rihanna @themthrfkinprincess - Tumblr Blog

After Class Part Five

synapse: it’s the first “date”—y/n realizes how deep she is in with henry

pairing: professor!henry creel x female reader

contains: making out, suggestive, tension + tenderness

a/n: thank you guys for the love on this story. I appreciate the ideas and thank you for checking in on me, im hearing you on occasional smut, not every chapter but y/n is a horndog (like me low key 😜) and human professor henry, if he does have powers it’ll be in its own separate imagine. I needed to post this before the tag list gets longer

. . .

The next day, Y/N showed up to Henry Creel’s office early, early enough that the hallway outside was still half-asleep, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly over empty benches and bulletin boards layered with flyers.

She carried two things: her notebook and a cardboard coffee cup balanced carefully in one hand, the lid still warm. Coffee was currency on campus: proof you’d gotten up, proof you’d thought of someone, proof you’d crossed the city with intention.

She paused outside his door long enough to smooth her hair and fix her face into something neutral.

Then she knocked once and stepped in when she heard his voice.

Henry was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, grading papers with the quiet focus of a man trying to be nothing but a professor. His glasses sat low on his nose. A pen moved steadily across the page. For a second he didn’t look up, until he registered who the footsteps belonged to.

His gaze lifted.

And the shift in him was subtle, controlled, like a book closing gently over something private.

“You’re early,” he said.

Y/N held up the cup as if it explained everything. “Peace offering.”

Henry’s eyes flicked to the coffee and then back to her face, that brief softness crossing his expression before he smoothed it away. “For what?”

“For existing,” she said, and the corner of her mouth curved. “And for… last week.”

Henry leaned back slightly in his chair, pen pausing. “Last week.”

Y/N stepped closer and set the coffee on the edge of his desk. “I brought it the way you like it,” she added, watching him closely. “Black. No sugar. No excuses.”

Henry’s gaze stayed on the cup for a beat longer than it needed to, like he was absorbing the fact she’d remembered. Then he lifted it, took a sip, and gave the smallest nod.

Approval, the way he always gave it: quiet, restrained.

“Thank you,” he said.

Y/N’s chest warmed at the simple words, but she didn’t let it soften her too much. Not today. Today she wanted to poke at the edges.

She walked around the chair opposite his desk and perched there, leaning forward slightly, elbows on her knees. “So,” she said casually, “I obviously canceled on Daniel Taylor.”

Henry didn’t react immediately. His face remained composed, the professor mask intact.

But his eyes, his eyes changed.

A slow, satisfied glint, pride dressed up as calm.

As if he’d known she would.

As if he’d been waiting.

Y/N’s smile widened when she caught it.

“Don’t act so smug, you knew I would,” she accused.

Henry set the cup down with deliberate care. “I suspected.”

“Suspected,” Y/N echoed, unimpressed. “You’re proud.”

“I’m relieved,” Henry corrected, smoothly.

Y/N tilted her head. “Same thing.”

Henry’s jaw tightened, but the faintest hint of amusement flashed in his eyes. He flipped a page on the paper he’d been grading like he was trying to return to normal.

It didn’t work.

After a beat, he asked, too controlled, too calm, “How did he take it?”

Y/N hummed, thinking. “Confused. Disappointed.” Her mouth curved again, sharp this time. “He tried to act like it was fine. It wasn’t.”

Henry’s gaze stayed on her. “Good.”

Y/N’s pulse jumped at the single word. She pushed her chair back and stood, slow and deliberate, moving around his desk like she owned the space, and like she knew exactly how much it would ruin him that she moved like that in his office.

Henry’s gaze followed her without pretending it didn’t.

Y/N stopped beside him, close enough that his knee nearly brushed her thigh.

“You know,” she murmured, voice sweet, “since I canceled…”

Henry’s eyes lifted to hers, steady. “Since you canceled.”

Y/N leaned down, close to his ear. “I think I should be rewarded.”

Henry’s breath changed, small, controlled, the tiniest betrayal.

“Y/N,” he warned softly.

It wasn’t a real warning.

Not with the way his hand tightened on the edge of the desk.

Y/N smiled, pleased, then did it anyway, sliding onto his lap with easy confidence, settling there like it was the most natural place in the world. She straddled him in the rolling chair, her knees bracketing his thighs, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Henry went still for half a second.

Not because he didn’t want it, because he did.

Because he always wanted it, and that was the problem.

His hands hovered at her waist, not grabbing yet, as if he were forcing himself to remember rules even while she erased them.

“You’re going to get us caught,” he said quietly.

Y/N’s eyes glittered. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

Henry’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.

Then he stopped pretending.

His hands settled on her hips, firm and sure, pulling her a fraction closer. His voice lowered into something that didn’t belong in an office. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still deciding whether you’re allowed,” she whispered.

Henry’s jaw flexed.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t reckless. It was controlled intensity, like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into one motion.

Y/N’s fingers slid into his hair immediately, tugging just enough to make him exhale against her mouth like he’d been starving.

She kissed him back like she’d made the rules.

Her hands moved through his hair, messier now, pulling him closer, tilting her head as the kiss deepened.

Henry’s grip tightened at her waist before they started sliding down to grip her ass, pulling her harder against him.

Y/N broke the kiss only to drag her mouth down his jaw, to his throat, testing him with slow kisses that weren’t subtle and weren’t kind. Henry’s head tipped back slightly, just enough to give her access, just enough to show he was letting her.

“Reward,” she murmured against his skin, smug.

Henry’s voice came rough, barely controlled. “You’re enjoying this.”

Y/N smiled against his throat. “Mm-hm.”

She kissed him again, lower, slower, until his breathing changed, until his fingers flexed at her hips like he was fighting the urge to leave marks of his own.

Y/N did not fight that urge in herself.

