Chapter 169

They stood there for a beat after the door closed, the quiet of the classroom settling back in like nothing had happened.

Emma let out a slow breath, then laughed under it, shaking her head. “Well. That was… an entrance.”

Abigail smiled, softer now, stepping closer and brushing her thumb along Emma’s hand. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Emma said, nodding. She glanced around the room once more, then back at Abigail. “I’m starving though.”

Abigail’s face lit up. “Perfect. Cafeteria it is.”

They gathered their things and stepped back into the hallway together. The campus felt different at this hour—alive but unhurried. Students moved in loose clusters, laughter bouncing off the walls, the smell of coffee and food drifting faintly through open doors.

As they walked, Abigail naturally slipped into guide mode.

“So,” she said, pointing ahead, “music building back there, literature wing is over that way, and this path—” she nudged Emma gently with her shoulder “—leads straight to the cafeteria. It’s basically where everyone ends up whether they mean to or not.”

Emma smiled, taking it all in. “You really know your way around now.”

“Yeah,” Abigail said with a small grin.

They passed a few students who nodded or smiled at Emma—some whispering just a little, clearly still buzzing from her class. Emma noticed, her posture straightening slightly, confidence settling into her shoulders.

Abigail caught it. “See that?” she teased. “You already have a fan club.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head. “Stop.”

“I’m serious,” Abigail said. “They were hanging on every note.”

They reached the cafeteria entrance, the sound swelling as the doors opened—trays clattering, voices overlapping, the hum of everyday campus life. Emma paused for half a second, taking it in.

They stepped fully into the cafeteria, the noise swelling around them in an almost comforting way—voices overlapping, trays sliding along metal rails, the low clatter of dishes and silverware. Sunlight poured through the tall windows lining one wall, warming the space and making everything feel less rushed.

Abigail slowed their pace a little, glancing at the time on her phone before slipping it back into her pocket. “I’ve got a little time before my next class,” she said casually, like it wasn’t something she’d already checked twice. “So we can actually sit and eat together.”

Emma’s shoulders relaxed at that, a small smile pulling at her lips. “Same. I don’t teach again for a bit.” She bumped her hip lightly into Abigail’s. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

They grabbed trays and moved through the line side by side. Abigail narrated her choices under her breath—what was surprisingly good, what looked promising but never delivered, what she swore had been better last semester. Emma laughed quietly, clearly enjoying seeing this familiar, confident version of her.

“You really sound like you belong here,” Emma said as they reached the end of the line.

Abigail shrugged, a little shy despite herself. “I think I finally do.”

They found a table near the window, the light catching Emma’s face just right as she set her tray down. Abigail sat across from her at first, then shifted her chair closer without thinking, their knees brushing under the table.

Emma noticed and smiled. “You’re hovering.”

Abigail smirked. “I missed you.”

Emma softened, reaching across the table to lace their fingers together for a moment. “I’m really proud of you, you know. Watching you move through campus like it’s second nature now.”

Abigail squeezed her hand. “Coming from you, that means a lot. Especially today.”

They ate slowly, unhurried. Abigail talked about her morning class, a small moment where she’d answered a question out loud without second-guessing herself. Emma told her about the way her students’ shoulders had eased once they realized she wasn’t there to intimidate them.

“It felt good,” Emma admitted. “Like… this is where I’m supposed to be right now.”

Abigail watched her as she spoke, that familiar warmth blooming in her chest. “You’re going to be amazing at this. You already are.”

Emma ducked her head, smiling into her drink. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” Abigail said. “But I’m also right.”

They lingered longer than either of them planned, stealing glances at the clock but not rushing. Eventually, Abigail sighed softly. “Okay… I should probably head out soon.”

Emma nodded, though she didn’t let go of Abigail’s hand right away. “Yeah. I should prep for my next class too.”

They stood together, gathering trays, walking them back side by side. At the exit, Emma paused and leaned in, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to Abigail’s lips—nothing dramatic, just familiar and grounding.

“Text me when you’re done,” Emma said quietly.

Abigail smiled, brushing her thumb along Emma’s hand before letting go. “Always.”

