Imagines (Beyonce x y/n)

PSYC 367 PT.2

"Excuse me for a moment," Y/n muttered, the words barely audible as he virtually sprinted from the room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. The weight of the ring in his palm felt like a lead sinker, dragging his stomach down with it. He didn't wait for an answer, didn't acknowledge the sea of hushed, confused faces. His only thought was her.

He burst through the double doors of the college building, the heavy glass slamming shut behind him, the sound muffled by the general campus hum. His heart hammered in his chest, a frantic drum against his ribs. He scanned the bustling hallway, the student lounge, the empty stairwell. Where could she have gone?

Her pain had been so raw, so visible, a stark contrast to her usual composed self.

Then he saw a flash of her bright blue shirt disappearing around a corner near the faculty restrooms. He sprinted, his own academic bag thumping against his back, the ring still clutched tightly in his hand. He pushed open the door marked 'Women', ignoring the impropriety, his only thought to find her.

Sure enough, she was there, huddled in a corner stall, not inside it, but pressed against the wall, head buried in her arms, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The sound of her choked gasps tore at him.

"Beyoncé," he whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of fear and profound regret. He knelt instantly, pulling her gently, but firmly, into his arms. She resisted for a second, a small, wounded animal, before collapsing against him.

He held her tight, letting her cry into his shirt, his hand stroking her hair, feeling the dampness of her tears seeping through his fabric. He felt her entire body tremble, the shaking echoing the turmoil he now felt raging inside himself. He just held her, offering the silent comfort he should have offered weeks ago.

Finally, her sobs began to subside, slowing to ragged, wet gulps of air. She pulled back slightly, her face blotchy and swollen, eyes red-rimmed, but a flicker of something, perhaps memory, entering them.

"My... my ring," she choked out, her voice raspy. "I... I forgot it." There was a fresh wave of tears in her voice, not just for the perceived abandonment, but for the actual, physical object that she loved so much

Y/n pulled his hand from his pocket, opening his palm. The diamond glittered, cool and brilliant, a stark contrast to the emotionally charged restroom. "I have it," he said softly, his thumb tracing the band. "You left it on your desk"

He looked into her eyes, seeing the accusation, the hurt, the exhaustion etched into their depths. "B, I am so, so sorry," he started, his voice cracking. "I. I was so blind. So stupid." He helped her slide the ring back onto her finger, the familiar weight a small anchor.

He led her out of the stall, guiding her to sit on the small bench against the wall, away from the sinks, a more private corner. He knelt before her again, taking her hands in his.

"Talk to me," he pleaded, his gaze unwavering. "Please. Tell me everything. Tell me what I missed. What I did wrong."

She took a shaky breath, finally meeting his gaze, the anger still simmering beneath the surface, but now mixed with a yearning for understanding. "You weren't seeing, Y/n," she began, her voice still rough, "You weren't seeing any of it. Every week, it got worse. The looks, the comments, the way they tried to bait you."

He flinched, remembering Chloe's brazen comment, Mia's suggestive question, his own clinical responses. "I thought... I thought I was being professional," he mumbled, a weak defense

"Professionalism is one thing," she retorted with an eye roll, pulling her hands away, the diamond flashing as she gestured. "Obliviousness is another. A simple 'Let's keep the conversation academic' would have been enough. A glance at me, a subtle acknowledgment. Something! You just... you just let it happen. You let them disrespect me, right in front of your face, right in front of the whole class, and you acted like it was normal. Like it was part of the course material!" Her voice rose, the words tumbling out, fueled by weeks of unspoken pain.

"Do you know how I felt, Y/n? Do you know what it's like to sit there, your fiancé, the man you're going to marry, the man you love, just... ignore it? Act like I wasn't even there? Like their blatant flirting was just a 'complex ethical dilemma'?" She mimicked his earlier words, a bitter edge to her tone. "It chips away at you. It makes you feel small. Invisible. Like you don't matter."

He closed his eyes, a wave of shame washing over him. Every word she spoke was a truth he had consciously, or unconsciously, avoided. He had seen the lingering glances, heard the titters, been aware of the increased attention. But he had rationalized it, compartmentalized it as an unavoidable side-effect of being a popular, young professor. He had convinced himself that to acknowledge it, to directly address it, would be unprofessional, even egotistical. He hadn't considered the cost to her.

"You're right," he said, opening his eyes, his voice strained. "You're absolutely right, B. And there's no excuse. I was a coward. I hid behind my professionalism because it was easier than confronting the situation, easier than acknowledging how much it was hurting you. I was so focused on being the 'ethical professor' that I completely failed to be your husband. I didn't protect you. I didn't see you. And I am so, so incredibly sorry."

He reached for her hands again, and this time, she let him take them. "The headaches," he continued, "the quietness. I kept asking, and you kept saying it was just studying. And I believed it. Because it was easier to believe that than to open my eyes to what was really happening to you, because of me. I failed you, Beyoncé, and I promise you, it will never happen again."

He looked genuinely broken, his usual calm composure replaced by a raw vulnerability she rarely saw. The depth of his regret was palpable.

"What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice softer now, but still holding a challenge.

He met her gaze, a new resolve hardening his eyes. "First," he said, his thumb brushing over her ring, "we're going to talk to the department head. About a new policy regarding student-teacher boundaries and interactions, and the appropriate way to address them when they cross the line. And I'm going to set a precedent. In class, tomorrow, I'm going to make it explicitly clear that such behaviors are unacceptable, unprofessional, and will not be tolerated. My classroom is a learning environment, not a dating pool. And if any of those students have a problem with it, they can take it up with me, or the Dean."

He paused, then added, his voice firm, "And B, I'm going to start seeing. Really seeing. You. Us. Everything. You are my priority. Not my reputation, not the comfort of avoiding awkward conversations. You."

She searched his face, seeing the genuine remorse, the fierce protectiveness that had finally surfaced. It wasn't a magic fix, not a complete erasure of the weeks of pain, but it was a beginning. A real, honest beginning. The knot in her stomach began to loosen, the suffocating pressure in her chest easing for the first time in what felt like forever.

A single tear, fresh and unladen with bitterness, tracked down her cheek. "Okay," she whispered, a fragile, hopeful sound. "Okay, Y/n."

He pulled her into another embrace, a less frantic, more tender one. This time, as she rested her head on his shoulder, the heavy weight of the diamond on her finger felt less like a burden, and more like a promise renewed. A promise he was finally ready to uphold.