#after class

. . .

Steam curled thick and slow through Henry’s bathroom, softening the edges of everything.

The water in the tub had gone from hot to that perfect, heavy warmth that made Y/N feel like her bones had finally unclenched. She sat between Henry’s legs, back against his chest, one of his arms draped across her middle while the other lazily skimmed over bare skin like he couldn’t help himself. His hand never stayed still for long, her shoulder, her collarbone, the inside of her wrist, the damp curve of her thigh just beneath the water.

Touch, always touch.

It was his way of soothing her.

And tonight, with finals closing in and that sharp restless energy starting to creep under her skin, she let him.

Y/N tipped her head back against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded. “You know,” she murmured, “this is a very effective way to keep me from having an academic meltdown.”

Henry’s mouth brushed her temple, almost a kiss. “That was the intention.”

She smiled faintly. “I knew it.”

His fingers moved in a slow line down her forearm, then back up, tracing nothing, just the shape of her. He was quieter tonight, but not distant. Soft. Thoughtful. The kind of thoughtful that meant something was coming.

Y/N felt it before he said anything.

Outside the bathroom window, Boston glowed dim and blurred in the dark, the city muffled by distance and steam. Inside, all she could hear was water shifting when either of them moved and Henry’s steady breathing at her ear.

After a moment, he said, “About the Cape.”

That got her attention immediately.

She turned her head slightly, enough that she could look up at him from where she rested against him. “What about it?”

Henry’s hand settled at her waist, thumb stroking once through the water. “I was thinking we should plan it properly.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “Look at you.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Don’t.”

“You’re planning a trip with me,” she said, too pleased not to enjoy it. “That’s very domestic of you.”

“It’s practical.”

“It’s romantic.”

Henry’s mouth twitched against the side of her head. “It can be both.”

That made something warm bloom in her chest.

She shifted in the water just enough to face him a little more, one hand coming up to rest over his on her stomach. “Okay,” she said softly. “Plan it properly.”

Henry looked at her for a long moment, then leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, visibly settling into the conversation. “I was thinking early summer. Before July gets crowded.”

Y/N nodded. “So June.”

“Yes.”

“We’d drive?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “You driving me to the Cape sounds hot.”

Henry’s gaze slid to hers, unimpressed and very much not unaffected. “Everything sounds hot to you.”

“Not true,” she said. “Finals don’t.”

“That’s one.”

Y/N laughed softly and let her head fall back against him again. “Okay, June. Drive. Where are we staying?”

Henry’s hand moved up her ribs, then back down, absent and possessive all at once. “Somewhere quiet.”

“A motel?”

“If necessary.”

She made a face. “That sounds suspiciously unromantic.”

“It sounds affordable.”

Y/N turned her face enough to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “There’s my practical professor.”

His arm around her tightened slightly in answer.

“We could get a little inn,” she suggested. “Something old. Somewhere with creaky floors and ugly floral bedspreads.”

Henry considered that. “That sounds probable.”

“And a view.”

“That sounds expensive.”

Y/N sighed dramatically. “You hate joy.”

“I hate wasting money.”

She smiled. “No, you don’t. You just pretend to.”

Henry’s fingers slid over her hip under the water. “Do you want the truth?”

“Always.”

“I just want somewhere no one will know us,” he said quietly.

The teasing in her face softened.

There it was.

Not just a trip. Not just a few days away.

A place where they wouldn’t have to look over their shoulders.

Y/N’s hand squeezed his lightly. “Me too.”

Henry’s chin brushed the top of her damp hair. “So. Somewhere small. Somewhere quiet. Near the water.” A beat. “A bookstore, if possible.”

She smiled immediately. “See? Romantic.”

“Still practical.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet.”

Y/N laughed under her breath and sank a little deeper into the water. “What else is on your very practical itinerary?”

Henry’s hand drifted up to her throat, then down again, never lingering too long in one place, as if the touch itself was helping him think. “You wanted to go to Hawkins in July.”

“With Nancy.”

He nodded once. “Then June makes more sense.”

She turned enough to study his face again, wet hair falling across his forehead, expression softened by steam and dim light. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Yes.”

That simple answer hit harder than she expected.

Because Henry was not a man who planned lightly. Not with her. Not with something like this.

Y/N’s voice dropped. “You want it that much?”

His gaze held hers. “Yes.”

She just looked at him.

Then she smiled, slow and bright and a little overwhelmed. “Okay.”

Henry’s thumb traced once over the inside of her wrist. “Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeated. “We’ll do June. We’ll go somewhere quiet. Near the water. With your practical little bookstore.” Her smile turned teasing again. “And your deeply unpractical girlfriend.”

Henry’s mouth curved faintly. “You are very unpractical.”

