Everyone seated at their table was around the same age. Grace had made a point of introducing them one by one, explaining that most had been her students back when she was teaching at the university.
She stayed at the table with them, confident and composed, steering the conversation effortlessly from topic to topic and keeping the energy warm and lively. With everyone being close in age, the atmosphere felt relaxed, more like friends catching up than former students and their professor.
Evelyn rarely joined in unless Grace deliberately pulled her into the center of the discussion. Most of the time she simply smiled, polite and reserved, listening rather than participating.
Noah stayed mostly quiet, focused on his food, occasionally glancing up at the others, comfortable in his usual role of unobtrusive observer.
He had always found it strange that both Grace and Evelyn, whose temperaments felt more artistic than analytical, had chosen to dive so deeply into mathematics and higher-level theory. He could never quite picture either of them naturally gravitating toward abstract formulas and dense proofs. In his memory, Evelyn had always leaned more toward the humanities. English and literature had once been her strongest subjects.
He looked at her again. Evelyn was studying something on her phone, a dense academic article scrolling across the screen. Her wineglass was still half full. Like him, she sat slightly apart from the noise of the table, present but not absorbed in it.
Eventually, no more dishes arrived. The table grew cluttered with empty plates and half-finished bowls. The birthday banquet began to wind down, and guests gradually excused themselves.
Noah and Evelyn were among the last to leave. Grace personally walked them to the entrance of the hotel. Under the glow of the exterior lights and the cool night breeze, she said her goodbyes with an easy smile.
In the taxi back to campus, Noah couldn't help commenting, "You and Grace are really close."
"I was her favorite student," Evelyn replied lightly, her temple resting against the window as city lights streaked past in her reflection. "Of course we're close. That is, as long as she doesn't start getting ideas about you."
Noah flushed faintly but pushed on. "I've always wondered something. Why did you choose your major in the first place?"
"Curious?" She turned her head slightly to look at him.
"Yeah."
A slow, intoxicating smile curved her lips. She shifted, then stretched out sideways and rested her head on his lap. "I think I've had a little too much to drink," she murmured. "Let me lie down for a minute. I'll tell you when I wake up."
He nodded, and only then did he notice the faint flush spreading across her pale cheeks. Her lips looked deeper in color, almost lacquered red, striking against her fair skin.
He remembered only one other time she had gotten drunk, on her eighteenth birthday. He had used his carefully saved allowance to buy her a small cake. She had insisted on drinking that night, and after only a few glasses she had grown soft and giggly, wrapping her arms around him and pressing kisses from his forehead down to his neck.
She had a terrible tolerance. Judging from what she drank tonight, she was probably not far from that same state again.
The ride back to campus was long. Before long, her breathing evened out and she fell asleep on his lap, murmuring faint fragments of dreams.
He rarely saw this side of her. She was almost always poised, controlled, immaculate in her composure. Seeing her defenseless like this felt like something reserved only for him.
After that first drunken night years ago, she had told him she trusted him. She said she could let herself lose control because she believed her Nate would protect her.
He looked down at her now. His gaze drifted unintentionally over the length of her body, tall and slender, her waist narrow, her curves full and striking in contrast. His fingers lifted before he realized what he was doing, hovering just above her.
The moment he felt himself about to touch her, he jerked his hand back as if burned.
He slapped his own cheek lightly and muttered a few harsh words at himself under his breath.
By the time the taxi pulled up at campus, it was late. Noah paid the fare and gently shook Evelyn awake, supporting her as they walked slowly toward the faculty housing.
The student dorms were long locked by then. He would probably have to stay in her apartment again.
Inside her room, she sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes still hazy, only half lucid.
"I'll make you some tea," he said softly. "Lie down first."
She didn't answer. Her gaze wandered until it fixed on his face, and a slow, almost dazed smile curved her lips.
He turned toward the door, but suddenly his wrist was caught. He looked back.
"What is it?"
Without warning, she pulled him down. He stumbled forward and ended up pinned beneath her on the bed. She looked at him with a strangely focused intensity, her tongue briefly tracing across her reddened lips, like someone who had just claimed something she had been watching for a long time.
Then her mouth was on his.