She sucked a little too long at one spot on his neck, then another, leaving proof in the only place his buttoned-up professor wardrobe didn’t fully protect.

Henry’s hand slid up her back, firm, grounding. “Careful,” he murmured, but there was no real protest in it.

Y/N leaned back just enough to meet his eyes, pleased with herself. “What’s wrong,” she whispered. “Not in a relationship, right?”

Henry’s gaze darkened.

He didn’t answer with words.

He pulled her into another kiss instead, short, punishing, hungry, like he was wiping the smirk off her mouth and putting it back on his own terms.

Then—

A bell rang somewhere down the hallway.

Loud. Metal. Unforgiving.

The sound snapped the world back into place.

Y/N froze, breath catching, and Henry went still beneath her, eyes closing for a brief second like he was counting to ten.

Another bell followed, students shifting in the hall, footsteps building, voices rising.

Y/N pulled back, hair messy, lips swollen, eyes bright with satisfaction. “Shit.”

Henry’s hands stayed on her hips for a beat longer than necessary, as if he didn’t want to let go. “You need to go.”

“I know,” Y/N whispered, but she didn’t move immediately. She looked at his neck, at what she’d left there, and her smile returned, slow and wicked.

Henry followed her gaze and exhaled sharply through his nose. “Y/N.”

She kissed him once more, quick, sweet, infuriatingly soft compared to what they’d just been doing, then slid off his lap.

She smoothed her skirt, fixed her hair with rushed hands, grabbed her notebook like she’d actually come for tutoring, and headed for the door with a grin she couldn’t hide.

Henry stood slowly, adjusting his shirt, trying to reassemble himself as footsteps passed outside.

“Enjoy explaining that,” Y/N murmured, eyes flicking meaningfully to his throat.

Henry’s gaze pinned her, jealous, possessive, and already planning how to cover it. “Go.”

Y/N opened the door, slipped into the hallway like nothing had happened, and disappeared into the flow of students.

Henry remained in his office for a long moment after she left, staring at the closed door, coffee cooling on his desk, papers forgotten in his hand and the unmistakable marks on his neck pulsing beneath his collar like a secret he couldn’t grade his way out of.

. . .

Henry tried to cover it up like a man who still believed control was something you could button into place.

When Y/N walked into class, she clocked it immediately: the higher collar than usual, the way he adjusted it twice before he even picked up his chalk, the careful angle of his jaw whenever he turned toward the board. A turtleneck would’ve been too obvious for him.

Henry Creel didn’t “do” obvious.

Instead it was a collared shirt done all the way up, a sweater layered over it like armor, and the faintest shadow of irritation in his eyes every time he remembered what was underneath.

Y/N’s mouth curved into a smug little smile before she could stop herself.

She slid into her seat next to Nancy with a bounce in her step that did not match a Tuesday lecture. She set her notebook down with exaggerated care, like she had all the time in the world.

Nancy glanced at her, then at Henry, then back at her.

Nancy’s journalist brain clicked into place with a sound Y/N could practically hear.

“You’re in a good mood,” Nancy murmured, suspicious.

Y/N didn’t look at her. She kept her eyes on the front of the room, on Henry’s hands as he arranged his papers. “Am I?”

Nancy leaned closer, voice low. “You’re practically glowing.”

Y/N finally turned her head just enough to meet Nancy’s eyes. She smiled, sweet, innocent, completely unhelpful. “Thank you.”

Nancy narrowed her gaze. “Why is he dressed like he got attacked by a vampire?”

Y/N’s lips twitched, raising her eyebrows. “Maybe he did…”

Nancy’s eyes widened a fraction. “Oh my God.”

Y/N lifted her notebook and tapped it lightly as if she was just adjusting it, then whispered without moving her mouth much, “You wanted a hobby.”

Nancy stared at her, horrified and thrilled in equal measure. “You’re disgusting.”

Y/N’s smile stayed. “You’re welcome.”

At the front, Henry began lecture.

His voice was steady. His pace controlled. He spoke about symbolism and structure like his neck wasn’t carrying a private little scandal under knitwear. He walked the room once, then again, measured steps, calm presence, never quite letting himself drift too near Y/N’s desk the way he usually did when he wanted to press her for an opinion.

Every time he turned his head too sharply, the collar shifted.

Every time it shifted, Y/N’s grin got worse.

Nancy watched the whole thing with the focused intensity of someone taking mental notes for a future headline.

When Henry asked a question and Y/N answered with perfect confidence, Nancy leaned in again and murmured, “You’re going to hell.”

Y/N didn’t even blink. “I’m already enrolled, Wheeler.”

The hour ended. Students filed out. Chairs scraped, pages flipped, laughter returned.

Y/N stayed seated.

She watched Henry stack his papers with meticulous care, watched him wait until the last student was gone, watched him close the door with a soft click that made the classroom feel suddenly smaller.

Then she stood.

Henry didn’t turn right away. His back was still to her as he erased a line on the board that didn’t need erasing, like he was giving himself a second to put the professor mask back on.

When he finally faced her, his expression was calm.

His eyes were not.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

Y/N tilted her head, smug. “Staying after like you always want.”

Henry’s gaze flicked to the door, then back. “Speak.”

Y/N stepped closer, stopping a few feet from his desk. “You don’t have to cover them up.”

Henry’s jaw tightened. “Yes, I do.”

She smiled wider. “No one knows who left them.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s not the point.”

Y/N let herself circle the desk slowly, like she was inspecting a museum exhibit. “I think it is the point.” She stopped, leaned her hip lightly against the edge of his desk, and added in a tone that made it sound like a joke even though it wasn’t, “I’m making a claim.”

Henry’s posture went still. “You don’t get to do that.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled with defiance. “I just did.”

Henry’s voice sharpened slightly, controlled, but edged. “Y/N.”