“Untrue. I’m excellent for morale.”

He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh.

The water shifted when she moved, turning more toward him now until one of her knees slid between his under the surface. His hand left her waist just long enough to smooth damp hair from her shoulder, then settled at her thigh.

“Finals first,” he said.

Y/N groaned and let her forehead fall to his shoulder. “You ruin everything.”

“Finals,” he repeated.

She looked up at him with open betrayal. “You brought up the Cape.”

“Yes.”

“And then reminded me I still have responsibilities.”

His expression was maddeningly calm. “You do.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “I liked you better five minutes ago.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

She studied him for another second, then smiled despite herself. “…No. I like you exactly like this.”

Henry’s face shifted, just slightly.

“Like what?”

“Comfortable,” she said quietly. “Planning things with me from a bathtub like we’re some weird little married couple.”

That got a real reaction, a faint tightening of his hand on her leg, the smallest glance away before he looked back at her.

Y/N’s smile softened. “It’s nice.”

Henry’s fingers moved again, tracing lazy circles at her skin under the water. “It is.”

The silence that followed felt full instead of empty.

Y/N rested against him more heavily, all the restless static in her chest gone quiet for now. He kept touching her, shoulder, hip, wrist, thigh, like if he stopped, she might float away.

After a minute, she murmured, “You know what we need.”

Henry’s voice was low at her ear. “What?”

“A list.”

He was quiet.

Then: “A list.”

“Yes. Of what to bring. Of where we’re staying. Of what books.” Her face brightened with the thought. “And beach clothes.”

Henry’s gaze dipped over her shoulder. “Beach clothes.”

She smiled. “You sound worried.”

“I am.”

“That’s fair.”

He kissed just below her ear, slow and absent. “You are not making a list in this tub.”

“No,” she agreed, closing her eyes. “That would be soggy.”

His hand slid across her stomach again, holding her there.

“So,” she said, voice drowsy now, warm from the water and him and the fact that summer had suddenly become something real. “June. The Cape. Quiet inn. Bookstore. Public hand-holding.”

Henry’s arm tightened around her, almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

Y/N smiled to herself. “I’m going to make you miserable with how much I touch you in public.”

“You already make me miserable.”

She laughed softly. “Liar.”

His lips found her temple again. “Sometimes.”

And held there in the steam and warm water, finals still looming but summer suddenly waiting for them on the other side, Y/N let herself imagine it fully, the road out of Boston, the water, his hand in hers where no one knew to question it, and Henry beside her, no longer just a secret kept inside classrooms and locked doors, but someone planning a future with her one quiet detail at a time.

. . .

The dorm room looked like the end of the world in the least dramatic way possible.

Not fire. Not ruin. Just stacks.

Stacks of books, half-folded clothes, empty hangers, notebooks shoved into milk crates, Nancy’s newspapers and article drafts in uneven piles on every flat surface. The semester was ending in a clutter of finals, packing, and the strange emotional whiplash that came with realizing sophomore year was almost over.

Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her open suitcase, holding up two shirts like either of them mattered at all.

“Nancy,” she said, “be honest. If I disappear into Hawkins with you in July, do I need this top?”

Nancy, kneeling beside her desk and sorting typed drafts into folders with the kind of intensity she brought to every task, didn’t look up. “No one needs that top.”

Y/N gasped. “That’s so rude.”

Nancy slid a folder into her tote bag. “You asked for honesty.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, then tossed the shirt onto the bed. “You’re hateful during finals.”

“I’m hateful year-round,” Nancy said. “Finals just make me more articulate.”

That got a laugh out of Y/N.

The room went quiet again for a moment except for the sound of paper shifting and Y/N zipping and unzipping things she wasn’t actually ready to pack. There was a strange mood sitting under everything lately, not sad, exactly, but stretched. The end of sophomore year felt heavier than freshman year had. More real. Like life was actually starting to move now instead of just pretending to.

Nancy finally looked over at her.

“You’ve been weird for ten minutes,” she said.

Y/N blinked. “Only ten?”

“Yes. Which is how I know something specific is wrong.”

Y/N smiled faintly and looked down at the half-packed suitcase. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Nancy gave her a look that could have withered paint. “That’s never a reassuring sentence.”

Y/N sighed and leaned back on her hands. “I was just thinking about summer.”

Nancy shut the folder in her lap. “Okay.”

There was a beat.

Then, because Nancy Wheeler was not a woman who let silence live longer than necessary when she smelled information, she added, “And?”

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek for half a second, then smiled. “Henry and I made plans.”

Nancy froze.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

Then she slowly set the folder down. “…What kind of plans?”

Y/N’s smile widened despite herself. “Cape plans.”

