The first chill of October swept through the city, brushing against windows and creeping through cracks in the old academic buildings. Leaves rustled like whispers across campus, and with them came a change in energy—a coiled tension, a quiet hum of something about to shift.
Karen Higgins felt it in her bones.
For weeks now, she and Jonny had lived in a kind of balance: not quite public, not entirely secret. They met off-campus. Shared quiet nights in her apartment. A touch of fingers beneath the table at cafes. Glances charged with heat in the classroom—but always careful. Always quiet.
And then, inevitably, the fire came.
It started with a photo.
A grainy shot taken from a distance. Karen and Jonny leaving Marisol's wine bar, their hands just brushing, her head tilted toward him in a laugh. Intimate, but not obscene. But enough. Enough for someone to take it, slap it on an anonymous Twitter account tied to "Academic Ethics Watch," and let it ripple like gasoline across the dry underbrush of gossip.
By morning, it had made its way to campus group chats. Then to department inboxes. Then to the dean.
Karen was in the middle of a seminar on post-modernism when her phone buzzed. She ignored it at first, continuing her lecture on fragmentation and unreliable narration—ironic, given what was about to unfold.
But the second buzz was urgent. And the third came with a subject line she couldn't ignore:
> URGENT: Required Meeting – Office of Academic Affairs
Her stomach dropped.
---
That afternoon, she sat across from the Dean of Faculty, Dr. Lawrence Winslow—a pale man with impeccable posture and a reputation for delivering bad news with surgical precision.
He held a printed copy of the tweet in one hand.
"Professor Higgins," he began, "I wish this meeting were under different circumstances."
She said nothing.
"Given the nature of this image and the accusations being circulated online, I'm obligated to initiate a formal review into your relationship with Mr. Westlake."
"I understand," Karen said, voice steady.
"Do you deny that a romantic or sexual relationship exists?"
She inhaled. "I do not deny it. But I maintain that no university policies were breached. He is not my research assistant, not in any subordinate academic position to me, and I have maintained professional conduct within the classroom."
Winslow removed his glasses. "I don't doubt your intelligence, Professor. Or your ability to interpret policy. But optics matter."
"Yes," Karen said. "But so does integrity."
He gave a tight smile. "This isn't about morality. It's about institutional liability. There will be an investigation. You'll be placed on temporary administrative leave while we sort this."
Karen's heart twisted. "Effective when?"
"Immediately."
---
The walk back to her car felt surreal. She moved like a ghost among students she had once commanded with authority. No one spoke to her, though many glanced her way. Whispers trailed her like perfume.
She sat in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel, unable to start the engine.
And then she called Jonny.
He answered on the first ring. "Karen?"
"I've been suspended," she said. "Pending review."
Silence.
"Because of the photo?"
"Yes."
"I'm so sorry."
Her voice broke then, sharp and raw. "I tried so hard to keep this clean. To be careful. And now it doesn't matter. All of it—the professionalism, the boundaries—I'm just another cliché to them now."
Jonny was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Come to my place. Tonight. We'll talk it through."
"No," she said. "If they're watching, I can't be seen with you. Not until this calms down."
"Karen—"
"I need time," she said, tears now coming freely. "Just… give me a day."
---
That night, Karen sat alone in her apartment with the lights off, the only illumination coming from the television playing a muted documentary. She didn't watch it. Instead, she held Milton on her lap and stared into the dark.
She wasn't afraid of losing her job—at least, not in the way others might expect. She was afraid of losing herself. Of giving in to shame. Of folding under pressure and walking away from the one thing that had made her feel real in years.
Her phone buzzed.
Jonny.
> I know you said not to come. But I left something for you outside your door.
She stood slowly, crossed the room, and opened the door.
A single brown paper bag sat on her welcome mat. Inside, a small carton of her favorite herbal tea, a folded poem printed on paper, and a note.
The poem was Pablo Neruda.
> "I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees."
And Jonny's note:
> No matter how they look at us, what we have is not shame. It is light. Let them try to bury it. We'll keep blooming anyway.
– J
She pressed the paper to her chest and wept.
---
The next day, Karen met with a lawyer from the faculty union. She explained everything—dates, boundaries, details. The lawyer listened carefully, nodding, occasionally asking questions.
At the end of the meeting, she said, "You've done nothing legally wrong. They'll dig into it. It may get messy. But you've got a case."
Karen let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Just tell me," she said. "Is there a way I can come out of this without losing everything?"
The lawyer smiled. "If you're willing to fight, yes."
Karen stood. "Then I will."
---
That evening, Jonny showed up outside her door.
Karen didn't hesitate this time. She opened it, stepped aside, and let him in.
He wrapped his arms around her like she was something worth protecting. And in that moment, she believed she was.
"I'm not ashamed of you," she whispered into his chest. "I won't pretend I am."
"You don't have to," he said. "We'll face them together."
"Even if it gets worse?"
"Especially then."
She pulled back and looked into his eyes.
"I love you," she said.
Jonny's face softened.
"I know," he whispered. "I love you, too."
---
The fall had come. The fire had spread.
But Karen Higgins, for the first time in her life, was done running from it.
She was ready to burn.
And rise.