Joren and Zuri walked side by side, their steps slow, unhurried. The air had that crisp, early-autumn bite—cool enough to make you wish you’d worn sothing heavier, but not cold enough to complain.
"So," Zuri said, glancing at him, "you actually understood that whole neural plasticity thing?"
Joren shrugged. "Enough to fake the confidence. I an, that’s half of college, right?"
She laughed. "I guess it is."
They passed a group of students lounging on the grass, headphones in, laptops out, pretending to study. A frisbee sailed overhead. Soone shouted, soone cursed. Ridgewood College was alive in its own chaotic rhythm.
Zuri slowed down and pointed. "Ooh, a Coffee sop. Let’s refuel."
Joren followed her gaze to a cozy little spot tucked between the bookstore and a tutoring center. The sign read Bean & Latte. The windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, and the sll of espresso drifted out every ti soone opened the door.
"Lead the way," he said.
They stepped inside, the bell above the door chiming softly. The place was warm, filled with soft indie music and the low hum of conversation. Students were hunched over laptops, couples shared pastries, and the barista moved with the kind of speed that only ca from surviving midterms.
Just as Joren stepped forward, he bumped shoulders with soone heading out.
"Oh—sorry," he said, instinctively.
The girl turned. Her eyes widened. "Joren?"
He blinked. "Tasha?"
She smiled, surprised but warm. "Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here."
"Sa," Joren said. "It’s been... a while."
Zuri, standing just beside him, watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. Her voice was calm but edged. "You two know each other?"
Joren hesitated. "Yeah. We’re ... friends. Well, sort of."
Zuri’s eyes narrowed slightly on her, who caught the look but didn’t react.
Tasha tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and said, "I should get going. But I’ll see you around, Joren."
He nodded. "Yeah. See you."
She slipped out the door, leaving behind a faint trail of perfu and tension.
Zuri turned to him. "Sort of?"
He exhaled. "Yeah... she was my—" He paused, the words catching in his throat.
Zuri tilted her head. "Your what?"
Before he could answer, both their phones buzzed. A ssage from Professor Hart had just dropped:
Group pairings for Cognitive Neuroscience III. Activities begin tomorrow. Check your assigned teams.
Joren tapped into the list, grateful for the distraction. "Let’s see who we got."
They found a table near the window and scrolled through the nas. Zuri’s group had a few familiar faces—people she’d worked with before. Joren, though, kept scrolling. And scrolling.
His na wasn’t there.
"Wait," he said. "I’m not in any group."
Zuri leaned over. "You’re kidding."
He shook his head. "I’m not. I’m literally not on the list."
Zuri frowned. "That’s weird. Maybe it’s a mistake?"
Joren stared at the screen, anxiety creeping in. "Group work starts tomorrow. If I’m not in a team..."
Zuri looked around, then stood. "Let’s go to her office. Maybe she’s still there."
They left the coffee shop and headed toward the faculty building. The halls were quiet, most professors already gone for the day. They reached Professor Hart’s office and knocked.
No answer.
They knocked again. Still nothing.
After a minute, a passing professor noticed them. "Looking for soone?"
"Professor Hart," Joren said. "I need to talk to her about sothing."
The professor nodded. "She left about an hour ago. Probably ho by now."
Joren’s stomach sank. "I really need to talk to her."
The professor studied his face, saw the urgency. "She lives close. Just a few blocks down. I can give you directions."
Joren and Zuri exchanged hopeful glances. "Please," Zuri said.
He scribbled the address on a sticky note and handed it over. "Good luck."
They thanked the professor and started toward the college gate, the sticky note with Professor Hart’s address folded neatly in Joren’s pocket. The sun was dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the pavent.
Just as they reached the gate, Zuri’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, then picked up.
"Hey," she said. Her expression shifted as she listened. "Now? Seriously?"
She paused, then sighed. "Alright. I’ll be there soon."
She hung up and turned to Joren. "One of my group mbers wants to et up. They’re already waiting."
Joren nodded slowly. "You should go. I’ll take care of this."
Zuri frowned. "You sure? I can tell them to wait."
"It’s fine," he said. "I’ve got it."
She didn’t move right away. Her eyes searched his face, like she was trying to read sothing beneath the surface. "You’ll text if anything’s off?"
Joren gave a small smile. "If anything’s weird, you’ll be the first to know."
Zuri hesitated a beat longer, then nodded. "Okay. Just... don’t do anything dumb."
"I won’t," he said, and that earned a reluctant smile from her.
She turned and walked back through the gates, her steps slow. Joren watched her go, then turned toward the street, the folded note in his hand feeling heavier than it should.
---
The walk to Professor Hart’s apartnt was quiet. The neighborhood was upscale—clean sidewalks, trimd hedges, buildings with sleek glass balconies and tasteful brickwork. Not millionaire territory, but definitely comfort.
Joren stood at the edge of the sidewalk, staring up at a particular building. It was quiet, modern, and too polished for soone who spent her days lecturing about brain chemistry. The kind of place with soft lighting in the lobby and neighbors who nodded but never spoke.
He checked the address again. This was it.
He climbed the steps slowly, each one heavier than the last. When he reached her door, he stopped—not because he was unsure, but because the reality of what he was doing finally caught up to him.
*This is insane,* he thought. *Showing up at her house?*
He glanced around. No one was watching, but it still felt like he was trespassing. He looked down at his shoes, then back at the door. His hand hovered near the wood.
*You’re already here. Don’t chicken out now.*
He knocked—softly at first.
No answer.
He waited, then knocked again, louder this ti. Still nothing. The silence felt heavier now, like the apartnt itself was holding its breath.
He tried the handle. It turned. The door creaked open.
Inside, the living room was elegant—soft lighting, minimalist furniture, a few art pieces on the wall. Her keys dangled from the lock, like she’d rushed in and forgotten to secure the door.
"Professor Hart?" he called out.
No response.
Then he heard it—soft sounds, faint and feminine. Whimpers. Coming from down the hallway.
He stepped forward, drawn by curiosity and concern. The hallway was dim, the carpet plush under his shoes. One door was slightly ajar.
He reached it, hesitated, then peeked.
His breath caught.
Professor Hart was on the bed, naked, legs spread, her hand moving slowly across her folds, teasing her clit. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted, lost in a mont she clearly thought was private.
Joren froze, a jolt of shock and sothing else shooting through him. He didn’t move. He Couldn’t.
The image burned into his mind—unexpected, intimate, and deeply inappropriate.
He remained rooted to the spot, heart pounding, unsure what to do next.
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