Nancy stared at her. “You’re going to the Cape?”

“Yes.”

“With Henry?”

“Yes.”

Nancy blinked once, taking that in, then sat back slightly on her heels. “For how long?”

“Just a little while. June.” Y/N’s voice got softer, more excited now that she was saying it out loud. “A few days. Somewhere quiet. Near the water. Bookstore if possible, because apparently he’s ninety.”

Nancy’s mouth twitched despite her best effort not to let it. “And this is happening?”

“Apparently.”

Nancy looked at her for a long second, measuring. “You sound happy.”

Y/N looked down at the suitcase again, then back up. “I am.”

Nancy’s expression softened by inches.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t still Nancy.

“So,” she said carefully, “you’re going to spend part of the summer playing house with your middle-aged professor by the ocean.”

Y/N snorted. “When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”

“When I say it accurately, it sounds weird.”

Y/N laughed and reached for a shoe on the floor, turning it over in her hands. “It’s only for a few days.”

Nancy leaned back against the side of her desk now, folding her arms. “And after that?”

Y/N looked at her immediately. “After that, I’m never leaving your side.”

Nancy’s brows lifted. “That’s dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

Nancy gave her a skeptical look. “You say that now.”

“No.” Y/N sat up straighter, shoe forgotten in her lap. “I mean it. After the Cape, I am all yours. Hawkins, whatever you want, however long. I’ll go with you, I’ll stay with you, hang out with friends, and I’ll help you judge your hometown and all its men.”

Nancy’s mouth twitched again. “That is tempting.”

Y/N smiled. “I know.”

Nancy watched her for another second, seeing more than Y/N probably meant to show. The happiness, yes. The excitement. But also the little undercurrent of guilt, like she wanted Nancy to know this trip with Henry didn’t mean she was drifting away for good.

Nancy sighed softly through her nose. “You know you don’t have to negotiate friendship like visitation rights.”

Y/N’s face changed instantly, softening. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Y/N nodded, slower now. “Yeah. I do.”

Nancy held her gaze.

Y/N set the shoe aside and tucked one leg beneath the other, quieter now. “I just don’t want you thinking I’m disappearing.”

Nancy looked down at the floor for a second, then back at her. “I don’t think that.”

Y/N’s voice dropped. “You’re still…my person.”

Nancy made a face like she deeply objected to sincerity on principle. “That was gross.”

Y/N laughed, but her eyes stayed warm. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“Like I said before,” Y/N motioned to herself. “Gordie.” She motioned to Nancy. “Chris.”

There was a pause. Then Nancy added, drier, “Unfortunately.”

That got another laugh out of her, softer this time.

Y/N smiled at her. “I mean it, though. Cape first. Then Hawkins. Then you and me all summer. You can make me go to weird diners and tell me local gossip and make me listen to your theories about every single person in that town.”

Nancy narrowed her eyes. “I do not have theories about every single person.”

“You absolutely do.”

“That’s because I’m observant.”

“That’s because you’re nosy.”

Nancy picked up a balled-up sock from the floor and threw it at her.

Y/N caught it, laughing.

The room settled again after that, easier now. The heaviness of endings was still there, but it felt less sharp with the future spoken aloud between them, Cape, Hawkins, summer, all of it arranged into something survivable.

Nancy reached for another stack of papers and said, more casually than the moment deserved, “So what’s the Cape plan exactly?”

Y/N smiled slowly. “You want details.”

“I want to know how many crimes I need to prepare to cover up.”

Y/N grinned. “No crimes. Just an inn, probably. Lots of sex—“

“I can’t stand you,” Nancy said, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“You love me. Anyway, quiet town. Ocean. Bookstore. Public hand-holding.”

Nancy made a small face. “That part is disgusting.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s dangerous.”

Y/N’s smile softened. “It’s both.”

Nancy looked at her, and for once there was no joke in her face, just the complicated concern of someone who wanted her friend happy and safe and wasn’t fully convinced those things could coexist.

But she didn’t push.

Not this time.

Instead she reached for her typewriter ribbon and said, “Fine. Cape first. Then Hawkins.”

Y/N’s smile brightened. “Then Hawkins.”

“And after that,” Nancy added, shooting her a look, “you are helping me carry things like my typewriter.”

Y/N put a hand to her chest. “You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

Y/N laughed again and looked around the room, the boxes, the drafts, the mess of their shared years all over the floor, and felt that sudden, strange ache of affection she always got when she realized how much of her life Nancy had become without either of them ever formally deciding it.

“Hey,” she said.

Nancy glanced up. “What?”

“I love you.”

Nancy’s expression immediately twisted like she’d bitten into something sour. “This room has become too emotional.”

Y/N smiled helplessly. “You didn’t say it back.”

