The morning after the faculty hearing was unnervingly quiet.
There was no knock at Eleanor's door. No email. No official statement that spelled things out.
Just a plain envelope slipped under her office door, stamped with the cold formality of the university's Ethics Committee.
"Pending review and further investigation, you are hereby suspended from all teaching duties and campus activities, effective immediately."
No explanation.
No questions.
No one had even bothered to look her in the eye.
Eleanor stared at the letter for several long minutes before folding it—once, twice, again, until it was the size of a postage stamp. She didn't throw it away. She just slid it into her coat pocket and turned to face her office for what might be the last time.
Each shelf, once cluttered with memories, was stripped bare. She ran a hand over the spot where her framed photo of a younger version of herself—laughing at a campus picnic—used to sit. Her nameplate had already been removed from the door.
Only the echo of her presence remained.
She didn't expect anyone to say goodbye, and no one did. But as she stepped into the hallway, dragging her wheeled briefcase behind her, she could feel eyes on her. From behind half-closed office doors. From down the stairwell. And from one place in particular.
Dean was leaning against the wall near the elevator, arms crossed, a smug stillness in his posture that made Eleanor pause mid-step.
Their eyes met. She didn't flinch. Didn't offer him a word. But she saw it clearly—what had once been bitter jealousy had morphed into something worse.
Victory.
Across town, Winter lay curled in the middle of her bed, a blanket cocooning her as if she could disappear from the world entirely.
The messages kept coming.
Texts from people she hadn't spoken to in years. Anonymous DMs. Even an email from a student journalist asking for a quote.
Is it true?
I always knew something was going on.
She manipulated you, didn't she?
Winter shut off her phone and tossed it across the room. It hit a canvas, the corner tearing clean through an unfinished painting.
The destruction didn't even faze her anymore.
She hadn't spoken to Eleanor since the night the photos surfaced—those quiet, stolen moments now twisted into evidence. She hadn't gone to class. Hadn't picked up a brush. Hadn't eaten since breakfast the day before.
It felt like everything was imploding.
And she couldn't tell anyone which part hurt the most—losing Eleanor, or watching her be dragged through fire without a chance to defend herself.
A sharp knock startled her. Three quick raps against the apartment door.
Winter didn't move at first. When she finally opened it, she was met with the concerned eyes of Professor Lane.
Lane didn't ask to come in. She stepped through the door like someone used to delivering bad news.
"I wanted to check on you," she said gently. "You've been... absent."
Winter didn't answer. She just nodded toward the couch.
Lane sat and got straight to the point.
"They're going to call you in. The committee."
"I figured," Winter whispered.
"They'll ask you to confirm if there was a personal relationship. Whether it affected grades, attendance, class dynamics…"
Winter closed her eyes.
Lane continued. "You have a choice. You can protect her, or you can protect yourself."
Meanwhile, in a brightly lit office on the other side of campus, Dean sat with a fresh cup of coffee and a slim folder in front of him. Across from him, Professor Klein—one of the quieter members of the Ethics Committee—adjusted her glasses and reviewed the documents Dean had provided.
Screenshots of old emails. Cropped images from student art exhibits. Snippets of hallway conversations taken completely out of context.
"I'm just trying to look out for the department," Dean said, his voice rehearsed. "And for Winter. She's young. Impressionable."
Klein didn't answer. But another figure lingered just outside the open door—Dr. Avery, the sharp-eyed senior professor whose silence always seemed more dangerous than any spoken judgment.
She didn't believe Dean. Not entirely.
But she wasn't ready to speak up either.
Not yet.
Back in Eleanor's apartment, the hours stretched into a blur. She'd started cleaning compulsively—wiping down every surface, organizing books she hadn't touched in years. Her world had shrunk down to this space. A prison with soft lighting and too many memories.
She had tried writing to Winter once. Just after she was suspended.
The letter sat in her notebook—five pages of tangled, raw emotion.
She'd written everything she couldn't say aloud:
That she missed her.
That she felt like she'd failed her.
That she couldn't bear to be the reason Winter's art, her future, her life, got derailed.
And buried beneath it all, a desperate truth:
"If I could do it over again, I'd still choose you. Every time."
Eleanor folded the letter and stared at it.
Then she struck a match and held the flame to the corner.
The paper curled and blackened, ash drifting into the sink like smoke from a long-extinguished fire.
That night, Winter stood outside the ethics committee hearing room.
She wasn't testifying. Not yet.
But she'd come anyway.
Students passed by, whispering. A few stared. Some even paused long enough to take a photo.
Her stomach turned.
Inside the room, through the glass window, she could see members of the committee seated at a long table. A presentation was already underway.
Then, the door opened—and Eleanor stepped out.
She didn't see Winter at first. Her expression was blank. Detached.
But when she turned toward the hallway and their eyes met across the distance, something cracked.
Not visibly. Not obviously.
But they both felt it.
The shared ache of two people who had once moved in sync… now standing oceans apart.
Winter's heart pounded. Her chest tightened.
And then—suddenly—she moved.
She walked toward the door.
Someone called after her, telling her she couldn't go in. But she didn't stop.
She stepped into the room.
Faces turned. Whispers started. The chair of the committee stood to intercept her.
"I have something to say," Winter said.
Eleanor's breath caught.
"If you're going to put her on trial," Winter continued, her voice steady but shaking at the edges, "you might as well put me there too. I was there. I made my choices. I wasn't coerced. I wasn't manipulated."
Eleanor tried to interrupt. "Winter—"
But Winter pressed forward.
"You want to talk about power dynamics? Talk about the professors who never looked at me until I was 'attached' to someone worth punishing. Talk about Dean, who's been obsessed with me since freshman year. Talk about the whisper network on this campus that protects men and targets women who dare to be complex."
Silence.
"You can take my credits," Winter finished. "You can ruin her career. But I'm not going to stand here and let you pretend it happened in a vacuum. We don't exist in a vacuum. We never did."
Her voice broke on the last word.
But she didn't look away from Eleanor.