She shrugged, as if the whole thing were obvious. “Half the girls in this class stare at you. Some of them try too hard, and you know it. You’re a good looking man, after all.”

Henry’s expression remained neutral, but his gaze hardened. “That is not your concern.”

Y/N’s smile turned sweet and poisonous. “It is when they think they have a chance.”

A beat.

Then she added, casually, “Even women like Patty Newbie—“

Henry’s eyes flashed. “Patty is a colleague.”

“Friend,” Y/N corrected, still smug.

Henry didn’t blink. “Colleague.”

The insistence in his tone should’ve shut the conversation down.

It didn’t.

Y/N leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “You can call her whatever you want. It’s still a fail-safe. You say it like it’s supposed to calm me down.”

Henry’s jaw worked once. He exhaled through his nose, slow and irritated. “You’re being unreasonable.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up and down his covered neck with a kind of satisfaction she didn’t bother hiding. “You love it when I’m unreasonable.”

Henry’s gaze snapped to hers. “Don’t confuse what I tolerate with what I encourage.”

She tilted her head. “Then stop tolerating it.”

Henry’s hands tightened around the stack of papers he’d been holding, knuckles paling slightly. His voice stayed quiet, measured. “You are not going to ‘claim’ me.”

Y/N’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Henry’s eyes sharpened. “Why?”

Y/N’s expression shifted, not softer, but more honest. She glanced down for half a second, then back up with that stubborn, fearless look that always made him look like he wanted to argue and kiss her at the same time.

“Because a week ago,” she said, voice low, “you stood right there and told me my body was yours. All of me. No one else.”

Henry went very still.

Not denying it. Not forgetting it. Just remembering exactly what he’d said and exactly how it had sounded in the empty classroom.

His voice dropped. “I said that in the heat of—”

“You said it because you meant it,” Y/N cut in, firm. “And now you want to pretend you’re untouched by what you do and say.”

Henry’s eyes flickered, something tight and conflicted behind them. He didn’t like being confronted with himself. Not like this. Not by her.

Y/N exhaled and shifted tactics, the way she always did when she wanted something. She softened her tone without softening her spine.

“And,” she added, “since I canceled my date with Daniel Taylor…” Henry’s expression tightened immediately at the mention of his name. Y/N’s smile sharpened at the reaction. “That means you owe me one.”

Henry’s voice came cool. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“Mm,” Y/N hummed, like she didn’t believe him. “You invited me to your home. You cooked for me. You let me stay there night.” She stepped closer, voice quieter now, less teasing. “I liked it. I did.”

Henry’s gaze stayed fixed, guarded.

Y/N swallowed, then said the real thing, the thing she’d been circling.

“So I want a date,” she said plainly.

Henry’s brows lifted slightly. “A date?”

“Yes,” Y/N insisted, eyes bright with stubborn want. “Not hiding in your office. Not sneaking around campus. An actual date.” She tilted her chin. “I don’t care if it’s public.”

Henry’s gaze sharpened immediately. “You should.”

She shook her head. “I care about being with you.”

The room went quiet in a way that felt dangerous, because her honesty made it harder for him to keep pretending this was only physical, only convenient.

Y/N kept going, words tumbling out now that she’d started. “I don’t even know what to call you. Boyfriend, lover, whatever. I just know I want more than Hamlet and closed doors.”

Henry’s jaw flexed.

Y/N’s voice softened, but her gaze stayed steady. “I want to know you. Like… actually know you. Where you grew up. What books you loved before you decided everyone had to suffer through tragedies with you.” A faint smile returned. “What you read when you’re not trying to scare freshmen.”

Henry stared at her for a long beat.

His professional persona held, barely. Like a wall with cracks running through it.

“You’re asking for something you don’t understand,” he said quietly.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “Try me.”

Henry’s gaze drifted, briefly, toward the window in the door, instinct, caution, then back to her face. He looked tired in that moment. Not exhausted, but worn down. Like she’d been pulling at the seams for weeks and he was realizing he couldn’t keep re-stitching them forever.

He set his papers down slowly.

Then he reached for his desk pad and uncapped his pen.

Y/N watched him, breath caught.

Henry wrote something down with careful precision, tore the slip cleanly along the edge, and held it out to her without standing.

A date and time.

Specific. Deliberate.

A concession shaped like ink.

Y/N took it, eyes scanning quickly. Her smile bloomed, not smug this time. Something warmer, victorious in a way that felt almost tender.

Henry watched her reaction with a look that was half resignation, half something dangerously fond.

“I’ll plan something,” he said quietly. “And you will behave.”

Y/N looked up, amused. “I always behave.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “No, you don’t.”

She grinned. “You like that I don’t.”

Henry’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a sigh. “This is not a promise of… anything else.”

Y/N folded the slip carefully and tucked it into her notebook like it was sacred. “It’s a start.”

Henry held her gaze for a moment longer than he should have.

Then he said, softly, like he hated himself for giving in, “Go.”

Y/N backed away one step, still smiling. “You’re getting worse at being professional, Mr. Creel.”

Henry didn’t deny it.

He simply watched her walk to the door with that new piece of paper in her possession, watched her leave with the kind of confidence that told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

She was wearing him down.

And for reasons Henry would never admit out loud, he was letting her.

. . .

The dorm room felt too small for the amount of anticipation in Y/N’s chest.

Late afternoon light spilled through the blinds in thin, warm stripes, catching dust in the air and making the whole room look softer than it really was.

Y/N stood in front of the mirror. The white off-shoulder knit sat snug against her collarbones, exposing just enough skin to feel intentional without looking like she was trying too hard. The corduroy mini skirt hugged her waist and flared slightly at the hem, the texture catching light every time she moved. It was flirtier than she’d normally wear to class, short enough to make a point, neat enough to pass for “cute.”