Nancy lifted one shoulder, already reaching for the next page in her stack. “I’m still letting you go to the Cape and come back to me, aren’t I?”

Y/N laughed so hard she had to look away.

Nancy, satisfied with that as an answer, returned to her papers.

And on the floor between unpacked plans and half-packed futures, with the last days of sophomore year closing in around them, the summer ahead didn’t feel like a separation.

It just felt like the next thing they were both going to survive.

. . .

The little brown coffee table in front of Henry’s couch had become a battlefield.

Books were stacked in uneven piles around Y/N, along with loose pages, uncapped pens, a half-empty mug of coffee gone lukewarm, and the growing evidence of her patience dying in real time. She sat cross-legged on the floor with one elbow braced against the table, hunched over her paper as if glaring hard enough at the paragraph might force it into brilliance.

It wasn’t working.

She scribbled something out with unnecessary force, groaned, and dropped her forehead briefly to the edge of the table.

“This is evil,” she muttered.

Behind her, Henry sat on the couch with one ankle resting over his knee, reading glasses low on his nose, a book open in one hand. He looked maddeningly calm, like finals were a charming little academic tradition rather than a full assault on student humanity.

“Writing is not evil,” he said without looking up.

Y/N lifted her head and turned enough to glare at him. “You would say that.”

Henry turned a page. “Because it’s true. You like writing.”

“No, I like writing fiction,” she said, pointing her pen at him. “Writing papers for one class while having three other finals crawling toward me like death itself is evil.”

That got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Y/N huffed and bent back over the paper, rereading the same sentence for what felt like the twelfth time.

She hated this paper now.

Not because it was bad. Because she was tired. Because her brain felt overstuffed with material from five different classes. Because every time she finished one assignment, another one reared up behind it like a worse replacement.

Henry watched her over the top edge of his book for a quiet moment before closing it altogether.

Y/N noticed the sound immediately and narrowed her eyes without looking up. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Distract me.”

His voice stayed mild. “You’re already distracted.”

Y/N looked up at him, deeply unimpressed. “That’s not the point.”

Henry leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs. “What’s the paper on?”

“You know what it’s on,” she muttered. “It’s for your class.”

“Yes,” he said. “But I want to hear you say it.”

Y/N gave him a flat look, then sighed dramatically and dropped her pen onto the table. “Narrative unreliability and repression in post-war literature.”

Henry’s brows lifted. “That sounded almost resentful.”

“Because it is.”

He held out his hand. “Let me see.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes further, putting her hand protectively on the paper. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m still working on it.”

“You’re glaring at it,” he corrected. “That’s not the same thing.”

She made a face, but after a second she grabbed the pages, shuffled them into something resembling order, and handed them up to him with obvious reluctance.

Henry took them, settled back into the couch, and started reading.

Y/N tried to sit still while he did.

It was impossible.

She shifted on the floor, tugged one of the books closer, pushed it away again, picked up her pen only to tap it against the table instead of writing anything. Her foot bounced. Her jaw clenched every time his eyes paused too long on a sentence.

Finally, she snapped, “Stop making that face.”

Henry didn’t look up. “What face?”

“That one.”

“I’m reading.”

“You’re judging.”

That got him to glance down at her.

His expression was maddeningly unreadable. “Those are not mutually exclusive.”

Y/N groaned and dropped her head back against the couch cushion by his knee. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He went back to reading.

A full minute passed.

Then another.

Y/N stared up at the ceiling, already planning her own funeral.

Finally Henry lowered the pages slightly and said, “I don’t know why you’re stressing.”

Y/N turned her head sharply. “Excuse me?”

He looked at the paper again, then back at her. “This is good.”

She blinked. “What?”

“It’s thoughtful. Clear. Arguably more coherent than half the class.” His gaze slid down the page once more. “More than half.”

Y/N sat up straighter. “Are you serious?”

Henry’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

She stared at him, suspicious now instead of irritated. “You’d actually give this a good grade?”

“I’d more than likely give it a very good grade.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “…Is that because I sleep with you?”

Henry looked up at her fully then, glasses low on his nose, expression flattening into offended disbelief.

“No,” he said.

Y/N folded her arms. “That was very quick.”

“Because it’s insulting.”

She blinked. “To who?”

“To both of us,” Henry replied, setting the paper down on his knee. “To you because you wrote it. To me because I’m not inflating your grade out of favoritism.”

Y/N’s brows lifted slightly.

Henry held her gaze, voice quieter now but no less firm. “You are one of the strongest students I have. You were before we ever touched each other. You would be if we stopped tomorrow.” His eyes flicked to the paper. “The work is good because you’re good.”

That stole the joke right out of her.

