Winter stopped setting alarms.
There was no need anymore—no classes to prepare for, no lectures to attend, no dance rehearsals to squeeze in between labs and essays. The sudden void in her schedule was not freedom. It was suffocation.
The first few days after the suspension letter, she tried to stay composed. She answered messages. She sat upright on the couch with Eleanor beside her and nodded gravely when reporters called to ask for quotes. But the fire that had flared in her during their decision to go public was fading. And all that remained was exhaustion.
"You can sleep," Eleanor told her, brushing her hand through Winter's hair as she sat curled in bed, back against the headboard. "You don't need to be strong every second."
Winter nodded, but sleep never came. Not the kind that truly rested you. Her nights were spent drifting between shallow dreams and deeper fears—memories of whispered judgment, of a classroom full of eyes, of an anonymous voice asking her, "Was it really mutual?"
She didn't say it aloud, but it haunted her.
Even now. Even after everything.
Eleanor watched it all with growing unease.
She'd seen Winter fragile before—when her mother passed, when she'd nearly failed her first semester, when she was alone in a sea of strangers and didn't know how to ask for help. But this was different. This wasn't Winter breaking down. This was Winter folding inward. Disappearing.
One afternoon, Eleanor found her in the kitchen, still in pajamas, staring out the window at the garden below.
"They're winning," Winter said softly, as if she'd been having a conversation with herself and Eleanor had just walked in halfway.
"No, they're not."
"They took my scholarship."
Eleanor froze. "What?"
"I checked the portal this morning. My financial aid's been rescinded pending disciplinary review. They didn't even notify me." Her voice cracked. "They want me to give up. To walk away before they have to officially expel me."
Eleanor's hands curled into fists. She wanted to scream. Instead, she reached for her phone and sent a message to Inez.
We need to talk. They're going after her scholarship now.
Later that night, Eleanor sat across from Inez in a corner booth of a small, nearly-empty café. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and lemon cleaner. Inez didn't sugarcoat anything.
"They're making an example of her," Inez said bluntly. "The Ethics Committee wants this done quietly. They're hoping if they squeeze hard enough, she'll leave on her own."
"And if she doesn't?"
"They'll find a way to make her."
Eleanor pressed her lips together. "Then we need to go louder."
"You sure about that?" Inez asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because once you push back on an institution like this, there's no taking it back. They'll make sure you're blacklisted everywhere. No department will touch you. You'll never teach again."
"I already lost my job. I have nothing else to lose."
Inez studied her for a long moment, then slid a folder across the table.
"Then maybe it's time we give them something they can't ignore."
Inside were documents—testimonies, complaints, timelines. Faculty who'd remained silent for years. Students who had quietly left the university after inappropriate encounters with other professors. People who had been pushed out, dismissed, or discredited.
"You think we're the only ones?" Inez said. "This university has been protecting predators and punishing anyone who breaks their unspoken rules. You two just had the misfortune of being high profile."
Eleanor's hands trembled as she turned the pages. It was worse than she imagined.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to help me blow this whole thing open."
At home, Winter was sitting on the floor of their living room, surrounded by old sketchbooks she hadn't touched in months. She was flipping through them absently—pages filled with half-drawn eyes and notes in the margins. The version of herself she used to be looked up at her in charcoal and ink. Strong. Hungry for more.
When Eleanor came in, Winter looked up.
"Did you know they also erased my student profile from the class archive?"
Eleanor sat down beside her. "That's illegal."
Winter let out a bitter laugh. "Everything about this is illegal."
"Then maybe it's time we make them regret it."
Winter blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… Inez has files. Reports. There's a history of abuse and silence going back years. If we want to change anything—not just for us—we have to go public again. But this time with everything."
Winter was quiet for a long time.
Then she looked down at a sketch in her lap—one she'd done of Eleanor last year, after their first real conversation. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes shadowed but kind.
"You're really willing to fight them?"
Eleanor leaned in and kissed her gently. "For you? Always."
Winter exhaled, shaky but certain.
"Then let's fight."
The dining table had never looked like this.
Usually, it was for breakfasts—half-toasted bagels and Eleanor's morning lecture notes, Winter's open laptop beside a forgotten mug of tea. But tonight, the surface was buried under file folders, printouts, two legal pads, and a half-spilled box of sticky notes in six colors.
