Feyre sauntered into her first English Literature class fifteen minutes late, disrupting Professor Locke mid-lecture. Her silver-streaked dark hair and confident smirk drew every eye in the room, including those of her visibly annoyed professor.
“So kind of you to join us, Miss…” He paused, consulting his roster.
“Archeron. Feyre Archeron.” She slid into an empty front-row seat, crossing her legs and maintaining deliberate eye contact. “Sorry I’m late, Professor. Got lost in the stacks.”
Professor Locke cleared his throat and returned to his discussion of Victorian literature, but found his usual eloquence stumbling whenever his gaze inadvertently met hers. There was something magnetic about her presence – a dangerous sort of electricity he knew he should avoid.
Over the following weeks, Feyre made a habit of lingering after class, asking increasingly complex questions about the course material. Her insights were sharp, her analysis sophisticated. Despite his reservations, Locke found himself looking forward to their discussions.
“You see right through the artifice,” he told her one evening as they dissected a particularly challenging passage. “Most students get lost in the flowery language, but you find the heart of it.”
“Maybe I just have a good teacher,” she replied, perching on the edge of his desk. The autumn sunset streaming through his office window caught the silver in her hair, creating a halo effect that made his breath catch.
“Miss Archeron—”
“Feyre,” she corrected softly. “It’s after hours.”
“Feyre.” Her name felt like forbidden fruit on his tongue. “We shouldn’t—”
“Shouldn’t what?” She leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “Shouldn’t discuss literature? Shouldn’t appreciate poetry? Shouldn’t acknowledge whatever this is between us?”
Before he could respond, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Without thinking, Locke pulled Feyre into the supply closet, pressing her against the shelves as the department head walked past the office door. They stood frozen, hearts racing, bodies pressed together in the narrow space.
“This is highly inappropriate,” he murmured, even as his hand found her waist.
“Most beautiful things are,” she breathed, fingers trailing along his collar.
The footsteps returned, followed by the sound of the office door opening. “Professor Locke?”
They held their breath, Feyre’s face buried in Locke’s chest, his arms protectively around her. The moment stretched like honey, sweet and terrifying.
“Must have stepped out,” the department head muttered, and the door closed again.
Neither moved immediately, the tension between them thick enough to cut. Finally, Locke stepped back, running a hand through his disheveled hair.
“This could cost me my career,” he said quietly.
“I’m not asking you to risk anything,” Feyre replied, straightening her clothes. “I’m just asking you to be honest – with yourself and with me.”
She slipped out of the closet and was gone before he could respond, leaving behind only the lingering scent of her perfume and the ghost of what might have been.
The next day, Locke submitted his resignation from teaching her section, arranging for her to transfer to another professor’s class. It was the right thing to do, the proper thing – but it felt like tearing out a page mid-story.
Months later, after graduation, Feyre found him in his office again, packing his books.
“I heard you’re taking the position at Oxford,” she said from the doorway.
“Yes.” He looked up, drinking in the sight of her. “And you?”
“Graduate program at Cambridge.” A smile played at her lips. “Funny how life works out, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.” He set down the book he was holding. “Different universities, different cities…”
“But the same country,” she finished. “And no more student-teacher complications.”
Locke crossed the room slowly, coming to stand before her. “I never stopped thinking about that night in the closet.”
“Neither did I.” She reached up, straightening his perpetually crooked tie. “Maybe now we can start our story properly.”
“I’d like that,” he said softly, finally allowing himself to smile. “I’d like that very much.”
The sunset painted his office in shades of gold, and this time, when Feyre leaned in, there was no need to hide.