The first snow had arrived overnight, thin and wet. It clung to tree branches in delicate patches, melted quickly on sidewalks, and gave the morning air a crisp bite that made Winter's breath cloud in front of her. She walked briskly across campus, her scarf pulled up high, the hood of her coat half-obscuring her view.
She was trying not to think about Eleanor's silence. Or the fact that they hadn't exchanged more than three texts in the past twenty-four hours.
Or the note. Or the way her hands still shook when she thought about it for too long.
She ducked into the student center, hoping for coffee and quiet. Instead, she found Dean.
He was sitting alone at a table near the windows, stirring sugar into an already half-drunk cup of coffee. His hair was damp from the walk in, and he looked unusually serious. When he spotted her, he straightened a little, his face shifting into something more open.
"Hey," he said, standing halfway as she approached.
Winter gave a small nod. "Hey."
"You want to sit?" He gestured at the empty chair across from him.
She hesitated. Then nodded.
The silence between them settled almost comfortably. Almost.
Winter unwrapped her scarf and reached for her own coffee, which had started to warm her hands even if it hadn't yet reached her chest.
Dean finally spoke. "I've been wanting to talk to you. But… I didn't know how."
Winter didn't look up. "About Eleanor?"
His pause was sharp. "No. About you."
She lifted her gaze then. His expression was open in a way she hadn't seen before—soft, but certain.
"I've known you for over two years now," he said. "Studio classes. Late critiques. We've shared exhibitions. And I thought maybe you saw me, too."
"I do see you, Dean," she said gently.
He smiled, but it was tight around the edges. "Yeah, but not like I want you to."
She felt the ground shift slightly beneath her, like stepping off a curb she hadn't seen.
"I'm not saying this to pressure you," he continued quickly. "Or to guilt you. I just—needed to say it. Before things get more complicated. Because I think they already are."
Winter swallowed. "Dean…"
"I've seen the way you look at her," he said. "Eleanor. I'm not blind."
The name hit the air like a match flicked onto damp paper.
"And I'm not stupid," he added, more quietly. "But I think if things were different, maybe you would've looked at me that way."
She didn't answer. She couldn't—not without unraveling everything.
Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair. "I'm not here to make you feel bad. I just wanted to be honest before all the pieces start falling."
Winter forced herself to meet his eyes. "You're kind. And talented. And maybe, in another version of my life… you're right."
Dean nodded slowly. "But not this version."
"No," she said quietly. "Not this one."
The moment stretched between them, oddly peaceful in its clarity.
He reached out and gently tapped his fingers against the rim of her coffee cup. "Then I guess I'll just be the guy who almost got there."
"You're more than that," she said softly.
Dean gave her a wistful smile. "Yeah. I know."
Winter didn't return to her apartment right away.
After her conversation with Dean, she wandered the edge of campus, trailing the paths that led past the art buildings and into the small wooded area that bordered the sculpture gardens. The snow had melted to a cold mist, and the air smelled like damp earth and something rusted.
Everything in her chest felt sharp and unfinished.
She'd always been good at hiding the complicated things. Smiling through discomfort. Shrinking behind her work. Letting silence do the talking. But Dean's words—so open, so gently placed between them—had unsettled that fragile balance she clung to. He hadn't demanded anything. That was the hardest part.
He had simply seen her.
And even if she couldn't return his feelings, there was something incredibly vulnerable about being the subject of someone's hope.
She stopped beneath one of the campus's older oaks, the branches bare and skeletal above her, and pressed her hand to her ribs as if to hold herself in place. Her breath fogged the air in front of her.
Winter hadn't cried.
Not when she realized Eleanor was pulling away again. Not when she stood alone in the student gallery and caught sight of herself in the reflection—small, tired, waiting.
But now, with Dean's voice echoing in her mind—"If things were different…"—something inside her cracked.
Because wasn't that the core of it all?
If things were different.
If she were older. If Eleanor weren't her professor. If there weren't rules and eyes and expectations. If she didn't carry the weight of wanting someone who couldn't fully be hers.
Dean had reminded her what it felt like to be wanted openly. To be someone's possible future.
And it made the quiet tension of her relationship with Eleanor feel… lonelier by comparison.
She sat on the cold stone bench that curved around the sculpture of the fallen Icarus—one of the faculty's older commissions—and stared at the wings carved in bronze.
"Idiot," she whispered to herself.
Not about Dean. About herself. About her willingness to settle for shadows, for stolen glances and half-written notes.
A breeze shook the branches overhead.
Winter didn't regret her feelings for Eleanor. But she hated how those feelings had trained her to accept secrecy as affection. She deserved more. She just didn't know how to ask for it without risking everything they already had.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
For a moment, she thought—hoped—it might be Eleanor.
But it was a message from one of her studio peers, reminding her about the class presentation critiques next week. Reality nudged back in.
She pulled her coat tighter and stood.
She'd thank Dean later—for being honest, for treating her heart like something worth being careful with. And then she'd do the harder thing: decide what kind of love she wanted to fight for.
And what kind she had to finally let go of.