Behind her, Nancy sat cross-legged on her bed with a paperback open, highlighter tucked between pages. She tried to pretend she wasn’t watching, but every few seconds her eyes flicked up over the top of the book like a periscope.

“You’re checking yourself like you’re going to a royal ball…again,” Nancy said finally, dry.

Y/N didn’t turn. “I’m checking myself because I refuse to leave this room looking like a crime.”

Nancy’s lips twitched. “Where is this date, anyway?”

Y/N paused, then admitted, “I don’t know.”

Nancy lowered the book. “You… don’t know where you’re going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Y/N said, like that made it less suspicious.

Nancy stared at her. “That’s not romantic. That’s how people end up on milk cartons.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and reached for her lip gloss. “Relax. I told you I’d tell you where I’ll be.”

“You don’t even know where you’ll be,” Nancy pointed out.

Y/N capped the gloss with a click and finally turned around, leaning her hip against the dresser. “Okay, fine. I don’t know the exact location, but I’m going with Henry.”

Nancy’s expression didn’t change, she’d already known, but the way she exhaled through her nose made it clear she still couldn’t believe the sentence existed in real life.

“And,” Y/N added, more quietly, “I’m going to call the dorm the second I know. I’ll use the payphone if I have to. I’m not disappearing.”

Nancy watched her for a moment, then nodded once, reluctantly satisfied. “Good.”

Y/N softened, stepping closer to Nancy’s bed. “I don’t want you worried about me.”

“I’m always going to be worried,” Nancy said, then immediately tried to cover it with irritation. “Especially when you’re dressed like that and leaving with a man who assigns homework.”

Y/N smiled despite herself. “It’s not a crime to look cute.”

“It’s not,” Nancy agreed. “But it is a crime to act like you’re invincible.”

Y/N opened her mouth to argue, then stopped, because she didn’t want to fight. Not tonight. Not when her nerves already felt like they were humming under her skin.

So instead she bent to pick up her small shoulder bag and started rummaging. “Do you have my earrings? The little hoops?”

Nancy pointed without looking. “Top drawer.”

Y/N found them, slipped them on, then returned to the mirror and checked the full picture again: sweater, skirt, legs, shoes. She’d chosen ankle boots because sneakers felt too casual and heels felt too obvious. The boots made it look like she’d thought about it… but not like she’d planned it.

Her reflection looked pleased with herself.

She hated how much she liked that.

Nancy’s voice cut through the quiet again, lighter but with an edge. “By the way.”

Y/N paused with her hands in her hair. “What?”

Nancy sat up straighter. “I tried to say hi to Daniel Taylor today.”

Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Okay…?”

Nancy’s brows lifted. “He walked right past me.”

Y/N’s hands fell to her sides. For a second she just stood there, staring at herself in the mirror like she might find the right response written on her own face.

Nancy watched her, a little too observant. “He didn’t even do that awkward polite smile thing. He just—” she flicked her hand in a straight line “kept going.”

Y/N swallowed.

Nancy’s tone sharpened with curiosity. “So. What did you do?”

Y/N turned away from the mirror slowly, leaning back against the dresser again. Her cockiness from ten minutes ago faded into something more complicated.

“I didn’t do anything,” she said first.

Nancy just looked at her.

Y/N exhaled, defeated. “Okay, fine. I did.”

Nancy waited.

Y/N’s fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag. “I… led him on.”

Nancy blinked. “That’s it?”

“No,” Y/N corrected quickly. “I mean, yes, that’s it, but it’s worse than how it sounds.” She hesitated, then said it plain because Nancy deserved the truth. “I said yes to his date because I was being petty.”

Nancy’s expression tightened. “Petty about…?”

Y/N didn’t answer out loud. She didn’t need to.

Nancy sighed and rubbed her forehead like she was trying to erase the entire situation from existence. “Y/N.”

“I know,” Y/N said quickly. “I know. It was mean.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “So you agreed to go out with him… to make Creel jealous?”

Y/N’s voice came softer. “Yes.”

Nancy stared for a long beat, then said, flatly, “That’s awful.”

Y/N winced. “I said I know.”

Nancy’s gaze stayed on her. “Did Daniel like you?” They both knew the answer to that.

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”

Nancy’s expression shifted, the journalist sharpness giving way to something more human. “How did you cancel?”

Y/N swallowed. “I told him I couldn’t. That something came up.” She looked down. “He tried to act like it was fine. But it wasn’t.”

Nancy’s face tightened with sympathy despite herself. “So he’s embarrassed.”

“Probably,” Y/N admitted, guilt settling heavier. “And now he thinks I played him.”

Nancy’s voice was quieter. “Did you?”

Y/N’s eyes stung, just a little, not enough to cry, but enough to make her blink more than once. “I didn’t mean to. Not like that. I just…” She shook her head, frustrated with herself. “I wanted to prove I could. I wanted to prove I wasn’t—”

Nancy watched her carefully. “You wanted leverage.”

Y/N let out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah.”

Nancy’s mouth pressed into a line. “So now Daniel’s collateral damage.”

Y/N nodded, ashamed. “I feel bad.”

Nancy’s eyes softened a fraction. “Good.”

Y/N looked up sharply. “Good?”

“Yes,” Nancy said, firm. “Because if you didn’t feel bad, that would make you a genuinely terrible person. You’re not. You’re just… being reckless.”

Y/N’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

Nancy reached over and nudged Y/N’s ankle lightly with her foot. Not affectionate exactly, Nancy wasn’t built for that, but grounding. “Then don’t do it again.”

Y/N nodded. “I won’t.”

Nancy held her gaze. “And if you see him, you should apologize.”

Y/N hesitated. “He won’t even look at me.”

“Then you write him a note,” Nancy said immediately, like the answer was obvious. “You’re good with words when you’re not using them to cause chaos.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched. “You’re really enjoying being morally superior right now.”

