Work Text:
The rivalry between Professor Eloise Bridgerton and Professor Phillip Crane had become so deeply embedded within Mayfair University culture that newer staff members often assumed it was part of the institution’s history.
The University stretched across old stone buildings covered in ivy, crowded courtyards, research greenhouses, and winding brick paths perpetually occupied by overworked students carrying coffee large enough to qualify as emotional support. The Humanities Building stood on the east side of campus. Biology occupied the west.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, the staff car park sat directly between them.
Which meant Eloise saw Phillip Crane almost every morning.
He had arrived straight from the university’s botanical research greenhouse on the edge of campus, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark green button-down slightly wrinkled, heavy boots still carrying traces of soil.
Eloise did not turn around. Mostly because she valued what remained of her patience.
“You ignored my email.” Phillip’s voice carried easily through the crisp morning air.
Eloise kept walking.
“I read your email,” she corrected. “That is not the same thing.”
Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she reached the pavement, coffee in one hand and a canvas bag overflowing with papers hanging from her shoulder.
“You still never replied, darling.”
Eloise finally glanced back.
Phillip was crossing the car park toward her carrying a stack of folders tucked under one arm. Completely unaffected by the freezing weather in a dark green jacket that made his eyes look offensively pretty.
He looked annoyingly awake for eight in the morning.
She narrowed her eyes.
“You sent me twelve pages criticizing the interdisciplinary ethics proposal.”
“I sent constructive observations.”
“You called half the committee intellectually dishonest.”
“One should never fear accuracy in academia.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” Phillip replied mildly, falling into step beside her, “you continue speaking to me voluntarily.”
Eloise nearly walked directly into a bicycle rack.
“Careful, Professor.”
“Oh, go cultivate something.”
“I already do. Professionally.”
She hated him. Truly. Profoundly.
At least, that was what Eloise told herself every time she found him standing in the greenhouse with his sleeves rolled up while explaining plant cellular adaptation to students with effortless enthusiasm.
It was difficult to properly despise a man who looked genuinely delighted discussing root systems.
And Phillip, worse luck for them both, found Eloise endlessly fascinating. Not that he would ever admit it aloud.
But there was something almost electric about watching her teach.
Her lectures were never passive. Students argued in her classroom, challenging each other and her. She paced while speaking, hands moving animatedly, eyes bright with conviction.
Phillip had once passed by an open lecture hall and accidentally stood outside the door for twenty minutes listening to her dismantle historical gender expectations in political institutions.
He had missed his own department meeting afterward.
The problem, Phillip often thought, was that Eloise Bridgerton was at her most attractive when furious.
“Interdisciplinary funding should not overwhelmingly favor STEM initiatives,” Eloise argued from across the conference table. “Social sciences directly shape public policy, labor structures, educational systems…”
“Yes,” Phillip interrupted calmly, flipping through paperwork. “But unlike biology, your department rarely requires million-dollar laboratory equipment.”
The room went silent immediately. Several professors lowered their eyes.
Eloise leaned back slowly in her chair.
“You know,” Eloise said sweetly, “for someone who studies ecosystems, you possess a remarkable inability to understand social infrastructure.”
Phillip rested one elbow against the table.
“And for someone in political sciences, you become remarkably authoritarian when contradicted.”
A muffled choking sound came from somewhere near the end of the table. Neither of them looked away from each other.
It was, objectively speaking, an insane way for two grown academics with doctoral degrees to behave.
Which perhaps explained why students were obsessed with them.
Professor Crane always attends Bridgerton’s guest lectures. Professor Bridgerton somehow appears near the greenhouse despite claiming to hate biology.
The way they argued like people who knew each other too well.
Which was precisely why the student café near the humanities building was unusually crowded for eight in the morning. Phones rested discreetly on tables. Coffee cups sat abandoned.
And several undergraduate students were openly pretending to study while staring toward the staff queue.
“A tenner says Bridgerton snaps first today,” a political science major whispered.