Drunk, she was even less restrained. Her hands cradled the back of his head, holding him in place as she kissed him deeply, thoroughly, her tongue moving with deliberate insistence.
There was barely any trace of alcohol in her breath. It was more the warmth in her cheeks, the flush across her skin, that made her seem intoxicated. The effect only heightened the already dangerous allure she carried so effortlessly.
"Nate…" she murmured against his cheek after a long moment, her words slow and broken. "I chose science… because of you."
"Because of me?"
"When you were little… you said you wanted to be a scientist. You promised… to Dad, to Mom… to me."
Her arms slipped around his neck. "I thought… if I learned it well enough… I could teach you someday."
His chest tightened abruptly. He remembered that childhood dream clearly. He had drifted from the exact path, but in a way he was still chasing it. What he had never imagined was that she had shaped her future around him.
He brushed a hand through her dark hair and whispered, "Thank you."
"Then…" she breathed near his ear, her voice soft and unsteady, "don't I deserve something in return? You have to sleep with me tonight."
"Okay. Lie down first."
"No."
She sat upright again and shrugged off her outer layer. Beneath it was a white button-down shirt. The fabric pulled slightly across her chest as she moved.
One button. Then another.
The gap widened slowly, revealing more pale skin with each careful movement. He could already see the edge of black lace beneath.
He snapped out of it and grabbed her hand. "What are you doing?"
"Sleeping," she said dreamily. "You take your clothes off too. I'll help you."
She reached for the hem of his long-sleeved shirt, lifting it, and he quickly stopped her. "This is the last layer I've got on."
"Take it off," she coaxed, smiling lazily. "You look better without it."
He exhaled, defeated. "Fine. I'll listen. But you're not taking anything else off. Just sleep."
She didn't promise.
He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. Her gaze lingered on him, the smile in her eyes deepening.
"But, Nate," she murmured, voice low and thick, "my chest feels tight."
Noah couldn't help it—his eyes flicked down for half a second and caught the glimpse of black lace peeking from the open collar of Evelyn's shirt, the soft swell of pale skin spilling out just enough to pull at something raw and hungry. She didn't stop. Her fingers moved to the next button and slipped it free.
She'd always been careless around him, never guarded, but Noah had trained himself to look away. To pretend he didn't notice. To force his gaze somewhere safe. No matter how many times he'd seen her like this, the sight still burned through him, still dragged heat up his neck and into his face.
He lifted his eyes to hers. The flush across her cheeks had spread, wild and unchecked. The alcohol had hit her harder now, unraveling whatever thin thread of restraint she usually kept.
"I should've kept a better eye on you," Noah muttered, half to himself. "Never should've let you touch a drink. Evelyn… just behave for once."
He reached out to stop her hand before it could undo another button. She swatted him away without hesitation, cheeks puffed in childish protest. "Nate… be good. Don't move. I'm… I'm taking my clothes off…"
The last button gave. The shirt fell open completely—flat stomach, delicate collarbones, acres of bare skin glowing under the low lamplight.
She let herself collapse sideways, landing right beside him on the bed, arms wrapping around his waist like they belonged there.
"Nate… you smell so good." Her nose pressed into the side of his neck, warm breath sinking against his skin, almost like she was trying to crawl inside him. "Nate…"
"Can we just sleep now? Please?"
"No… no calling me that. One word. Say… sister."
"Okay, okay. Sleep, sister."
"Mmm…" Her lips brushed his throat—soft, hot, lingering. A few slurred sounds slipped out, barely words. "Nate… I really want… to eat you up."
…
When Noah woke, sunlight was already high and harsh through the curtains. Almost noon. Last night had dragged on until the early hours; Evelyn drunk was a force of nature, relentless, impossible to redirect.
Worse—he'd apparently slept like shit. Both hands had somehow ended up inside her open shirt, palms pressed against places they had no business being.
He shifted carefully, every muscle complaining, trying to pull his hands free without waking her. The second he moved, her fingers clamped around his wrist.
Her eyes opened slowly. Big, dark, and locked straight on him.
"Nate… morning."
"Uh… morning." His face burned. His left hand was still cupped over the soft curve of her breast; the warmth, the give of it, made his pulse hammer. "Can you… let go of my hand first?"