Y/N looked at him for a second longer than she meant to.

Then, because she didn’t know what to do with sincerity unless she poked it a little, she said, “You sound very sure of yourself.”

Henry took off his glasses and set them aside on the coffee table. “I’m sure of you.”

That landed too hard.

Y/N looked away first, suddenly very interested in the grain of the wood on the table.

Henry noticed the shift immediately, of course, and because apparently praise from him had become one of the few things capable of short-circuiting her brain, he decided to make it worse.

He leaned forward and nudged her shoulder lightly with his knee.

“You’re pouting less,” he observed.

Y/N glared at him. “I’m not pouting.”

“You were.”

“I was academically distressed.”

Henry’s mouth curved. “A tragedy.”

She picked up a crumpled note card from the floor and threw it at him.

He caught it without effort.

“Violent too,” he said.

“You started it.”

Henry set the note card aside and reached down, fingers brushing the side of her neck just once. “And now you’re distracted enough to stop spiraling.”

Y/N hated that he was right.

Her shoulders had loosened without her noticing. The paper no longer looked like a personal attack. The stress was still there, but it wasn’t crowding her lungs anymore.

She sighed and leaned back against the couch again, this time less dramatically. “You’re annoyingly helpful.”

“Yes.”

“You’re also smug.”

“Also yes.”

Y/N looked up at him. “I don’t like how easily you say yes to accusations.”

Henry’s hand slid down to the back of her neck, thumb moving once there in that absent, soothing way he always had when he was pretending not to comfort her too openly. “Finish the conclusion.”

She made a face. “Bossy.”

“Your favorite.”

That made her smile despite herself.

Y/N reached up, took the pages back from him, and set them on the table again. Her pen found its way back into her hand.

This time, when she looked at the paragraph, it seemed less impossible.

Henry stayed where he was on the couch above her, close enough to touch, calm enough to borrow from.

And as she started writing again, he said, almost casually, “For the record.”

Y/N looked up. “What?”

His gaze dipped to the paper, then to her face. “If you want special treatment, you’ll have to ask for a different professor.”

She stared at him for half a beat.

Then she laughed so hard she nearly dropped the pen.

Henry’s hand had just started to leave the back of her neck when Y/N reached up and caught his wrist.

He looked down at her immediately. “What?”

Y/N tilted her head back against the couch cushion, eyes tired now that the worst of the spiraling had passed. “Don’t stop.”

Henry’s brows lifted slightly. “How vague.”

She gave him a look. “Massage my neck.”

He stared at her for one beat, then her shoulders, then the pile of finals notes spread across the table like evidence.

“You’re tense,” he said.

“No kidding.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

Y/N let go of his wrist only to lift both hands and gesture weakly at herself. “My neck and shoulders are killing me. Fix it.”

Henry’s expression turned faintly offended. “You say that like I’m a service.”

Y/N smiled sweetly. “Massage is required as my boyfriend.”

That got him.

Not a full smile, but enough of one to soften his face.

“Required,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s in the contract.”

Henry gave her a look. “I never signed anything.”

“You did emotionally.”

That pulled a quiet breath of amusement from him.

He shifted on the couch, setting her paper aside on the coffee table, then leaned forward and said, “Turn around.”

Y/N blinked up at him. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

She smiled faintly and obeyed, scooting back until she was sitting between his knees on the floor, facing the coffee table again. Her hair fell down her back, and she swept it all over one shoulder for him without being asked.

Henry’s hands settled on her shoulders a second later.

Y/N exhaled immediately.

His palms were warm, his grip firm but careful as he worked his thumbs into the tight muscles at the base of her neck. Not rushed. Not playful. Focused in the same way he did everything else, like once he started taking care of something, he intended to do it properly.

“Oh,” she murmured, eyes sliding shut.

Henry’s voice came low above her. “That bad?”

“Yes.”

His thumbs moved a little deeper, and Y/N’s head fell forward slightly with a quiet groan she didn’t bother hiding.

Henry paused for half a second. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” she said quickly. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”

That made his mouth twitch.

He kept going, working slow circles into the knots gathered there from too many hours bent over books and papers and worrying herself into stiffness. His fingers skimmed up the sides of her neck, then back down to her shoulders, pressing and kneading until the tension started to give way.

Y/N melted by degrees.

A relieved sigh slipped out of her. Then another. Her head tipped helplessly to one side beneath his hands, and Henry leaned closer, just enough that his mouth was near her ear when he murmured, low and amused:

“I’ve never seen you make these faces or noises outside of bed.”

Y/N’s eyes opened halfway in immediate offense. “Oh my God.”

Henry’s thumbs pressed into another sore spot, and she let out an embarrassingly soft sound before she could stop herself.