“Absolutely not,” another replied. “Crane’s wearing boots.”
“Oh, he came armed.” A third gasped dramatically.
Phillip Crane, unfortunately for the stability of Eloise Bridgerton’s blood pressure, looked exceptionally good that morning. Six foot something of an insufferably calm plant scientist standing by the counter with one hand in the pocket of his jeans, talking to the barista with that unfairly warm smile he only seemed to use on literally everyone except her.
One of her students noticed her expression and immediately texted someone under the table. Three phones lit up simultaneously.
“Professor Bridgerton,” Phillip said the moment he noticed her. “You look annoyed already. We haven’t even spoken yet.”
Eloise placed her bag onto the counter with unnecessary force.
“Then cherish the silence while it lasts.”
Behind them, someone coughed suspiciously loudly to hide a laugh.
Phillip accepted his coffee from the barista with a polite smile before turning toward her fully.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “I was thinking about your department this morning.”
“Oh, God.”
“That was also my reaction.”
A student choked on iced coffee.
Another one slapped a hand over their mouth.
Eloise narrowed her eyes.
“You woke up thinking about me?”
Phillip leaned lazily against the counter.
“That is a deeply concerning interpretation of what I said, darling.”
“It’s the only interesting interpretation.” His mouth twitched with an almost-smile.
Phillip took a slow sip of coffee, still watching her over the rim of the cup.
“I’m simply saying,” he continued, “that I fail to understand how political sciences insist on calling themselves sciences.”
“Oh my God. Oh, he’s dead.” A student whispered at a table.
Eloise turned toward him with terrifying calm.
“Repeat that, Agroboy.”
“SHE SAID IT.” Someone else whispered.
Phillip sighed as though burdened by great suffering.
“I truly regret telling one student about the Defender.”
“You drive a giant four-wheel-drive vehicle and wear checked shirts voluntarily,” Eloise informed him. “You handed them the nickname yourself.”
“It is a practical vehicle.”
“You teach plant biology, not cattle ranching.”
“That greenhouse is seven acres.”
“That is somehow the least surprising thing about you.”
Phillip stepped slightly closer then, lowering his voice just enough that she hated herself for immediately paying closer attention.
“You know,” he murmured, “you get very eloquent when you’re angry.”
“Professor Crane,” she said sweetly, “are you flirting with me again or simply being unbearable on purpose?”
“Those are not mutually exclusive.”
Somewhere in the café, a student actually smacked the table in excitement.
By mid-afternoon, Eloise had already drafted three separate emails arguing against the university’s latest administrative decision.
She deleted all three.
Mostly because every version contained the phrase: I would rather die. Which, according to Penwood from administration, was “not constructive staff communication.”
With growing irritation, Eloise shoved her office chair backward and stared at the printed notice sitting on her desk.
INTERDISCIPLINARY OUTREACH INITIATIVE
staff Leads: Professor Eloise Bridgerton
Professor Phillip Crane
She snatched the paper and marched across campus with the focused determination of someone moments away from committing academic violence.
The biology greenhouse sat near the far west side of campus, separated from the main university buildings by winding stone pathways and an absurd amount of ivy.
The humidity hit her immediately, a heavy blanket of warm air carrying the scent of damp earth and the sharp, green aroma of living things.
And there, under the filtered glass ceiling, was Phillip Crane. Of course, he seemed at ease there, with his sleeves rolled up around his biceps, safety glasses perched in his slightly messy hair, one gloved hand holding a tray of seedlings while two students listened intently nearby.
“…root deterioration usually starts below the surface,” Phillip explained calmly. “If you only pay attention to visible damage, you notice the problem too late.”
Eloise stopped walking, captivated by the image of him there before her eyes. There were moments, few but irritatingly striking, when she completely forgot how he managed to get under her skin and drive her crazy.
Students around Phillip never seemed nervous the way they did with other professors. They asked questions freely, interrupted him constantly. And Phillip answered every single one with infuriating patience.
