Brose says when the room is empty. “You’re a lifesaver. If you have time later this week, I’d love your opinion on the new exam.”
“Happy to help,” I say. “I have office hours Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”
“Perfect.” He gathers his notes. “And your practicum paperwork looked great. You’re almost there.”
Almost there. The words loosen something at the base of my throat.
I slide my crossbody strap over my head, tuck my hair behind my ear, and do a fast mental check. Laptop. Notes. Grade sheet. Mug. Phone. All there. I straighten the chairs in the front row without thinking and line the dry erase markers in a neat row because order is a small kindness I can give myself when the rest feels like it’s imploding.
I wait one extra beat, then step into the hallway.
Four steps out of the classroom. That’s as far as I get.
A hand closes around my arm, and I’m pressed back against the wall before I can react.
“Talon,” I snap, keeping my voice low enough not to echo down the hallway. “Have you lost your mind?”
He smirks, leaning in close enough that I catch the faint smell of his cologne; cedar and citrus, sharp enough to make my pulse skip. “So you do recognize me.”
“Don’t be daft,” I hiss, shoving at his chest. “Of course I do.”
His smile widens, lazy and infuriating. “Then I’m not crazy.”
“You are if you think this is okay,” I say. “Don’t touch me like that again.”
He lifts his hands like he is surrendering even though he is not. “Fine. Then let me make it up to you. Go out with me.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Dinner, then,” he says, as if that is somehow different.