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “I always enjoy that.”

Y/N smiled faintly, then sobered again. “I’ll do it. I will.”

Nancy studied her for a moment, then sighed and picked her book back up, pretending she was done with the topic.

But Nancy Wheeler was never really done.

“Are you excited?” Nancy asked, like she was asking about a normal date and not… whatever this was.

Y/N’s chest tightened. She looked at the mirror again, at the outfit, the hair, the gloss. At the girl trying to look confident enough to carry a secret like it weighed nothing.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I’m excited.”

Nancy’s voice went quieter. “Are you scared?”

Y/N’s throat bobbed. “A little.”

Nancy nodded once, accepting the honesty. “Okay.”

Y/N turned from the mirror and stepped closer to Nancy’s bed, suddenly needing the reassurance she wouldn’t ask for directly. “I’ll tell you where I am. I swear.”

Nancy looked up. “You better.”

Y/N’s lips curved. “Yes, Mom.”

Nancy tossed her highlighter at her. “Shut up.”

Y/N caught it, laughing softly, then set it back on Nancy’s desk like a peace offering.

She grabbed her bag. Smoothed her skirt one last time. Checked her hair one last time. Took a breath that felt like stepping off a ledge.

At the door, she paused and looked back.

Nancy’s eyes were on her again, watchful, protective, trying to hide it behind annoyance.

Y/N’s voice softened. “If he calls, don’t answer the phone.”

Nancy’s brows lifted. “Who?”

Y/N’s smile turned sly, a little dangerous. “You know who.”

Nancy groaned. “Oh my God.”

Y/N slipped out the door before Nancy could throw something else, her boots tapping down the hallway, heart racing, guilt still lingering about Daniel, excitement rising anyway, because whatever she was walking into tonight, it wasn’t going to be something she could pretend was normal.

And she’d dressed like she already knew it.

. . .

The sky was already turning when Henry picked her up.

Not dark yet, just that late Boston light that made brick look softer and the Charles shine like copper. Y/N waited near the edge of campus with her small shoulder bag and her corduroy skirt catching the last warmth of the day.

Henry’s car rolled up clean and quiet, the kind of car that didn’t beg for attention but never looked neglected. He leaned across and pushed the passenger door open from the inside before she could reach for the handle. It was a small thing, courtesy on paper, control in practice.

Y/N slid in and shut the door. The sound sealed them into their own pocket of air.

Henry’s gaze flicked to her legs, then her shoulder, then away like he was punishing himself for noticing. His hands settled at the wheel with practiced steadiness.

“You didn’t tell me where we’re going,” Y/N said, adjusting her skirt so it sat right.

“That was intentional,” Henry replied.

“Suspicious.”

He started the car, glancing at her for the briefest moment. “If you were truly suspicious, you wouldn’t have gotten in.”

Y/N smiled, leaning back as if she’d already won. “I like a little danger.”

Henry’s mouth tightened like he disapproved. The way his eyes lingered on her bare shoulder said otherwise.

They drove out of the campus area, away from the streets that felt crowded with student energy and routine. Henry took turns like he knew the city by muscle memory. A folded paper map lived in the glove compartment. She caught the corner of it when the light hit the dash, a practical man’s security blanket.

After a few minutes of silence, Henry reached for the radio.

A click. A hiss. Then a cassette slid into place with that distinctly mechanical thunk.

Music started, low, moody, not bright. Not the kind of thing anyone would blast with the windows down. More like something you listened to when you didn’t want to admit you had feelings.

Y/N turned her head to look at him. “You made a tape.”

Henry kept his eyes on the road. “It was already in the car.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not for you.”

Y/N’s smile widened. “So it’s for me.”

Henry shot her a warning glance that lasted half a second. “Don’t make it a bigger thing than it is.”

“Too late,” she murmured, pleased. “I’m judging your music taste.”

“I’ve survived worse critiques.”

They fell into a rhythm after that, soft teasing that gradually turned into something real. Y/N watched his hands when he drove. Henry watched the road like it was the safest place for his eyes to be.

After a while, she said more quietly, “So… is this your idea of a date?”

Henry’s tone stayed measured. “Do you need it to look a certain way to count?”

“No,” she admitted. “I just want to know what you think a date is.”

He didn’t answer immediately. The city thinned out, trees lining the road as the light lowered. The sun bled orange along the horizon, and Henry’s silence felt like him weighing the cost of honesty.

Finally, he said, “A date is time spent without an audience. Time spent with each other.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “That’s… actually kind of romantic.”

“It’s practical,” he corrected, too quickly.

“It can be both,” she said.

He didn’t argue.

The road curved upward, away from the busiest streets. The view opened gradually, like the world was pulling back a curtain. When Henry turned into a small gravel pull-off, Y/N realized why he’d kept it to himself.

It was secluded, high enough to see the city lights beginning to blink on in the distance, far enough that no one would casually wander by. Trees framed the overlook like a private stage.

Henry parked and killed the engine. The cassette clicked off. Silence rushed in.

Y/N looked out at the horizon, then back at him. “Okay,” she admitted, impressed. “This is good.”

Henry reached into the back seat without looking, pulling a paper bag and a thermos forward like he’d planned the whole thing down to the minute.

“You planned,” Y/N accused, delighted.

“You asked for a date,” Henry replied, like that explained everything.

He unpacked: two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, a small container of strawberries, a bag of chips he’d probably bought resentfully, and a folded blanket that looked like it had lived in his trunk for years.

“You have a picnic blanket,” she said, smiling wide.

“It’s for emergencies.”

“Sure it is.”

He got out first and opened her door again. The air was cooler outside, wind tugging lightly at her hair. Henry spread the blanket near the edge where the view was best but not so close it felt unsafe. When he sat, he left space beside him.

Y/N sat close anyway, shoulder brushing his arm.