One of the students noticed Eloise before him, their eyes widened immediately.
“Oh my God,” they whispered.
The second student turned around.
Phillip glanced over his shoulder and smiled, not that smug little smile he reserved for their arguments, but a genuine smile, so warm that it momentarily erased any coherent thought from Eloise's mind.
“Professor Bridgerton,” he said, pulling off one glove. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Eloise held up the paper between two fingers.
“You.”
Phillip looked delighted by this answer.
The two students beside him exchanged a look so charged with gossip that Eloise immediately regretted entering the greenhouse at all.
“Don’t,” he told them without looking away from Eloise.
“We didn’t say anything,” one student defended weakly.
“You were about to.”
The student grinned shamelessly.
Eloise crossed her arms.
“Your students are intolerable.”
Phillip handed the tray of seedlings to one of them carefully.
“They learn from their environment.”
“You think you're so much more clever than you really are.”
“I’m clever. You’re simply difficult to impress, darling.” She rolled her eyes at the nickname.
“I am impossible to impress.”
Phillip’s gaze lingered on her for half a second too long.
“I know.”
Something about the way he said it made warmth creep unpleasantly into Eloise’s chest.
Phillip pulled off his second glove and nodded toward the far end of the greenhouse.
“Walk with me?”
“That depends entirely on whether you intend to annoy me.”
“Always.”
“Well,” Eloise sighed dramatically, “at least you’re honest.”
The greenhouse stretched endlessly around them as they walked between rows of research stations and towering shelves overflowing with plants. Rain tapped softly against the glass ceiling overhead, muted and distant beneath the warm hum of greenhouse fans.
Eloise had expected chaos the first time she entered Phillip’s workspace. Instead, everything inside the greenhouse carried the same strangely calm rhythm he did: orderly labels and color-coded trays, research notes written in maddeningly precise handwriting. It irritated her deeply that his organizational system was genuinely impressive.
“You alphabetized your soil samples,” she said accusingly.
“Yes?” Phillip glanced sideways at her.
“That is deeply unwell behavior.”
“Says the woman who color-codes theoretical frameworks.”
“That is academically necessary.”
“So is this.”
Eloise stopped beside a long table crowded with flowering plants.
“You realize,” she said carefully, “that most people would not describe plant spreadsheets as exciting.”
Phillip rested one hand against the edge of the table.
“They’re not for most people.” That quiet sincerity he dropped into conversations without warning, as though he genuinely did not realize the effect it had on people.
A student hurried past them carrying equipment before abruptly slowing. Their eyes moved between Eloise and Phillip.
Phillip sighed immediately.
“No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yet I know you all too well."
The student pressed their lips together heroically.
“…the campus betting pool currently says you’re spending more time here voluntarily.”
Eloise blinked.
“The campus what?” The student fled instantly.
Phillip rubbed a hand briefly over his face.
“I’m choosing to believe they’re discussing research collaboration.”
“That's exactly what I came to talk about.” She handed him the pamphlet, still clutched in her hands, which she had unknowingly crumpled as they walked.
Phillip took it carefully, his eyes skimmed the page once.
“Oh, this is going to upset you enormously.”
“It already has.”
His smile widened slightly.
“Interdisciplinary Outreach Initiative,” he read aloud. “How ambitious.”
“Catastrophic.”
Phillip continued reading while they resumed walking through the greenhouse aisles.
“The university wants us to develop a semester-long public engagement program,” he summarized. “Joint lectures, student mentorships, cross-department workshops.”
“Yes, I can read, Phillip.”
“I’m helping you emotionally process.”
“I would rather walk into traffic.”
“You’re being so dramatic, darling.”
“They paired political sciences with botany!”
Phillip looked genuinely thoughtful.
“In fairness, ecosystems and social systems share several structural similarities.”
Eloise glanced sideways at him.
They stopped near one of the larger research tables while Phillip flipped through the remaining pages.
