Archive of Our Own

The final morning dawns grey and quiet.

You wake early, unable to sleep, your mind still churning through everything from the night before. *I came here for you.* But also: *I don't know if I should have.*

You dress in the dim light and slip downstairs, hoping for coffee and solitude. The house is silent—everyone else still asleep. You make yourself tea and curl up in the reading nook, watching the rain trace patterns down the window.

This is the last day. Tomorrow, you'll all go home, back to your separate lives. Whatever this weekend was—whatever it could have been—will be over.

Maybe that's for the best.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

You startle, nearly spilling your tea. Petra's standing in the doorway, wrapped in a cardigan, her hair loose around her shoulders.

"Sorry," she says with a soft laugh. "Didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine." You make room on the window seat. "Want to sit?"

She settles beside you, tucking her feet under her. For a moment, you're both quiet, watching the rain.

"Can I ask you something?" Petra's voice is gentle. "And you can tell me to mind my own business if you want."

Your stomach tightens. "Okay."

"Are you interested in Levi?"

The question lands like a stone. You open your mouth. Close it. "I—"

"It's okay." She's smiling, and there's nothing but kindness in her expression. "I've noticed. The way you look at him. The way you've been pulling back."

Heat floods your face. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I know you two are—"

"We're not." Petra says it simply, matter-of-factly. "Together, I mean. We're not together. We're friends. Good friends, but just friends."

You stare at her. "What?"

"I know it probably looks like more," she continues. "We're comfortable with each other. We've known each other for years through Erwin. But there's nothing romantic between us. There never has been."

The world tilts.

"But you're so—you seem so close."

"We are close." Petra's smile is gentle. "But not like that. And honestly?" She leans in slightly. "I've been watching him watch you all weekend. Whatever's between you two—it's not nothing."

Your heart is hammering. "He said—last night, he said he came here because of me. But then he said he didn't know if he should have. That he didn't know if it was appropriate."

Understanding dawns in Petra's eyes. "Because you were his student."

You nod.

"That's Levi." She says it with a mix of affection and exasperation. "He's too thoughtful for his own good sometimes. Too responsible. He would never just dismiss the dynamic that existed between you, even though you've graduated. Even though that line is technically gone."

"So he's been holding back because—"

"Because he respects you too much to just ignore what you were to each other." Petra squeezes your hand. "He's been wrestling with whether it's right to pursue something with someone who was once his student. Whether the power dynamic ever really goes away. Whether he'd be taking advantage of something he shouldn't."

Your chest aches. "That's why he's been so distant."

"Not because he's not interested." Petra's voice is firm. "Because he's terrified of doing the wrong thing. Of crossing a line that matters to him." She pauses. "But here's the thing: you're not his student anymore. You graduated. You're equals now. And if you both want this—if you're both choosing it freely—then the line has been crossed. Legitimately."

You're quiet for a moment, processing.

"I think you should talk to him," Petra says softly. "Actually talk to him. Tell him what you want. Because I can promise you, he's been tying himself in knots trying to figure out if he's allowed to want you back."

She stands, stretching. "For what it's worth? I think you should both stop overthinking and just be honest with each other. Before the weekend ends."

She disappears upstairs, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts.

The morning passes in a blur. You move through breakfast and conversation on autopilot, your mind elsewhere. Levi appears eventually, looking like he slept as poorly as you did. His eyes find yours across the kitchen, questioning, conflicted.

You need to talk to him.

But the group has plans—one last walk to the lake, despite the rain. Everyone bundles up and troops outside, and you find yourself at the back of the group, trying to work up the courage.

Levi falls into step beside you.

"You're quiet," he observes.

"Thinking."

"About?"

You take a breath. "About what you said last night. On the deck."

He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "I shouldn't have said that. It was—"

"True?" You stop walking, forcing him to stop too. The others are ahead, out of earshot. "Was it true?"

His jaw tightens. "Yes."

"All of it?" You look up at him. "Including the part where you don't know if it's appropriate?"

"Yes." He's looking at you with that same conflicted expression from last night. "I don't—I don't know how to navigate this. I don't know if I should."

"Petra told me," you say quietly. "This morning. That you two aren't together. That you've been holding back because you're worried about the ethics of it. About whether it's right."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or relief.

"She's right," he admits. "I have been. I came here hoping—" He stops. "Hoping to see if there was something between us. But the moment I saw you, I realized I don't know if I have the right to pursue it. You were my student. I was in a position of authority over you. And even though that's over, even though you've graduated—"

"The dynamic mattered," you finish for him.

"Yes." He looks almost grateful that you understand. "It mattered. It still matters. And I don't know if it's something I can just dismiss because it's convenient."

The rain is picking up, cold and insistent, but neither of you moves.

"What if I told you," you say carefully, "that I don't think you'd be taking advantage? That I'm choosing this freely. That I'm not your student anymore, and I haven't been for days, and the line between us is gone."