Henry didn’t move away.

They ate slowly while the sun lowered. The sandwiches were simple but good, chosen by someone who cared more about function than flair. Y/N leaned back on her hands and watched the skyline shift from gold to pink to deepening purple.

For a few minutes, they didn’t talk.

The quiet wasn’t awkward. It was rare. Quiet that didn’t demand anything.

Then Y/N broke it softly. “So. Where did you grow up?”

Henry’s gaze stayed on the horizon. “Why?”

“Because I asked,” she said, nudging his shoulder with hers. “And because I want to know you, remember?”

His jaw shifted as if he was deciding whether to give her truth or a safe version of it.

“Indiana,” he said finally.

Y/N turned, surprised. “That’s not what I pictured.”

“What did you picture?”

“…New England,” she admitted. “Some broody coastal town where you read Shakespeare in a lighthouse.”

For a second, amusement flickered across his face, brief and unwilling. Then he smoothed it away.

“I grew up in a place where people thought books were a waste of time,” he said, quieter.

Y/N sat up, attention sharpening. “So how did you end up like… this?”

Henry’s gaze moved to her face, steady. “I read because it was the only thing that didn’t disappoint me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She tried to cover it with humor. “That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true.”

The wind picked up. Y/N’s hair shifted across her cheek. Henry’s hand lifted instinctively, then stopped halfway, as if he’d remembered rules he didn’t want to follow.

Y/N tucked the strand behind her ear herself, watching him. “Okay. Then what book made you feel… seen.”

Henry’s breath changed, subtle but real. “Hamlet wasn’t the first,” he admitted.

“People assume it is,” she said smugly. “Because you look like you’d write love letters in iambic pentameter.”

“Don’t,” he warned, but it didn’t carry much bite.

“Tell me.”

After a beat, he said, “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”

Y/N blinked, then smiled. “That tracks.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Does it?”

“It does,” she said, leaning in slightly. “Because it’s beautiful and horrible and about pretending you’re one thing while you’re… something else underneath.”

His gaze sharpened like she’d touched a wire.

“You’re perceptive,” he said.

“Sometimes but you knew this,” she murmured with a small chuckle.

Henry watched her for a long beat, then shifted the conversation, carefully, like he was offering something of his own.

“Why Emerson?” he asked.

Y/N blinked, surprised by how serious he sounded. She could’ve given him a simple answer. She didn’t.

“Because I wanted to be taken seriously as a writer,” she said, voice steady. “Not in a vague, ‘I like books’ way. I wanted workshops. People who’d tear a draft apart and make it better.”

Henry’s expression softened slightly, attention sharpening in a different direction.

“I got my wish,” Y/N added, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “because Nancy Wheeler is brutally honest about my writing.”

That earned her a brief flicker of amusement from him. It was almost a smile. Almost.

“And,” she continued, shrugging like she didn’t care even though she did, “I didn’t get accepted at my first choice.”

Henry’s eyes held hers. “Which was?”

“Brown,” Y/N said plainly.

There was no self-pity in it, but the sting lived in the word anyway.

Henry’s gaze didn’t pity her. It assessed, the way he assessed a strong thesis, something he respected.

“Then Emerson benefits from their mistake,” he said.

Y/N’s throat tightened for reasons she refused to name. She looked away quickly, staring at the city lights like they were suddenly fascinating.

“So,” she said, regaining her bravado, “what else do you like, Professor? Besides tragedy and pretending you don’t care about music.”

“Coffee,” Henry replied.

“That’s not a personality.”

“It’s a requirement.”

Y/N laughed and stole a strawberry, holding it up like evidence. “Food?”

“Fruit.”

“You’re thrilling.”

He leaned closer, just enough that his shoulder pressed into hers, warmth cutting through the wind. “You wanted the real me.”

“I did,” she said, quieter.

“This is the real me,” Henry replied.

She looked at him then, really looked. The control wasn’t an act. The carefulness wasn’t a mask. It was how he survived being himself.

Y/N’s voice softened. “Do you ever get tired of being… contained?”

Henry stared out at the skyline. “Every day.”

The honesty in that tightened her chest. She didn’t tease this time.

“That’s why you like me,” she said instead.

Henry’s gaze came back to her, slow. “Don’t assume you know what I like.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “I do.”

He didn’t deny it.

The sun slipped lower until it touched the edge of the world. The sky darkened into purple. City lights glittered below like spilled coins.

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder without asking.

Henry went still for half a second, then his arm slid behind her, not fully around, but close enough to hold her there if she stayed.

Y/N’s voice came quiet. “So what are we?”

Henry’s jaw tightened.

“We’re careful,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

His gaze stayed on the horizon. “We’re something that can’t exist where other people can see it.”

Y/N sat up, looking at him. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

“I don’t want to be a secret forever,” she said, and the frustration in her voice surprised even her.

Henry’s gaze turned to her, dark, controlled. “Then you shouldn’t be here.”

The words were sharp, but his hand stayed behind her back.

He didn’t push her away.

Y/N stared at him, breathing faster. “You keep saying things like you’re trying to scare me off.”

“Because you don’t understand what you’re risking.”

“Tell me,” she said, leaning in, close enough to feel his breath.

Henry held her gaze for a long beat. “My job. Your education. Your reputation.”

“And you,” Y/N whispered. “You’re risking you.”

His eyes flickered.

That one was true in a way the others weren’t.

Y/N lifted her hand and touched his cheek, gentle, grounding. “I want you,” she said. “Not the professor. Not the rules. You.”

Henry caught her wrist, not stopping her, just holding her there. Warm. Firm. As if he needed the contact to anchor himself.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

“So are you,” she replied.

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

Then he kissed her.

Not like in his office: hurried, stolen.