“The administration probably wants broader student engagement,” he said. “STEM enrollment has increased. Humanities funding hasn’t.”
“Yes, because universities are obsessed with marketability and allergic to critical thought.”
Phillip rested one hip against the table.
“You say that as though biology departments aren’t constantly fighting for survival too.”
Eloise opened her mouth.
“…fair.”
His eyebrows lifted immediately.
“Did you just agree with me?”
“Don’t make me regret it.”
“I need a moment to document this academically.” Eloise rolled her eyes, but something close to amusement tugged at her mouth. “The point is that this initiative is clearly administrative nonsense designed to force departments into artificial collaboration.”
“Possibly.”
“Possibly?”
Phillip folded the pamphlet once before setting it aside and turning to look at her fully. For once, there was no teasing in his expression.
“Or,” he said calmly, “they recognized that your department is very good at getting people to care about social structures, while mine is good at explaining how interconnected systems survive.”
Phillip shrugged one shoulder lightly.
“Seems logical to pair them.”
Eloise had prepared herself for smugness, their usual arguments, for Phillip making one of his insufferable comments about political sciences.
She had not prepared for any of that.
“You really think this could work?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Phillip looked faintly surprised by the question.
“Yes.”
Eloise hated the strange warmth that created in her chest. Probably acid reflux.
“Besides,” Phillip added, “your students already spend half their time harassing mine.”
“They’re conducting sociological observation.”
“They stole one of my department’s whiteboards.”
“They returned it.”
“It was covered in feminist theory.”
“That sounds improved, actually.”
Phillip laughed then.
The sound caught Eloise entirely off guard.
He was looking at her now with softened eyes and the kind of easy familiarity that only existed between people who had spent far too much time orbiting one another.
Eloise cleared her throat.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.”
“You sound like a documentary narrator.”
Phillip’s mouth curved slowly.
“Rare sighting,” he murmured. “Professor Bridgerton appears relaxed in natural habitat.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” His smile only widened.
Which was precisely why Eloise left the greenhouse twenty minutes later feeling distinctly unsettled.
The rain had strengthened by then, tapping harder against the glass ceilings and ivy-covered windows across campus as she crossed back toward the humanities building.
Unfortunately, the walk did absolutely nothing to restore her composure.
Eloise dropped heavily into her office chair and stared at the half-written lecture notes spread across her desk. Normally, she could hyperfocus through almost anything.
But right now her thoughts kept drifting back toward warm greenhouse air, rolled sleeves, and Phillip saying that seems logical to pair them.
With growing irritation, she opened her laptop and attempted to answer emails.
Outside, the storm worsened steadily throughout the evening.
By eight-fifteen, Eloise was still sitting cross-legged in her office chair furiously annotating student essays purely to avoid acknowledging the fact that she was hiding from her own thoughts.
A sharp knock sounded against her open office door and she looked at Phillip leaned casually against the doorway, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket.
“How are you still here?”
“I work here.”
“It’s past eight.”
“What’s your point, Crane?”
For a moment neither of them spoke. Rain thundered violently against the windows behind him.
Phillip’s gaze moved toward the stack of essays surrounding her desk.
“You’ve been marking essays this entire time?”
“I was being productive.”
“You were stress-working, darling.”
Eloise narrowed her eyes immediately.
“I do not stress-work.”
Phillip looked around the office slowly.
There were papers scattered all over her desk, in several piles that he was sure had a logic that only Eloise would be able to find; in the farthest corner, almost stacked on top of each other, three empty cups, on top of an item turned upside down, with coffee spill marks on the sides.
“…fascinating theory.”
Phillip stepped away from the door, approaching her desk as if he were feeling at home.
“Well,” he said lightly, “you should probably head home before the storm gets worse.”
Eloise waved dismissively, slinging her bag over her shoulder.
“My car can survive rain, Phillip. It’s not made of sugar.”
Phillip laughed quietly.
