Tears slipped down my cheek, surprising me with their warmth. I brushed one away, offering a shaky laugh that was more sadness than humor. “He tried so hard, but sometimes it feels like he failed.”
My heart ached for all the things we couldn’t change—the love, the fear, the choices that lingered long after they were made.
In that quiet space between us, I let myself feel it all.
“I just need to pick up something,” Rowen murmured, his voice calm and unhurried as we walked side by side down the echoing hall of the History Department Building at NYU. The corridor was quiet except for the soft tap of Rowen’s dress shoes on the polished floor and the distant hum of muffled conversations drifting from behind closed doors. As we approached a locked office door, Rowen paused, fishing a brass key from his pocket, his movements deliberate and familiar. With a practiced flick, he unlocked the door, glancing at me with a reassuring nod before stepping aside to let me in first. My heart fluttered with anticipation, and as I crossed the threshold, it felt as though I had been transported into another world.
A world devoted to academia and discovery.
Although I knew Rowen was a tenured professor, seeing him in this setting—his shoulders relaxing as he entered, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—gave me a deeper sense of awe. Standing in the space where he shaped newgenerations of scholars was humbling, and I felt a sudden rush of admiration mixed with nervousness. His office was nothing like the sterile, white-walled room I’d imagined; instead, I was enveloped in an ambiance reminiscent of an old English library at Oxford. The walls, paneled with rich, dark wood, were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with volumes. The air was alive with the comforting scent of lemon oil and leather-bound books, mingling with the faint ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner and the soft creak of the wooden floor beneath my feet.
Everywhere I looked, books filled shelf after shelf, their spines forming a tapestry of wisdom and history.
Rowen’s desk dominated the room—a solid, imposing piece, its surface cluttered with stacks of papers, open journals, and an antique brass lamp casting a warm, golden glow. In one corner, a pair of worn leather chairs sat facing each other. As I ran my fingers along the smooth, cool surface of one, I noted how supple and inviting the leather felt, promising comfort and long hours of thoughtful discussion. The faint scent of old tobacco lingered, and outside, the muffled city sounds reminded me of the world beyond these scholarly walls. The air was thick with the palpable spirit of scholarship, and I couldn’t help but imagine the countless debates and revelations that had unfolded within these four walls—especially with Rowen at the helm, guiding minds with patience and insight. In that moment, surrounded by history and academia, I felt both honored and inspired by his presence.
“This place doesn’t seem real.”
Rowen smiled softly, his gaze sweeping the room as if he were seeing it through my eyes for the first time. “It’s always felt a little enchanted to me,” he admitted, his voice low and thoughtful. The words lingered in the air, blending with thequiet reverence of the space. I watched as he moved to his desk, settled into his chair, and opened a drawer with practiced ease.
“No,” I replied, shaking my head gently. “I mean, with everything going on, this room seems out of place.”
“This is who I truly am, Melissa,” Rowen said, a quiet certainty in his tone.
“I know that, but seeing it firsthand, it’s, well... shocking.”
Rowen leaned back, resting his elbows lightly on the arms of his chair as he considered my words. His smile remained, but there was now a trace of uncertainty, as if he wondered whether the outside world could ever fully grasp this part of him. I walked over to his desk and perched on the corner, my gaze drifting across the photographs and mementos cluttering the shelves—snapshots of past students, a faded postcard from Paris, and a tiny brass owl perched atop a stack of essays.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I confessed, tracing the edge of a leather-bound volume lying on a stack of papers. “But I think I understand you better now. This is who you are at your core. Where your passion comes alive, isn’t it?”
“It’s a part of who I am, yes.”
Looking at the man who was quietly helping me piece my heart back together, I whispered, “I want to know more.”
My words lingered between us, gentle and sincere, carrying both vulnerability and hope. My gaze held his, searching for reassurance, for the promise that this connection, whatever it was, would deepen. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his presence and the inviting comfort of this room, the desire to understand him—and myself—grew stronger. His kindness had given me the courage to ask, and as the silence stretched, it was filled not with uncertainty but with possibility.
Rowen reached out, his hand warm and reassuring as his fingers gently closed around mine. With a quiet smile, he drew me to my feet and guided me around to the far side of his desk.My pulse quickened, anticipation fluttering in my chest, as I allowed myself to perch on the edge—feeling both exposed and exhilarated to be so close. He leaned in, a mischievous glint in his eyes, lips curling into a playful smirk that made my stomach flip. Our gazes locked. His presence was both grounding and electrifying. “And what exactly would you like to know?” he asked, his voice teasing but edged with sincerity, as if he truly wanted to give me that chance to see more of him.
I felt the vulnerability of the moment—how much I actually wanted to know, and how much I hoped he’d be willing to share. “Everything,” I whispered, unable to hide the yearning in my voice.
He arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. I could sense the challenge in his expression, but also the invitation. “That’s a tall order,” he replied, his tone light, yet the words held an undercurrent of promise.
My lips parted in a smile, emboldened by the easy banter and aching for more of this connection. “I’m a fast learner,” I shot back, refusing to break eye contact, as if daring him to test me.
He stepped closer, and my breath caught as his hands, gentle yet firm, cupped my face. The world seemed to narrow to just the feel of his touch and the intensity in his eyes. “Yes, you are,” he murmured, his voice a soft caress before his lips found mine in a kiss that was both tender and brimming with possibility. The contact was brief, leaving my heart racing and my senses reeling when he drew back, the warmth of his hands lingering on my skin. Not ready to let the moment slip away, I reached for the lapels of his tweed jacket, gathering my courage along with the wool, and tugged him back toward me.
My grin was playful, my words light to hide the vulnerability beneath. “What’s the rush, Professor?” I teased, relishing the subtle power in my hands and the spark in his eyes.
He quirked an eyebrow at my challenge, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he wanted to laugh but wasn’t willing to lose the upper hand just yet.
Heat crept across my cheeks as I fidgeted with the fabric of his jacket, feeling daring and a little shy all at once. “I mean, since we’re here and all... Did I ever tell you I used to daydream about professor-student scenarios when I was in college?” My smile was a mix of nostalgia and newfound boldness as I looked up at him. “And look at that—the roles fit. You’re the professor, and I’m more than ready to learn whatever you want to teach.”
“Anything?” Rowen’s eyes danced with challenge as he slid his hands to my hips, drawing me closer to the edge of the desk—closer to him. The air between us seemed charged with anticipation and unspoken questions.
I nodded, heart pounding as I met his gaze. “Teach me, Professor,” I breathed, letting every ounce of longing and playfulness show in my voice, and wouldn’t you know it... he didn’t need to be told twice.
Chapter Forty-One
Rowen