His eyes search yours. "Is it? Is it really gone?"

"Yes." You step closer. "I graduated. I'm not in your class. You have no authority over me. We're equals now. And if we both want this—if we're both choosing it—then it's not wrong."

"I've spent a year being careful," he says quietly. "A year not crossing that line. Not even thinking about crossing it. And now it's gone, and I don't know how to—" He stops. "I don't know how to stop being careful."

"Then don't." You reach out, your fingers brushing his. "Be careful. Be thoughtful. Be all the things you are. But don't hold back because you're afraid of doing the wrong thing. Because you're not. You're doing the right thing by respecting what we were. But we're not that anymore."

He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes on your joined hands.

"I came here for you," he says finally. "I came here because I couldn't stay away. Because I've spent a year noticing you and pretending I didn't. Because the moment Erwin mentioned you'd be here, I knew I had to see you. Outside of that classroom. Outside of that dynamic." He looks up, and there's something raw in his expression. "I came here terrified that I was crossing a line I shouldn't cross. But I came anyway."

"And I'm glad you did." Your voice is barely above a whisper. "Because I've spent a year noticing you too. And pretending I didn't. And now we're here, and the line is gone, and I don't want to pretend anymore."

The space between you feels electric.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits. "I don't do this. Any of this. I don't—" He gestures helplessly. "I don't know how to do this."

"Neither do I." You step closer. "But maybe we can figure it out together."

He's looking at you like he's memorizing your face. Like he's trying to decide something. And then, slowly, carefully, he reaches up and cups your face in his hands.

"Tell me this is okay," he says quietly. "Tell me you're sure."

"I'm sure." You lean into his touch. "I've never been more sure of anything."

And then he's kissing you.

It's not desperate or rushed. It's careful and deliberate and full of everything he's been holding back. His hands are gentle on your face, and you can feel the restraint in the way he kisses you—like he's still being thoughtful, still being responsible, even now.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"We're going to have to walk back with the others," you say, a little dazed.

"I know."

"They're going to know something happened."

"Probably." He doesn't look concerned. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, gentle. "Is that okay?"

You nod. "Yeah. It's okay."

The walk back is quiet. The group has already returned to the house, and you and Levi trail behind, not touching but close enough that your hands brush occasionally. Neither of you says much. There's too much to say, and also nothing that needs saying.

Inside, everyone's gathered in the living room, drying off and warming up. Hange takes one look at you both and grins.

"Have a nice walk?"

"It was fine," you say, too quickly.

Jean snorts. "You're both soaked."

"It's raining," Levi says flatly, which makes everyone laugh.

The afternoon unfolds in comfortable chaos—packing, cleaning up, the slow process of preparing to leave. You catch Petra's eye at one point, and she winks. Erwin looks pleased with himself, like he's orchestrated something, which he probably has.

As evening approaches, people start saying their goodbyes. Jean and Oluo leave first, then Mike. Hange hugs everyone enthusiastically and makes you promise to stay in touch. Petra gives you a knowing smile and whispers, "Good luck," before she goes.

Soon it's just you, Erwin, and Levi.

"I should head out too," Erwin says, grabbing his keys. "Got an early meeting tomorrow. You two good to lock up?"

"We've got it," Levi says.

Erwin grins. "I'm sure you do." He hugs you goodbye. "Congrats again on graduating. And—" He glances between you and Levi. "Whatever this is? I'm happy for you both."

Then he's gone, and it's just the two of you in the quiet house.

You end up in the reading nook—where it all started, really. The rain has finally stopped, and the evening light is soft and grey through the windows. You're curled up on the window seat, and Levi's beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch.

"So," you say eventually. "What happens now?"

"I don't know." He's honest about it. "I don't have a plan. I'm not good at this."

"Neither am I."

"We could—" He pauses. "We could try. See what happens. If you want."

"I want." You lean into him slightly. "I'm terrified, but I want."

"Good." His arm comes around you, pulling you closer. "Because I'm terrified too."

You sit like that for a long time, watching the light fade over the lake. Eventually, he tilts your face up and kisses you again—slower this time, tender and careful and full of promise.

You don't know what comes next. Don't know how this will work, or if it will work, or what it means to start something with someone who was your professor just days ago.

But you know this: the way he holds you feels right. The way he looks at you feels real. And maybe that's enough to start with.

"Stay," you whisper against his mouth. "Tonight. Stay."

"Okay."

The fire crackles in the other room. Outside, the world is dark and wet and quiet. Inside, in this small warm space, something new is beginning.

You don't have all the answers. You don't know what tomorrow looks like.

But you have this moment, and his hand in yours, and the careful hope that maybe—just maybe—some risks are worth taking.

The weekend ends not with certainty, but with possibility.

And sometimes, that's enough.