Chapter 176

For a few seconds, neither of them moved.

The air still felt charged, warm, almost humming from what had just happened. The desk was slightly shifted. Emma’s blouse wasn’t sitting exactly right. Abigail’s hoodie drawstrings were uneven.

Reality started creeping back in.

Emma slid off the desk, smoothing down her skirt, catching her breath. Abigail adjusted her hoodie and ran a hand through her hair, stepping back just enough to create space.

“I needed that,” Emma admitted quietly, brushing her hair behind her ears. “But I really hope no one heard me.”

Abigail gave her a slow, amused look. “You weren’t exactly whispering.”

Emma shot her a warning glance. “Abigail.”

“I’m kidding,” she murmured, stepping closer again. “You look composed.”

Emma turned toward her desk, reaching for her laptop—

—but Abigail didn’t move away.

Instead, she stepped in closer again, sliding her hand gently along Emma’s waist.

Emma looked up.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, though there was no real resistance in her voice.

“Making sure,” Abigail said softly.

“Making sure of what?”

“That I don’t leave you like this.”

Before Emma could respond, Abigail leaned in and kissed her again.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Not rushed—just warm and certain.

Emma’s hand rose automatically, resting against Abigail’s chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric. The kiss deepened for a brief second before Emma pulled back with a breathy exhale.

“You’re going to get us in trouble,” she murmured.

“Worth it,” Abigail replied.

Emma was about to say something—

Knock.

Three steady, deliberate taps against the door.

Both of them froze.

Emma’s eyes snapped toward the door. Abigail stepped back a half step—but before Emma could move—

Abigail leaned in again.

One more kiss.

Quick.

Intentional.

Claiming.

The knock came again.

Emma inhaled sharply, smoothing her blouse quickly. Abigail straightened her hoodie and moved casually to stand near the desk.

Emma walked to the door and opened it.

Professor Shields stood there.

Her expression was neutral at first.

Then her eyes shifted past Emma.

She took in the slightly flushed skin. The subtle closeness. Abigail standing only a few feet behind her.

Her gaze sharpened.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Professor Shields said evenly.

Emma held steady. “Not at all.”

Professor Shields stepped just slightly forward—but remained at the doorway.

Her eyes flicked between them once more.

Abigail met her gaze calmly.

Then—almost casually—Abigail stepped forward again.

She reached for Emma’s hand and leaned in.

And kissed her.

Right there.

In full view.

Not frantic.

Not reckless.

Just firm and unmistakable.

Professor Shields didn’t look away.

She watched.

Completely aware.

When Abigail pulled back, Emma’s cheeks were flushed again—but this time she didn’t step away.

Professor Shields let out a small, controlled laugh.

“Just a reminder,” she said lightly, “sex in the offices is not allowed.”

Silence filled the space.

Emma’s jaw tightened slightly.

Abigail didn’t react.

Professor Shields lifted a brow, clearly entertained.

“I’m joking,” she added. A small pause. “Mostly.”

Emma forced a composed smile. “Noted.”

Professor Shields’ gaze lingered on Emma—then on Abigail.

“Carry on,” she said calmly.

She turned and walked down the hallway, heels clicking softly against the floor.

Emma closed the door slowly.

Locked it.

Then turned to Abigail.

“That,” she said under her breath, “was bold.”

Abigail shrugged lightly. “I don’t hide you.”

Emma stared at her for a second longer.

Then, despite herself, a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Go to class,” she whispered.

Abigail leaned in one last time—quick, soft.

“Yes, Ms. Smith.”

Emma pointed toward the door, trying to look stern.

“Out.”

Abigail laughed quietly and stepped into the hallway.

And down the corridor, Professor Shields didn’t look shocked.

She looked very, very aware.

Music History – 1:00 PM

Abigail walked into the classroom calmer than she felt.

Not shaken.

Not guilty.

But aware.

Professor Shields was already there, writing across the board in clean, sharp strokes:

Commercialization of Rebellion – When Protest Becomes Product

Abigail took her usual seat.

She didn’t avoid eye contact.

She didn’t seek it either.

Professor Shields turned, scanning the room slowly.

When her eyes landed on Abigail, they held for just half a second longer than necessary.

“Let’s begin.”

Her voice was controlled. Professional. Even.

But something underneath it had shifted.

She began playing a clip from a late 70s rock anthem—once radical, now used in car commercials.

“When does rebellion stop being rebellion?” she asked the class.

A student near the front offered, “When it becomes profitable?”

Professor Shields nodded. “Expand.”

The student stumbled.