This was slower. Deeper. Like he had time to do it right. His hand slid from her wrist to her waist, pulling her closer until the line between them blurred. Y/N kissed him back like she’d been waiting all day, fingers sliding into his hair, her body turning instinctively toward his.

Her skirt rustled softly as she moved, a tactile friction that seemed loud in the quiet evening. Driven by a sudden, desperate need to be closer, to eliminate the inch of space still between them, she shifted. She swung her leg over his, straddling his lap.

Henry was warm, solid and grounding beneath her.

He groaned into her mouth, a vibration she felt straight down to her bones, and his hands immediately settled on her hips, his fingers gripping the rough fabric of her skirt to hold her in place. She deepened the kiss, her tongue tangling with his, tasting the lingering sweetness of the strawberries and the dark, musky flavor that was uniquely him. Her fingers threaded through his hair, massaging his scalp, pulling him closer as if she could fuse them together.

She pulled back slightly to catch her breath, her forehead resting against his. Her gaze drifted over his face, tracing the sharp angles she knew so well, until her eyes landed on the column of his throat. There, peeking out from the collar of his shirt, were the bruises she had left just days ago. They were faded now, the angry purple softening into a dull, mottled blue, but they were undeniably there.

A grin spread across her face, wicked and delighted.

Henry followed her gaze, then looked back at her, one eyebrow raising in a mixture of amusement and faux-annoyance. "Are you admiring your handiwork?"

"Maybe," she murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss right over the darkest mark. "I like seeing my mark on you. Makes you look... human."

He huffed a laugh, but the sound quickly turned into a ragged inhale as she began to kiss her way down his neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. His grip on her hips tightened, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, pulling her flush against him. The atmosphere shifted instantly from tender to volatile.

She ground her hips down against his, the friction of her skirt and his trousers sending a jolt of electricity through both of them. He growled low in his throat, one hand sliding up her back, under the hem of her shirt, his hot palm pressing against her bare skin. The air around them felt charged, heavy with the promise of more, of losing themselves completely in each other under the fading light of the day.

Just as his hand began to drift upward, higher, the sound of tires crunching on gravel shattered the moment.

A beam of headlights swept over them, cutting through the twilight. Y/N froze, her heart leaping into her throat. Another car was winding its way up the same narrow path, likely looking for the same secluded view with which they had just been occupying.

Reluctantly, with a groan of pure frustration, Henry pulled his hand from under her shirt. He rested his forehead against her shoulder for a moment, his breathing ragged, before helping her slide off his lap and back onto the blanket. As the car drove by, they adjusted their clothes, the heat of the moment lingering on their skin, cooling rapidly in the evening breeze.

“You wanted to know the real me,” he murmured.

Y/N’s mouth curved, tired and bright. “I’m learning.”

He offered her the thermos like they were normal people on a normal date, and she took a sip, eyes never leaving his.

“Tell me one more thing,” she said softly.

“What?”

“What do you want?” Y/N asked, “when you’re not being careful.”

Henry was quiet for a long time. Then, in the dark, he admitted it in a voice that barely carried.

“I want peace.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She reached for him again, gentler this time. “…And do I ruin that?”

His thumb brushed her hip, intimate in its simplicity. “You threaten it.”

“And?”

He met her eyes. “And I keep choosing you anyway.”

. . .

When he finally drove her back toward campus, he didn’t speak much.

At a payphone near the dorm, Y/N made the call she’d promised Nancy she would, short and clear: she was safe, she was coming back. Henry waited by the car, scanning the street like a man who never fully stopped being careful.

When she climbed back in, Henry glanced at her. “Satisfied?”

Y/N smiled, eyes shining. “For now.”

His eyes narrowed, but the corner of his mouth lifted in something close to surrender.

And in the dark of 1987 Boston, they drove back toward a life they were pretending was normal; both of them knowing it wasn’t, and both of them choosing it anyway.

The drive back to campus was quieter than the drive out, but not in the awkward way, more like the kind of quiet that settles in after something real has happened.

Henry kept his eyes on the road, the city returning in slow layers: streetlights, brick, the occasional pair of headlights sliding past. The cassette played low in the background, a soft hiss under the music like it was trying not to intrude.

His hand stayed on Y/N’s thigh the entire time.

Not shifting. Not wandering. Just there, warm, steady, possessive in a way that didn’t ask permission anymore because it didn’t need to. Every now and then his thumb would move slightly, a small unconscious stroke against her skin through the knit of her sweater and the edge of her skirt, like his body had decided she was his to touch as long as she sat beside him.

Y/N leaned back in the seat and watched the road through the windshield, but her focus kept drifting to that hand. To the calmness of it. The certainty.

When he finally turned onto the familiar streets near Emerson, she straightened a little, like reality was tightening around them again.

Henry slowed near her dorm and pulled over, not directly under the brightest light, but close enough to be safe. He turned the car off. The engine ticked as it cooled. The sudden quiet made the moment feel too intimate again.

His hand stayed on her thigh anyway.

Y/N turned to him. In the dim dashboard light, his face looked softer than it ever did in the classroom: still controlled, still careful, but not as distant.

“I had a nice time tonight,” she said.

Henry’s gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “Good.”

Y/N smiled, small and genuine. “I like being with you.”

Henry’s jaw tightened, like the sentence hit somewhere he didn’t want it to. He stared through the windshield for a beat, as if he could avoid answering by looking at the dormitory windows.

Then he looked back at her.

“I like being with you too,” he admitted.

It came out reluctant in tone, like he was trying to sound unimpressed, but his eyes gave him away. There was nothing reluctant about the way he watched her react, like he wanted to see what the words did to her.

Y/N’s smile warmed, her cheeks lifting in a way she couldn’t fake. She glanced around the street: dark sidewalks, a couple of distant students, nothing close enough to matter.

Then she leaned over and kissed his cheek.

Soft. Quick. Sweet enough to feel dangerous.