His mouth twitched against the side of her hair. “There it is again.”

“You’re horrible,” she muttered, though the words had no real bite to them.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

He kept going, unbothered by her glare, and Y/N, traitorously could only sink further into it.

“This,” she said faintly, “is why I keep you around.”

Henry’s hands slid to the tops of her shoulders, thumbs pressing in again. “That and my grading standards.”

“Mostly this.”

He leaned slightly closer over her, his breath brushing the top of her head. “You’re very spoiled.”

Y/N smiled with her eyes still closed. “By my boyfriend.”

Henry said nothing to that.

His hands moved lower now, along the slope of her shoulders and back up again, loosening the tightness until even her jaw unclenched. She let herself rest there between his knees, limp and heavy and trusting, the clutter of finals temporarily forgotten.

After a minute, she murmured, “If you’re this good at massages, you’ve been withholding useful information.”

Henry’s thumbs pressed into a particularly sore spot, and she made a soft, startled sound.

“That,” he said calmly, “is for accusing me of grade inflation.”

Y/N laughed weakly. “You’re evil.”

“Yes.”

He worked the other side next, one hand steady at the base of her neck while the other smoothed over her shoulder. The touch had gone from practical to intimate somewhere in the last few seconds, close enough that Y/N could feel the shift in the air around them.

Her head tipped back slightly, just enough that she could look up at him from where she sat.

Henry’s gaze dropped to meet hers.

Neither of them said anything.

Then Y/N smiled, sleepy and pleased. “You like taking care of me.”

Henry’s hands stilled once on her shoulders before resuming. “You make it difficult not to.”

That warmed something in her chest.

She let her eyes close again and leaned back just a little more into the space between his knees. “Good.”

For another long moment, the apartment went quiet except for the rustle of paper under the lamp and the slow, steady rhythm of his hands working her shoulders.

And when Y/N finally opened her eyes again, finals felt a little farther away than before.

. . .

By the time Y/N reached Henry’s classroom after her last class, the building had gone quieter in that strange end-of-day way that made every hallway sound longer.

Most of the students were gone now, drifting out into the late afternoon with finals on their backs and summer already tugging at the edges of their attention. The light through the classroom windows had turned soft and gold, catching dust in the air and laying long bars across the desks.

Henry had left the door unlocked.

From the outside, it looked harmless enough, just a student helping a teacher pack up for summer. And inside, that was exactly what it was.

Mostly.

Y/N stepped in with her bag still over one shoulder and found him at the front of the room, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, sorting through stacks of papers and books with that same precise calm he brought to everything. One cardboard box was already half full beside his desk. Another sat waiting near the shelves.

He looked up when she came in, and the expression that crossed his face was small, private, and immediate.

“You’re late,” he said.

Y/N shut the door gently behind her and smiled. “I was in class.”

Henry lifted a brow. “A weak excuse.”

“Rude,” she said, crossing toward him. “I’m here now.”

He handed her a stack of slim paperback texts without another word, and she took them automatically, carrying them over to the nearest box.

The room looked different already.

Less like the place that had held them all year and more like a version of itself being folded away, desks still there, chalkboard still smudged, but the edges of it being stripped down into summer. It made something in her chest ache a little in a way she hadn’t expected.

She crouched to set the books in the box and said quietly, “I don’t like this.”

Henry glanced over at her. “Packing.”

“The room looking less like your room.”

His gaze moved over the classroom once, slower now. “It’ll look worse by tomorrow.”

Y/N stood and made a face. “Don’t say that.”

He almost smiled.

For a while they worked in comfortable silence, Y/N boxing novels and anthologies, Henry sorting essays into piles to keep, archive, or throw away. Every now and then he’d hand her something and their fingers would brush for just a second too long. Nothing anyone could call suspicious if they walked by the open door. Everything enough to matter.

Y/N picked up a chipped mug from the corner of his desk and held it up. “Keeping this?”

Henry looked over. “Unfortunately.”

“It’s ugly.”

“It holds coffee.”

“That’s not a defense.”

“It is for me.”

Y/N smiled and set it carefully in the box marked ‘OFFICE’. 

The quiet settled again after that, but not empty. Full. Weighted by the fact that this was the end of something, this school year, this room in this exact version of itself, this routine of sneaking around between lectures and passing notes like the semester would never run out.

Henry seemed to feel it too.

Because after a while, while he was taping one of the boxes shut, he said without looking up, “I want you in my seminar next year.”

Y/N froze.

Not dramatically. Just enough that the book in her hand stopped halfway to the box.

She looked at him slowly. “What?”

Henry pressed the tape down neatly along the seam and finally lifted his eyes to hers. “The advanced seminar. Fall term.”

Y/N stared at him.

