The old stone buildings of Briarfield University carried with them a weight that Winter Calloway had never quite learned how to shrug off. Maybe it was the silence in the mornings — dew still clinging to ivy, the gravel paths crunching beneath polished boots — or maybe it was the people who walked those paths like they owned them.
Winter didn't walk that way. She moved like she was always halfway invisible. Not from shame, exactly, but from long practice. She kept her head down, her black coat too long for her frame, her dark hair falling forward like a curtain. It gave her space. Distance. And for most of her life, she'd needed it.
She slipped into the lecture hall five minutes early, as usual. It was one of the oldest rooms on campus — tall windows with heavy drapes, worn oak desks, and the faint scent of old books and wax polish. The kind of place that demanded reverence, or at least pretense. And today, reverence was warranted.
Professor Eleanor Blake.
Even the name felt like it belonged in a poem. Winter had never met her, but the whispers were impossible to ignore. Half her classmates referred to Eleanor like she was some untouchable goddess — the other half like she was an ice queen. Always poised, always distant. But Winter didn't believe in myths. People were people. Messy, flawed, beautiful.
Still, when Eleanor Blake entered the room at exactly 10:00 a.m., Winter understood the myth.
She was tall — not overly so, but she had the kind of presence that made her feel ten feet high. Slim, composed, dressed in a sleek black turtleneck and charcoal slacks that hugged her in a way that was elegant, not showy. Her dark blonde hair was twisted into a low knot at the base of her neck, a few wisps framing high cheekbones and a mouth that seemed too carefully restrained to ever smile fully.
And then there were her eyes. Pale grey, sharp as frost, and quietly devastating. The kind of eyes that missed nothing — and gave away even less.
Winter exhaled slowly. She wasn't easily impressed. But something about Eleanor was… arresting.
The room quieted without a word. Eleanor set her notebook on the podium, opened it, and looked out at the room.
"Welcome," she said, her voice low and smooth, like a cello string drawn slow. "This is Advanced Seminar: Contemporary Literature and Emotional Narrative. If you're looking for something easy, you're in the wrong room."
Some chuckled nervously. Winter didn't. She just listened, like someone absorbing a melody she'd never heard before.
The first hour passed in a haze of poetry excerpts and theory. Eleanor asked questions that weren't easy, and didn't tolerate laziness — but she wasn't cruel. She challenged. She provoked.
And Winter answered.
Softly, but clearly.
On the third question — a query about grief as both theme and structure in contemporary prose — Eleanor paused after Winter spoke. Not long. Just a heartbeat. But long enough.
"What's your name?" Eleanor asked, though her eyes already hinted she knew.
"Winter Calloway."
A few students glanced at her. Not because she was loud or particularly noticeable — she wasn't — but because Eleanor noticed her. And Eleanor Blake never noticed anyone.
"Interesting perspective, Miss Calloway. Keep reading that way."
Winter looked down, her heart beating just a little too hard. She scribbled something in the margins of her notebook she wouldn't be able to read later. Her hand trembled.
Two weeks passed. Winter kept her distance — but Eleanor kept noticing her.
Not in ways anyone else would catch. A glance that lasted a second too long. An assignment returned with a handwritten comment longer than necessary. A question during seminar that only Winter could have answered fully.
Their conversations stayed academic. Always above board. But there was an energy beneath it. Unspoken. Controlled.
And then came the day Eleanor asked to speak with her after class.
It was drizzling when the other students filed out. Winter stayed in her seat, watching the rain drip along the windowpanes. Eleanor didn't sit — she leaned lightly against the desk, arms crossed.
"I wanted to talk to you about your paper," she said. "The one on language and intimacy."
Winter straightened a little. "Was there a problem with it?"
"No. Quite the opposite." Eleanor tilted her head. "You write with... honesty. Brutal, sometimes. But it's rare to see that kind of vulnerability on the page — especially from someone so young."
Winter's breath hitched. "I don't usually show that part of me. It's safer not to."
Eleanor nodded slowly. "Yes. I know."
Silence stretched between them — not awkward, but charged. Winter felt her skin prickle, and not from the cold.
"You chose passages that most people skip over," Eleanor said. "The soft ones. The quiet hurts. I suppose I'm curious why."
Winter met her gaze. "Because that's where the truth is. It's never in the big declarations. It's in the pauses. The moments where someone almost says what they feel… and doesn't."
Eleanor's lips curved slightly. A half-smile. Almost indulgent. "You're an old soul, Miss Calloway."
"Or just tired young," Winter replied before she could stop herself.
That earned a low laugh. A rare sound. Richer than Winter expected.
Then the air shifted.
Their eyes met — and this time, neither of them looked away.
That evening, Winter couldn't stop thinking about Eleanor. The way her voice dipped when she said certain words. The way her fingers curled around her pen. The way her eyes had lingered on her lips.
She knew better than to fantasize. Eleanor was a professor. Her professor. It was impossible. Stupid.
But Winter wasn't stupid — she was honest. And the truth was, she hadn't felt this drawn to someone in years. Maybe ever.
Two more weeks passed. They maintained their professional distance, but the undercurrent grew stronger.
It was during office hours — late, after sunset — that things changed again.
Winter knocked on the door to Eleanor's office. She was the last appointment.
"Come in," came the familiar voice.
Eleanor stood by the window, her jacket removed, sleeves rolled to her elbows. A cup of tea steamed on the desk. Books stacked everywhere.
"Sorry I'm late," Winter said, closing the door.
"You're not."
Winter crossed the room slowly, uncertain. "I just had a question about the last assignment."
Eleanor gestured to the chair across from her. "Ask."
Winter sat, but the question died in her throat. Instead, what came out was:
"Do you ever feel like you're not allowed to want things?"
Eleanor blinked. Her voice softened. "Yes."
Winter swallowed hard. "Like you have to be careful, all the time. With how you look. How you speak. How close you stand to someone."
Eleanor didn't answer immediately. When she did, it was quiet. "You learn to live with the ache. Or you bury it."
Winter looked at her. "Have you buried yours?"
That did it. The space between them changed again. Eleanor leaned back slightly, her expression unreadable. But her eyes burned.
"You're asking dangerous questions," she said.
Winter didn't back down. "I'm used to danger."
For a second, just one, Eleanor's gaze dropped to her lips.
The moment was electric. Winter felt it like lightning. She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then Eleanor stood. Slowly. Carefully. She walked to the window, turning her back.
"We can't have this conversation, Winter."
Winter stood, too. "We're not doing anything wrong. Yet."
Eleanor's shoulders rose and fell. "That's the problem."
Winter hesitated — then stepped forward. Close, but not touching. Her voice was a whisper.
"What if I want to know you?"
Eleanor turned. Her face was composed, but her eyes betrayed her.
"You don't," she said. "Not really."
Winter stepped back. "You don't get to decide what I want."
"I do," Eleanor said. "Because if I let you want me... I wouldn't be able to stop."
Winter left before she could say anything else. Her heart was pounding, her body humming with energy she didn't know where to put.
It wasn't a kiss. Not yet. But it felt like the moment before one — where everything is trembling, suspended, about to break.
And she knew, with terrifying clarity:
She was already falling.