Henry went still for half a second, then his eyes narrowed as he turned his head slightly toward her, like he’d wanted more but refused to ask for it.

“You’re going to get bold,” he murmured.

Y/N’s grin turned mischievous. “I’ve been bold.”

Henry’s hand finally lifted from her thigh, but not without a last lingering squeeze, small, almost absentminded, before he let her go.

“Go,” he said, quiet.

“Yes, sir,” Y/N teased, and slid out of the car.

She shut the door gently, then looked back through the window. Henry was still watching her. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. But his gaze tracked her until she stepped up onto the dorm steps.

Only then did she turn and disappear inside.

The dorm hallway smelled like old carpet and somebody’s microwaved noodles. The overhead lights hummed. Voices echoed from behind doors: laughter, music, someone arguing about a paper.

Y/N walked down the hall with her bag tucked under her arm, cheeks still warm, hair a little messier than it had been when she left.

When she pushed into their room, Nancy was there, sitting on her bed with her typewriter on the desk and a stack of papers beside her like she’d been preparing to interrogate her for hours.

Nancy looked up immediately.

Y/N tried to play it cool, but the smile betrayed her before she even had the chance.

Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh.”

Y/N dropped her bag on her bed. “Hi.”

Nancy shut her book with a deliberate thump. “You look…” She squinted. “Annoyingly happy.”

Y/N laughed softly and kicked off her boots. “Don’t start.”

Nancy leaned back on her hands, watching Y/N move around the room. “I’m not starting. I’m observing.”

Y/N went to the dresser, pulled out a sleep shirt, and started unhooking her earrings. She could feel Nancy’s gaze like a spotlight.

“How did it go?” Nancy asked, too casual to be believable.

Y/N paused, then turned with that same small genuine smile still on her face, less smug than usual, more settled.

“It was great,” she said quietly.

Nancy blinked once, like she hadn’t expected that tone. “Great how.”

Y/N exhaled, sitting down on the edge of her bed. She brushed her hair back from her face, still riding that soft afterglow that wasn’t just physical.

“We talked,” she said. “Like… actually talked.”

Nancy’s brows lifted. “You had a conversation with Henry Creel.”

Y/N smiled wider. “Shut up.”

Nancy’s mouth twitched. “What did you talk about?”

“Everything,” Y/N admitted. “Where he grew up. Books. Why I’m here. Music.” She hesitated, then added, more honestly than she’d meant to, “It felt normal. In a way.”

Nancy’s expression softened a fraction, but she didn’t let it get too tender. “And?”

Y/N’s voice went quieter. “I think… I thought at first it was just sex.”

Nancy’s eyes stayed on her, attentive now.

“I mean,” Y/N rushed, slightly embarrassed, “obviously I wanted him. And he wanted me. That part was… obvious after we…” Her cheeks warmed. “But tonight…” She stopped, searching for the right words. “Tonight made it feel like more than that.”

Nancy studied her face like she was reading a headline. “You like him.”

Y/N swallowed. Then, like ripping off a bandage, she said it plainly.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I do.”

Nancy’s expression didn’t turn judgmental. It turned thoughtful.

“You’ve dated guys,” Nancy said slowly, like she was choosing her words carefully. “And you’ve always seemed… bored. Or irritated. Or like you were waiting for them to disappoint you so you could be right about it.”

Y/N’s brows lifted. “That’s… harsh.”

Nancy shrugged. “It’s true.”

Y/N couldn’t even argue.

Nancy continued, quieter now. “But you’ve been… happier. Lately.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “Have I?”

Nancy nodded once, firmly. “Yeah. You have.” Then, because Nancy Wheeler could never leave sincerity alone too long, she added, “It’s disgusting.”

Y/N laughed, relief breaking through. “You’re such an asshole.”

Nancy’s lips twitched. “Someone has to be.”

Y/N stood and started getting ready for bed, washing her face at the sink down the hall, changing into her sleep shirt, pulling her hair up loosely. The motions felt familiar and safe, like she was returning to herself.

When she came back, Nancy was still watching her.

“You’re smiling again,” Nancy pointed out.

Y/N froze, then realized she was.

She tried to wipe it off her face. It didn’t work.

Nancy rolled her eyes. “Just… be careful.”

Y/N’s smile softened. “I know.”

Nancy didn’t respond right away. She just watched Y/N climb into bed, the dorm room dimming as the lamp clicked off and the hallway noise faded into background hum.

After a beat, Nancy spoke into the dark.

“You better tell me if he ever hurts you.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She stared at the ceiling, then whispered, “Okay.”

Nancy didn’t let the quiet sit for long.

“Because,” she added, voice flat like she was stating a fact for the record, “I know how to use a shotgun.”

Y/N’s head turned on the pillow so fast her neck popped. “What?”

Nancy’s silhouette barely moved in the darkness, but Y/N could hear the shrug in her tone. “And I’m not afraid to shoot an asshole in the face.”

Y/N stared at the ceiling like it might explain what universe she’d just slipped into. Then, in a small, disbelieving mumble, she said, “Jesus, Nance. Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Nancy replied without hesitation.

Y/N let out a breath that sounded half laugh, half panic. “Okay. Noted.”

“Good,” Nancy said, satisfied.

Y/N blinked up at the dark, heart still too full, too fast. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Nancy’s voice went dry again, like she couldn’t resist. “You already have. You survived. Don’t push your luck.”

Y/N huffed softly, but the tightness in her chest eased because under the threat and the sarcasm was Nancy’s version of love, blunt as a headline and just as protective.

Nancy’s voice was quieter now, almost reluctant. “And… I’m glad you had a good time.”

Y/N smiled into the darkness, warm and real.

“Me too,” she whispered.

And for the first time in a while, when she closed her eyes, she didn’t feel restless.

She felt… full.

. . .

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