“You’d do well in it,” he said, as if that were the only thing he meant. “Better than most of the students who’ll enroll.”

Her heart gave one hard, stupid thud.

He said it so calmly. So reasonably. But underneath it, she could hear what mattered.

Next year.

Her.

In his class.

Y/N set the book down on top of the stack instead of in the box because suddenly her hands didn’t feel especially reliable.

“You want me in your class again,” she said softly.

Henry’s expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes did. “Yes.”

That alone would have been enough to make her chest tighten.

Then, after the briefest pause, like he was deciding whether to say the rest, he added, “And I think you should consider an independent study.”

Y/N blinked.

He continued before she could interrupt, quieter now, more deliberate.

“You’re strong enough for one. You read quickly. You write well when you stop doubting yourself. And you’re capable of more than the standard course load asks of you.” His jaw flexed once, the words getting more personal than he probably intended. “You’d suit it.”

She just looked at him.

An independent study.

Under him.

One-on-one. Official. Planned.

It took a second for the full meaning to settle.

This wasn’t just him thinking about next term in some abstract, academic sense. This was Henry making space for her in a future he was actively arranging. Building.

He was planning for a version of his life where she was still in it.

Y/N’s face softened around the edges, and when she spoke her voice was quieter than before.

“You’ve really thought about this.”

Henry looked back down at the box in front of him and smoothed the tape one more unnecessary time. “Yes.”

A smile touched her mouth before she could help it. Not bright. Not teasing. Something smaller, warmer, more affected.

She crossed the room toward him slowly.

Henry noticed. Of course he noticed.

He straightened, one hand resting on the box cutter in his palm, and watched her come to a stop in front of him.

Y/N tilted her head. “You know,” she said softly, “you’ve come a long way.”

His brows drew together slightly. “From what?”

“From pushing me away every time I got too close.”

That landed.

She saw it in the stillness that came over him. In the way his hand set the box cutter down on the desk rather than keep holding it. In the way he looked at her now, not guarded exactly, but caught.

“At the beginning of the year,” she said, “you acted like I was a problem you had to manage.” Her smile turned faintly crooked. “Now you’re planning my junior year.”

Henry’s jaw tightened, but not in irritation. More like the truth of it sat somewhere difficult.

“I was trying to do the right thing,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“And now?”

Y/N’s eyes held his. “Now you’re trying to keep me.”

The room went very still.

Outside the door, footsteps passed once in the hallway and faded again. Somewhere farther down the building, a cart rattled across tile. But inside the classroom, everything narrowed to him and the open door and the boxes and the fact that she’d said it out loud.

Henry looked at her for a long second.

Then, with that same maddening restraint he used when he was closest to honesty, he said, “Yes.”

It wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Y/N’s breath caught.

A smile broke properly this time, helpless and bright and too full of feeling to hide. She stepped closer, close enough that if someone passed the doorway they’d only see a student and a teacher standing too near each other and maybe think nothing of it.

Maybe.

“You really are planning for me,” she murmured.

Henry’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then lifted back to her eyes. “I am.”

Y/N let that sit between them for a second, warming everything it touched.

Then she said, a little breathlessly, “That’s so unfair.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Unfair?”

“Yes,” she said. “You don’t get to say things like that when I’m trying to help you pack and not completely melt into the floor.”

The corner of his mouth moved.

“You’re not on the floor.”

“Yet.”

That got him closer to a real smile, and Y/N loved it enough that her chest almost hurt.

She looked around the room then, the half-packed shelves, the boxes, the fading shape of sophomore year all around them, and back at him.

“It feels weird,” she admitted. “This ending.”

Henry’s expression softened. 

“But,” she added, her smile returning, gentler now, “it feels less weird if I know you’re there next year too.”

His hand came to rest on the desk behind her, not touching, just close enough to alter the air between them.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

Y/N looked up at him. “And I’ll be in your seminar.”

“If you enroll.”

She smiled. “That sounds suspiciously like a challenge.”

“It’s advice.”

“No,” she said. “It’s you trying to sound professional about the fact that you want me around.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are very pleased with yourself.”

“I am very pleased with you.”

That shut him up for exactly one beat.

Then, quieter, “Keep packing.”

Y/N laughed softly and turned back toward the box nearest her, but the smile stayed on her face, impossible to hide now.

Because the room might be emptying. The year might be ending. This version of them might be changing.

But Henry Creel, who had once pushed her away the second she got too close, was now standing in the middle of his half-packed classroom planning a future that still had her in it.

And that mattered more than anything else in the room.

. . .

When they finally finished, the classroom no longer felt like his.

Not entirely.

