Friday’s reception was a special kind of torture.
The department had taken over the faculty lounge—cheap wine, worse conversation, Professor Hale in a dark suit looking like the exact reason university policy existed. I stayed near the dessert table with two girls from my seminar and tried to taste nothing but cake.
It didn’t work.
Every time he laughed at something a colleague said, I felt it between my legs. Every time his gaze crossed the room and skipped over me on purpose, my pulse stumbled. I had come here telling myself I could do normal. Normal was a joke.
At 9:41 he left first.
I lasted another nineteen minutes, made an excuse about an early shift, and walked the long way to the English building so I wouldn’t look like I was following him.
The hallway was dark. His office do