She smiled—slow, sly, a little wicked. "Caught red-handed, huh? When did my sweet little idiot learn to be so naughty?"
"This… this was an accident."
"Oh? Then how did all my buttons come undone? Did Nate do something bad to me last night?"
"No! You—you did that yourself. You were drunk."
"And you? Why aren't you wearing anything?"
"You… you told me to take it off."
"Did I?" She narrowed her eyes, voice dipping into something darker, more knowing. "Sorry, sister lost control."
She finally released his wrist. Sat up. Began fastening the buttons one by one with deliberate calm. Then she slid off the bed and stood.
"You okay?" Noah asked, voice small.
"Feeling much better. I'll go make breakfast. If you're still tired, sleep more. No classes today anyway."
She left the room without another word.
Noah stared at the wreckage of the bed—twisted sheets, scattered clothes. It looked exactly like the scene of a drunken mistake. Thank God he hadn't been the one drinking; who knew what line he might've crossed.
Except… they'd already crossed worse lines, hadn't they?
Fragments of memory clawed up—sharp, unwanted. They both tiptoed around that summer evening years ago, pretending silence could erase it. Pretending forgetting made it unreal.
But even if it hadn't been his choice, even if he'd been too young, too overwhelmed—he had still been inside her. That truth sat heavy in his chest, impossible to outrun.
Noah let out a long, shaky breath. Pulled on his clothes. Washed his face. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, Evelyn had already set two bowls of congee on the table.
Bright sunlight poured through the window, catching in her long dark hair, turning half her bare face luminous. She looked almost too perfect in the morning light.
"Done. Stuffed." Noah set his spoon down and patted his slightly rounded stomach. "Your congee is still the best."
"Like it that much? Then come over every morning."
"Really? Yes please."
"Little glutton." She smiled softly, gathered the dishes, and carried them to the sink.
"I'll head back now."
"Okay. And remember—work out more when you get the chance."
He murmured agreement behind her. The door opened and closed.
Evelyn kept washing the bowls, cold water sliding between her fingers. The gentle smile froze on her face, then faded completely.
She glanced at her right palm. The crescent marks from her nails were gone now. Last night she'd dug in so hard she almost broke skin—just to stop herself from giving in completely.
In that final moment, with him pinned beneath her, naked and trembling, she'd been one heartbeat away from taking him again.
The memory had pulled her straight back to that dappled evening years ago. She'd wanted to feel that rush again so badly it hurt. But she also never wanted to see him cry like that ever again.
She was changing. The need was growing sharper, hungrier. The tolerance for any other girl near him was shrinking to nothing.
Even the most innocent conversation was enough to set that black possessiveness roaring.
She finished the dishes, dried her hands, put everything away. Back in the bedroom she changed into something simple and severe—all black. A fitted dress, long sleeves, high neck.
There was a little bakery on the main street near campus. Today was her birthday.
Evelyn browsed the display case, chose a small cake with almost no frosting. She remembered exactly: the woman hated cream.
The taxi driver kept stealing glances at her in the rearview mirror after she gave the address. Curiosity flickered in his eyes, questions he swallowed back.
Loane Correctional Facility was a long drive from campus—nearly an hour. Cold iron gates separated two worlds. Inside, black bars caged the guilty.
Evelyn had pinned her hair into a neat, elegant updo. She stayed silent the entire ride.
At the visitor center she handed the cake to the guard. Then she sat in front of the thick glass partition and waited.
On the other side: a middle-aged woman, skin sagging, face drained of color. Wrinkles carved deep around her mouth and eyes. But her expression stayed calm. Steady. As if the years hadn't touched her. As if she'd never once regretted anything.
Evelyn wore unrelieved black. She let the polite mask she usually wore drop completely, matching the bleak atmosphere of the prison. She picked up the phone.
Her voice came out clear, cold, stripped of warmth or pity.
The woman on the other side didn't deserve pity. It would be an insult.
"Long time no see, Evelyn. You've gotten even prettier."
"You're too kind, Professor. It's your birthday today. I brought cake."
Leah Hart—once Evelyn's graduate advisor in psychology. Seven years ago she'd been sentenced to ten years for aggravated assault.
The victim: her husband of over twenty years.