The shelves stood bare now, the little personal traces gone, the extra stacks of books, the chipped coffee mug, the papers that had made the space look lived in. The walls looked strangely blank without the posters and notes and pinned-up reminders. All that remained were the desks, the chairs, the chalkboard, the bones of the room.

Y/N stood in the middle of it and turned slowly once, taking it in.

“It looks sad,” she murmured.

Henry, locking the last desk drawer, glanced over at her. “It looks clean.”

“It looks abandoned.”

He straightened, keys in hand. “It’ll look worse after the summer crew gets to it.”

Y/N made a face. “You keep saying things I don’t want to hear.”

The corner of his mouth moved faintly. “You keep asking honest questions.”

She smiled a little, but it didn’t fully stay. There was something strange in her chest now, part tenderness, part grief, part the odd ache of standing at the edge of a version of life that was already disappearing.

Henry seemed to feel it too.

Because when he looked around the room, his expression went quieter, less teasing. Like even he could see the year stripping itself down around them.

Y/N picked up her bag from beside the teacher’s desk and slung it over one shoulder. “So this is it.”

“For now,” Henry said.

She looked at him. “For now,” she repeated.

The hallway outside had gone almost fully still by then. Just distant cleaning carts, the occasional echo of a closing door somewhere else in the building. The open classroom doorway no longer felt risky. Just empty.

Y/N moved toward him, stopping close enough that if someone passed by, it would still look harmless from a distance.

Maybe.

She looked up at him for one long second, all the things she wanted to say pressing at the back of her throat.

Then she only said the one that mattered most.

“I love you.”

Quiet.

Not dramatic. Not asking for anything back. Just true.

Henry’s face changed in that small, unmistakable way it always did when she caught him off guard with tenderness. His hand, still holding the keys, tightened slightly around them.

He didn’t touch her.

Not here. Not with the room open and stripped bare and the building not quite empty enough.

But his eyes held hers, and that was somehow worse.

“I know,” he said softly.

Y/N smiled, faint and warm, like that answer belonged to them now.

Then she stepped back before she did something reckless, lifted her brows a little like she was trying to make the moment lighter, and said, “Go home, professor.”

Henry’s mouth twitched. “Go to your dorm, Miss Y/L/N.”

She grinned. “Bossy.”

“Yes.”

For one more second, neither of them moved.

Then Y/N turned and walked out first, her footsteps fading down the hall toward the stairs, toward the dorm, toward the last few days of sophomore year that still had to be survived.

Henry stayed where he was until he could no longer hear her.

Then he shut off the classroom lights, stepped into the hall, and locked the door behind him.

The building felt different without students in it.

Too echoing. Too hollow.

He made his way out to the faculty parking lot in the soft late-evening light, jacket over one arm, keys in hand, the day settling heavily but not unpleasantly in his bones. Summer cleaning, finals, junior year schedules, the Cape, too many thoughts moving at once.

He reached his car.

And stopped.

Something white was tucked beneath the driver’s side windshield wiper.

A folded note.

Henry’s body went still before his mind did.

For a second he simply stared at it, unmoving, the quiet lot suddenly feeling a degree too empty.

Then, slowly, he stepped closer and pulled the note free.

It was folded neatly. Deliberately.

Not random.

Not trash caught in the wind.

His jaw tightened as he unfolded it.

Typed. Not handwritten.

Just one line.

She is the one who will suffer for this.

The world seemed to narrow around the words.

Henry stared at the note for one long beat, then another, the keys in his hand biting into his palm.

Somewhere across the lot, a car door slammed.

He looked up sharply.

No one was there.

Only the long rows of faculty cars, the dimming light, the blank windows of the building behind him.

He looked back down at the note.

And for the first time all day, the future he’d let himself imagine with her felt like something standing on very thin ice.

TO BE CONTINUED…

. . .

taglist, •o+*.

@dollyvuu, @onmymymyway, @edb954,

@nxrdamp, @darleneh, @libellulaladepressa, @starrkai, @sageandrosemary, @sillygoober1111, @arielsplanet, @starryeddie, @saturnschaoticlover, @jeannotjorts, @lilpeelilpoo, @through-the-looking--glass, @knin3, @talkativecarnation, @sugurusgyall,

@maguibummi, @soapyeaton,

@sluttysnowangel666, @fixation-station, @abcdetg1234abc321, @munsonsquinn,

@aureliaborea, @niahzzz, @trentknd, @unrequitedgalaxies, @mrscreel, @magicalmorg, @carmillastomb, @randomuser0609, @henrycreelsbelt, @missie99, @sage-babydoll, @piinkpony, @hoeandslut, @cannibalcoyote, @nijiroswife, @dallzzxx, @nutcrackerr, @nocasdatsgay, @auxcordlawd, @kitzyx,