Professor Shields didn’t rescue them.

Instead—

“Abigail.”

Not aggressive.

But direct.

Abigail straightened slightly. “Yes?”

“You look like you have a thought.”

A few students turned.

Abigail didn’t shrink.

“It stops being rebellion,” she said calmly, “when the system absorbs it instead of resisting it.”

Professor Shields’ gaze sharpened.

“Meaning?”

“When something threatening becomes marketable,” Abigail continued, steady now, “it’s no longer a threat. It’s decoration.”

Silence.

Professor Shields stepped closer to the front of the room.

“And how does that apply to artists?” she asked.

Abigail met her eyes evenly. “It depends on whether they’re controlling the message—or being used by it.”

There it was.

Layered.

Controlled.

A response that worked academically—but carried subtext.

Professor Shields held her gaze.

Then gave a small nod.

“Good.”

She wrote Abigail’s phrase on the board:

Threat vs. Decoration

Class continued.

But it felt different.

Professor Shields called on Abigail twice more—not unfairly, not excessively, but intentionally.

Testing.

Each time, Abigail answered calmly.

Measured.

Confident.

No defensiveness.

No fluster.

At the end of class, students began packing up.

The last student slipped out.

The door shut.

Silence settled thick in the room.

Professor Shields stood near the front, fingers resting lightly on the edge of her desk, watching Abigail instead of organizing her papers.

“Abigail.”

Abigail paused, backpack strap over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Close the door.”

The tone wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

Abigail held her gaze for a second, then turned and shut it. The latch clicked softly.

Professor Shields stepped down from the front of the room, stopping only a few feet away.

“I’m not going to pretend,” she said evenly.

Abigail didn’t blink.

“I know what you two were doing in her office.”

No joke this time. No smile.

Just fact.

Abigail’s jaw tightened slightly. “You don’t know anything.”

Professor Shields let out a controlled breath. “I saw enough.”

Silence stretched.

“You’re bold,” Professor Shields added quietly.

“I’m honest,” Abigail replied.

Professor Shields’ eyes flicked briefly over Abigail—her steady posture, the calm expression, the absence of guilt.

“You think this campus doesn’t notice?” Shields asked. “Faculty talk. Staff talk. Students talk.”

“Let them,” Abigail said evenly.

“This isn’t about you,” Professor Shields snapped—just slightly, before smoothing her tone. “It’s about her reputation.”

Abigail tilted her head.

“No,” she said calmly. “It’s not.”

Professor Shields’ gaze sharpened. “Excuse me?”

Abigail took a step forward.

Then another.

Not aggressive.

Deliberate.

She closed the space between them until only a few feet remained.

“You aren’t worried about her reputation,” Abigail said quietly.

Professor Shields’ posture stiffened.

“You just wish it was you.”

The words didn’t echo.

They landed.

Abigail stepped one fraction closer, steady and unshaken.

“You’re jealous,” she finished evenly. “And you hate that it will never be.”

For the first time, Professor Shields lost her rhythm.

Her breath caught—not visibly dramatic, but enough.

A flicker crossed her face.

Her jaw tightened.

“That’s inappropriate,” she said sharply—but there was something thinner in her voice now.

Abigail didn’t step back.

“You’re not protecting her,” she continued calmly. “You’re protecting your pride.”

Professor Shields’ composure wavered just enough to notice. She straightened her shoulders, folding her arms in front of her like armor.

“You’re a student,” she said.

“And she chose me,” Abigail replied.

Another beat.

Professor Shields swallowed before speaking again—barely perceptible, but there.

“You’re very certain of yourself.”

“I don’t compete,” Abigail said. “I commit.”

Professor Shields looked away for a fraction of a second before forcing her gaze back.

“You think love makes you untouchable.”

“No,” Abigail said. “But it makes me honest.”

Silence filled the room again.

Professor Shields stepped back half a pace now—not retreating, but creating distance she hadn’t before.

“This campus is small,” she said more quietly. “Protect her if you care about her.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t turn her into something people whisper about.”

Abigail adjusted her bag on her shoulder.

“I don’t hide who I love,” she said.

Professor Shields’ eyes darkened again, but this time there was less control in them.

“No,” she replied. “You make sure everyone sees.”

“Yes.”

Another long pause.

The air between them wasn’t academic anymore.

It was personal.

Professor Shields finally stepped aside.

“See you Thursday,” she said, voice steady again—but only after effort.

Abigail walked toward the door.

Before opening it, she glanced back.

“For what it’s worth,” she said calmly, “you’d respect her more if you respected yourself.”

Then she left.