Winter stood back and surveyed their battleground.
"They're going to think we've lost our minds," she said quietly, tapping her pencil against her pad. "Like we're bitter, vindictive, paranoid…"
Eleanor looked up from her chair across the table. Her gaze was focused, mouth pressed into a thoughtful line. "They already think that."
Winter's pencil stilled.
"And the truth?" she asked.
"They're afraid. That's why they're trying to erase you. That's why they're making examples of us. Because if you stay standing, if I keep speaking—then the story doesn't stay in their control."
Winter nodded slowly. "So what do we do?"
"We start telling the story on our terms."
The plan took shape in layers.
First: documentation. They gathered every email, every meeting summary, every disciplinary notice Winter had received. Every response—or lack thereof—from the administration. Inez sent over copies of confidential testimonies from other faculty, dating back more than a decade. The files were heartbreaking: a student who'd been told to drop out after accusing a tenured professor; a queer adjunct who had been passed over for promotion despite stellar evaluations.
Second: allies.
Eleanor texted former colleagues, people who had left the university quietly—those who might now be willing to speak out. Winter reached out to classmates who had witnessed how the faculty treated her in the months after her relationship was discovered. Some were hesitant. But others—more than they expected—responded with cautious solidarity.
Third: strategy.
"Going straight to the press might backfire," Inez warned in a video call. "You need leverage. A partner publication with legal protection. A journalist who's willing to go deep, verify everything, publish names if needed."
Winter's jaw tensed. "I know someone."
Eleanor turned to her, surprised. "You do?"
Winter hesitated. "Maya—she's a journalism grad I met during my undergrad orientation. She's freelancing now. Writes for some independent outlets. She messaged me after our photos went viral, but I never answered."
Inez nodded. "Reach out. See if she's willing to take it on."
The message Winter sent was short.
Hey Maya. I'm ready to talk. But I'm not just telling my story—I want to tell ours.
She stared at the blinking cursor for a full minute before hitting send.
Two hours later, Maya replied.
I've been waiting for this. I'm in. Let's burn it all down.
That night, Eleanor sat on the couch with a stack of files in her lap while Winter dozed beside her, curled up with her head resting on Eleanor's thigh.
The lamplight cast long shadows over the papers, but Eleanor didn't move. She kept reading. Every story dug up another scar. Every silence cracked open the next.
She realized then that this wasn't just about them anymore.
It never had been.
There were too many voices swallowed by the system. Too many students and faculty—especially queer women, women of color, anyone who dared love differently—who had been told to be quiet, to be ashamed, to disappear.
Eleanor ran her fingers gently through Winter's hair and whispered into the stillness, "They made a mistake thinking we'd go quietly."
The next morning, the plan accelerated.
Winter and Maya had their first interview over encrypted video. Eleanor sat in for part of it, answering questions Maya posed with clinical precision—date of termination, the tone of the committee's questioning, the language used in her final notice.
"She called it an inappropriate power dynamic," Eleanor said, voice steady. "But the only power I had was the ability to lose everything."
Maya's eyes were sharp, but her tone was kind. "And you still chose the relationship?"
"I chose her," Eleanor corrected. "And I still do."
Three days later, Maya sent a draft of the exposé.
It was brutal. Beautiful. Honest.
"The Price of Integrity: Love, Power, and Silence in the Academy"
It didn't name the university directly—but it didn't have to. Anyone who read it would know. The story was set to release on one of the most respected independent education sites in the country, backed by three editors and legal review.
They had a week before it went live.
Seven days to brace themselves for the next storm.
On the sixth night, Winter couldn't sleep.
She stood on the balcony in an oversized hoodie, staring out at the blinking skyline, her arms wrapped around herself.
Eleanor came up behind her, sliding her arms around Winter's waist.
"I'm scared," Winter admitted.
"Me too," Eleanor whispered against her shoulder.
"But I'm not walking away."
"I'd never let you."
They stayed like that in silence for a long time. Below, the world moved on—cars passing, people laughing in some lit window—but up here, something was changing. Quietly. Finally.
Not peace.
But courage.