Emma watched Abigail head off for a moment, then turned in the opposite direction, adjusting the strap of her bag as she walked. The campus felt louder now than it had earlier—more footsteps, more conversations drifting through the air—but instead of overwhelming her, it grounded her.

She took her time on the walk back to her classroom, letting herself really look around. Students passed with instruments slung over shoulders, coffee cups in hand, laughter spilling out between classes. A few glanced her way and smiled—recognition already settling in. It made her chest lift just a little.

When she reached her classroom, she unlocked the door again and stepped inside, the quiet returning instantly. She set her bag down, crossed to the desk, and opened her laptop. The familiar glow of the screen felt reassuring.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself. “Let’s get you all set.”

She logged into the school system and pulled up her course page, double-checking that everything was where it needed to be. Lesson outlines. Practice videos. Tuning guides. She uploaded the homework for the week—simple, approachable assignments meant to build confidence, not stress. She reread the instructions once, then again, making sure they were clear.

Emma paused, then added a short note at the bottom:

If anything feels confusing, reach out. Questions are always welcome.

She leaned back in her chair when she finished, hands resting on the edge of the desk. Everything was uploaded. Everything was ready.

For a moment, she just sat there, letting that settle in.

She smiled to herself—soft, proud, a little amazed.

Teaching again didn’t feel scary anymore. It felt right.

Emma closed her laptop, grabbed her guitar, and stood, rolling her shoulders once as she prepared for her next class.

Emma set her guitar back in its stand.

She moved chairs slightly, angling them toward the piano instead of the center of the room. The guitars stayed in their stands along the wall, untouched this time. She dimmed the overhead lights just a notch and turned on the small lamp near the piano, changing the mood entirely.

This wasn’t a performance space.

This was a listening space.

Emma sat at the piano bench and adjusted it carefully, feet flat on the floor, posture deliberate.

 She rested her hands in her lap and let her eyes travel over the instrument in front of her. The wood was smooth and worn in the places where countless hands had rested before hers. The keys looked almost too perfect, waiting.

She let out a small breath and murmured to herself, barely audible, “I haven’t played like this in a long time.”

Not for herself. Not without an audience or a purpose or a lesson attached.

Just to play.

Her fingers lifted and hovered over the keys, not pressing yet, just remembering the distance between notes, the familiar geography of the keyboard. She smiled faintly, nostalgia tugging at her chest.

Footsteps echoed softly in the hallway.

The door opened.

A few students began to file in, backpacks slung low, eyes flicking around the room with that unmistakable first-day tension. Some slowed when they saw her already seated at the piano, unsure if they were interrupting something.

Emma looked up and offered an easy smile. “You can sit anywhere you’d like,” she said warmly. “We’ll get started in a minute.”

The tension eased immediately.

Students spread out, choosing benches, setting bags down, whispering to each other. Emma turned back to the piano, placing her fingers on the keys again, this time letting them touch.

Softly.

She pressed one note. Then another.

The sound was gentle, almost tentative, like she was testing the air. She adjusted her posture, rolled her shoulders back, and then let her hands move more freely.

She started to play.

Not a lesson. Not a demonstration.

Just music.

Her fingers flowed across the keys, muscle memory taking over, the melody unfolding naturally. The room faded away as the sound filled the space. The fluorescent hum disappeared. The chairs, the students, the clock on the wall—all of it slipped out of focus.

For a brief moment, Emma forgot where she was.

She was sixteen again, playing late at night with the window cracked open. She was in a quiet studio, chasing a melody that wouldn’t leave her alone. She was nowhere and everywhere all at once.

The music softened, slowed, then resolved into a gentle ending.

Only then did she look up.

The room was completely still.

Students sat frozen, eyes wide, some leaning forward without realizing it. One had stopped mid-unzip of their backpack. Another’s fingers hovered over the keys of their own piano, forgotten.

Emma blinked, suddenly aware again of the room, of herself.

She smiled, a little sheepish, a little glowing. “Sorry,” she said lightly. “I got carried away.”

A few students smiled back. One nodded like they’d just witnessed something important.

Emma closed the piano lid gently and stood, confidence settling into her bones.

“Alright,” she said, voice calm and steady now. “Let’s start.”