Still, when a student calls my name, I jump a little.
“Dr. Moretti?”
I turn to the student who raised her hand. "Yes?"
She looks nervous but determined. "In your dissertation," she says, "you talk about belladonna as a liminal plant—medicine and poison. Botanically speaking, what determines which it becomes?"
The question steadies me.
"Belladonna doesn’t change," I say. "It’s the same plant in both cases. Same alkaloids. Same structure." I pause, letting that settle. "What changes is the dosage, the preparation, and the intent of the person using it. In controlled amounts, atropine can save lives. In uncontrolled ones, it kills." I smile slightly. "When in doubt, better not snack on it."
She nods, scribbling notes, and I feel something unclench in my chest.
After class, a familiar feeling prickles at the back of my neck.
Not a bad one, though.
I scan the room instead, instinctively, and find him with his arms crossed, dark suit immaculate, and cold gaze that turns warm as soon as our eyes meets.
"Interesting class," he teases, closing the distance between us. "Particularly that question at the end. Worth remembering, I think."
I roll my eyes, but I can feel the fondness washing over me. "Don't worry. I'm not craving seconds."
"Good. I'm at the age when a heart attack could prove fatal."
"Don't even joke about that!"
"Who's joking?"
I hit him lightly with a folder. "You're forty-five. Plenty of time to enjoy your good years yet." I stroke his beard, eyeing the silver peppered in it. "And I have to say, age suits you."
"Are you calling me a fine wine?"
"I mean, I wasn't, but I am now."
He kisses me on the lips. My heart goes fluttery like it always does. Ten years, and nothing has changed.
"Happy anniversary," he whispers against my lips.
"Happy anniversary," I whisper back. "Sorry we had to spend it in a classroom."
"Not at all." He leads me out. "Plenty of time to enjoy our good years yet."
"Hey!"
"And the night is young, and Amber has the kids." His voice goes husky. "Figured we could sneak away for a while."
My body goes liquid. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We weave through the emptying hallway, my hand tucked into Matteo's, his thumb stroking my knuckles in that absentminded way that still sends sparks up my arm. The university corridors feel endless today, every echo of footsteps making me glance over my shoulder, half-expecting a colleague to pop out and ask why I'm flushed and grinning like an idiot.
But no one does. It's just us, slipping away like thieves in broad daylight.
My office is at the end of the botany wing, tucked away enough that interruptions are rare. I fumble with my keys at the door, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Matteo presses close behind me, his breath warm on my neck, one hand sliding possessively over my hip. “Hurry,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, and I nearly drop the ring of keys.
