My Professor's Secret

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forty

Dinner somehow survived us. By the time we'd clothed ourselves and finally wandered back into the kitchen, the potatoes had come dangerously close to burning, but Trevor had managed to rescue them with a triumphant grin that made me laugh harder than it probably deserved.

"I'm counting that as a success," he declared, scraping the potatoes onto our plates. "They're a little crisp."

"They're rustic."

"That's one word for it."

I laughed again, and before I realized it, we'd spent the next hour talking over dinner as though this had always been our routine. It surprised me how easy conversation became once neither of us had anything left to hide.

He told me stories about culinary school and the disasters that came with learning to cook professionally. I admitted to nearly setting the microwave on fire trying to make ramen when I was twelve. Somewhere between dessert and another glass of wine, we somehow found ourselves debating whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

For a few precious hours, there were no stressors desperate to steal what joy tonight brought. No classrooms, hospitals, or impossible decisions demanding my attention. It was just Trevor and me.

Sometime after midnight, exhaustion finally caught up with us.

"I'm not letting you walk back across campus at this hour," Trevor said.

"I've survived Wisconsin winters before."

"You've also survived a broken bone. That doesn't mean I'd recommend repeating it."

"So that's your professional opinion?" I smiled, finishing the last swig of wine.

"My professional opinion," he said, grabbing the glass and our dirty dishes before walking them into the kitchen, "is that you're staying here tonight."

There wasn't much left to argue, so I didn't. The apartment had grown quiet by the time we finally made our way to his bedroom. Outside, snow drifted lazily past the bedroom window, softening the glow of the streetlights beyond the glass.

I hesitated in the doorway, and Trevor noticed immediately.

"What is it?"

"I..." Heat crept into my face before I could stop it. "I don't think your sofa survived me."

For half a second he stared at me. Then he laughed.

"Alex."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are."

His smile only grew. After reassuring me for what felt like the hundredth time—and proving his point with a quick internet search that left me burying my face in his shoulder out of sheer embarrassment—I finally allowed him to convince me that neither his furniture nor my dignity had suffered nearly as much as I'd imagined.

The bedroom suddenly didn't feel nearly as intimidating.

Later, tucked beneath impossibly warm blankets, I found myself listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing beside me. He'd long fallen asleep, but I'd been too wired from our earlier extracurriculars to let the night slip away. The room smelled faintly of cedar and laundry detergent. His fingers absentmindedly found mine beneath the covers, leaving the quiet comfort of knowing neither of us had to pretend anymore.

I hadn't expected peace to feel like this. Somewhere in the darkness, Trevor shifted closer in his sleep, as he wrapped his arm around my waist to pull me closer.