Julian walked slowly down the corridor, trying not to spill the contents of the flimsy plastic cup of vending-machine coffee. His mood was surprisingly good. After spending the evening alone, he had decided that he and Elliot had snapped at each other over nothing - just the kind of spat two overtired men could have. Elliot was a pain, always had been, and Julian had always liked that about him in a strange way. You just had to feed him on time - otherwise the sarcasm doubled, and came with sulking and biting remarks. Nothing serious. Nothing a decent dinner couldn’t fix. Julian would go to his place tonight, cook something - or at worst, order in. Elliot wouldn’t sulk forever over some student, would he?

Besides, Julian admitted to himself that Elliot had been right, at least in part. He should have been clearer with the girl, made it obvious that her behavior was out of line. It was plain she hadn’t come for academic help but for attention. And still, Julian had gone along with it - his stubborn faith whispering that even if her motives were questionable, maybe he could still sneak some knowledge into her head, any way he could. Ethically, though? Not the best decision. He should have listened to Elliot and avoided creating an awkward, and later confrontational, situation. Yes, that’s exactly what he would say tonight.

He had even come in early, hoping to run into Elliot before classes started, before anyone else was around. Surely Elliot had cooled off by now, too - breathed, reconsidered, realized he wasn’t entirely in the right. Surely he’d want to talk as well, clear the air, and forget the whole thing like a bad dream.

Smiling to himself, Julian took a sip of the hot coffee, winced as it burned his tongue, and turned the corner, almost colliding with a woman struggling to unlock the department office door while balancing a stack of folders and a couple of textbooks.

“Sorry,” Julian blurted automatically, jerking his coffee cup out of the way.

By some miracle, he managed to spill only on the floor, not on himself—or her. Exhaling in relief, he tossed the half-empty cup into a conveniently empty trash bin nearby.

“Here, let me help you,” he said without thinking, catching the top folder before it slid off the pile.

He looked her over. Definitely someone he’d never seen before, but judging by the office key in her hand, she was presumably a new professor. Today must have been her first day settling in, maybe even teaching. There was no easing into it, the semester was already underway. By next week she’d be facing a pack of hungry, opinionated students. Julian almost pitied her; joining midstream was never easy, when students already had their favorites, grudges, and expectations.

She was full-figured, of average height, but carried herself with confidence - straight-backed, chest forward (and there was a lot of it, Julian noticed with a blush as he looked away). Stylishly dressed in a soft coat and a bright scarf, her chestnut hair pinned in a way that looked casual but was probably deliberate, framing her graceful neck. A faint perfume, expensive, subtle but memorable. And she smiled with an open, genuine smile, not the forced collegial kind.

“Thank you,” she said, finally sliding the key into the lock as Julian steadied her folders.

“You’ll be teaching History of Political and Legal Thought?” he asked curiously, helping her stack her things on the desk.

“Yes, and maybe Intro to Roman Law, if they let me,” she replied, stepping back into the hall to wrestle the stuck key free. Julian followed like a shadow, partly out of politeness, partly out of a restless curiosity he couldn’t quite explain. There was something about her presence that unsettled him.

He opened his mouth to ask another question, but a booming voice interrupted:

“Well, well, who do we have here! Irene Vaughn, in the flesh! Finally back on familiar ground!”

The speaker was none other than Professor Chasewell, head of the Department and Dean of the Law Faculty, striding toward them with arms wide as if to embrace her.

“Good morning, Julian,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Irene, all the while we were reviewing your application, Elliot kept that poker face of his — no comments, no questions, pretending he had no idea you were coming here!”

“Good morning, Professor Chasewell,” Irene replied warmly, casting Julian a sidelong glance. “Yes, I’m back, and I do hope we’ll have a chance to work together properly this time.”

“Just promise you won’t run off again, at least not this year,” Chasewell chuckled.

“Oh, don’t say that,” she laughed softly, then looked again at Julian, who was now visibly uncomfortable and trying to retreat politely.

“Thank you, professor…” she paused.

“Mercer,” he said hoarsely, the habit automatic.

“Thank you, professor Mercer.” Her tone was warm, genuinely collegial. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

“Yes,” he managed. “Of course.”

He was still holding one of her folders like an idiot. Catching Chasewell’s curious glance, he tried to hand it back.

“What? You two aren’t acquainted?” Chasewell exclaimed, oblivious to tact. “How odd! Irene, Julian here happens to be a close friend of your Elliot.”

“Well, we’ve met… from a distance, so to speak,” Irene stepped in smoothly. “You know, professor, I’ve been away so much, there just wasn’t a chance to meet in person.”

“Yes, yes, of course, I understand. But why are we all still standing in the hall? Come, Irene, let me find you a spot, show you everything.” He ushered her inside, a relentless machine of social enthusiasm. “Julian, meeting in the auditorium in half an hour, don’t forget.”

Julian nodded uncertainly. Irene, propelled through the door by the dean’s unstoppable cheer, cast one last glance back at him before disappearing.

Left standing in the corridor, Julian tried to process what had just happened.

Irene. Elliot’s wife.

He walked forward slowly, then faster, until he was practically running down the stairs, too fast for a professor. His chest ached with every heartbeat, heavy and dull, as if he had swallowed something sharp.

He knew. Elliot knew. And never said a word.

Julian reached the lobby, his stomach twisting. It wasn’t jealousy. Not exactly. It was humiliation. That sticky, bitter shame of being the extra in a play you didn’t even realize you were cast in.

A wife. Beautiful. Confident. Needed. Respected.

And now not some abstract, absent woman he could ignore, but real, flesh and blood. Maybe not as young as him, maybe softer around the edges, but undeniably striking, admired by everyone, and, most of all, a woman.

And he is just a secret.

He remembered nights at Elliot’s place. The man in his old robe, making coffee. The way he’d stroke Julian’s hair until he fell asleep. The silence whenever Julian asked why they never went out together, never showed up as a pair anywhere. Why he was always in the shadows.

Because. Because there was Irene. Because Elliot probably still loved her. Because even if he couldn’t tell the world about them, he could have at least been single. Julian had never asked for more than that. But Elliot hadn’t divorced her. That meant something.

And the way she looked at him… Julian could have sworn it was pity.

He stopped in the empty lobby, eyes shut tight. He had no idea how he was supposed to face Elliot today, no idea how to even start a conversation. He hadn’t expected much from this morning. But he certainly hadn’t expected this.