“Come on, darling,” he said softly. “I’ll walk you out.”
Most of campus had emptied nearly an hour ago, leaving the old humanities building unusually quiet except for the occasional distant rumble of thunder.
Rain poured mercilessly from the sky, instantly soaking the edges of Eloise’s coat as she hurried toward her car.
Phillip unlocked his deep green Defender beside her with a sharp beep.
“Need help?”
“I am perfectly capable of surviving precipitation.”
“You know very well that was not my question.” Eloise ignored him and yanked open her car door.
Two minutes later, she sat frozen behind the steering wheel listening to the engine fail spectacularly. Eloise lowered her forehead against the steering wheel.
From outside came a knock against the window.
Phillip stood beneath the rain in his dark jacket, one hand shoved into his pocket, looking deeply unsurprised by the universe.
Eloise cracked the window reluctantly.
“If you laugh,” she warned, “I will dedicate the rest of my academic career to destroying you.”
“You can’t stay here,” he continued over the sound of rain. “The storm’s getting worse.”
Eloise exhaled sharply, every instinct she possessed resisted this. Not because she disliked Phillip, that was becoming increasingly difficult, unfortunately. But because she was beginning to suspect that trusting him might genuinely ruin her life.
Thunder rolled overhead again.
She grabbed her things from inside the car and locked it, then went with Phillip to his Defender.
He opened the passenger door for her and then hurried to the other side to get in as well, immediately turning on the heater.
Warm air slowly filled the vehicle, fog gathering faintly along the windows as rain battered the roof overhead.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Eloise pulled off her damp coat with visible annoyance.
“This vehicle is absurdly large.”
Phillip adjusted the heater vents toward her side without looking.
“It’s practical.”
“You transport approximately three plants and an emotional support shovel.”
“That shovel has earned my respect.”
Eloise snorted softly before she could stop herself.
Phillip glanced sideways immediately.
“There it is.”
“What is?”
“That sound.”
“What sound?”
“You laugh at my jokes instead of threatening my life.”
“I still might.”
Rain blurred the campus lights beyond the windshield as Phillip pulled slowly out of the car park.
Eloise curled one leg beneath herself slightly in the passenger seat, watching droplets race down the glass.
He drove with one hand resting loosely against the steering wheel, the other tapping occasionally against the console in time with the low music humming through the speakers.
Eloise glanced toward him.
“You listen to folk music.”
Phillip looked personally offended.
“Is this really a surprise to you?”
“You absolutely own at least one playlist called something tragic like Rainy Forest Mornings.”
“It’s called Greenhouse Sessions, actually.”
Eloise turned toward him slowly.
“You told me that voluntarily.”
Phillip laughed quietly again.
A red light forced the Defender to stop briefly.
“You’re freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
Without arguing further, he reached into the back seat and pulled forward a thick dark sweater.
“Here.”
“Phillip…” Eloise stared at him.
“Take the jumper, darling.”
He put it over her, like a blanket.
“Please, Eloise, take it before you catch pneumonia.” She rolled her eyes mostly to survive emotionally, but took it.
That felt significantly more intimate than it should have.
Rain continued pounding steadily against the windshield as Phillip pulled the Defender through the near-empty streets.
The heater hummed softly between them.
Eloise tugged the sleeves of his jumper further over her hands, pointedly avoiding the deeply inconvenient fact that it smelled like him.
Outside, streetlights blurred gold against the storm. She glanced absently through the window at the familiar intersection ahead.
“…why are you taking Mercer?”
Phillip barely looked away from the road.
“Because Flood Street is impossible during storms.”
“It’s still faster than this route.”
“Not tonight.”
Eloise watched another set of headlights crawl through the rain ahead and immediately clicked her tongue.
“No, no, move over into the left-hand lane.”
He sighed softly, shaking his head.
“You always ordering me about.” Phillip sounded entirely accustomed to listening to her.
Eloise looked at him suspiciously.
“You did exactly what I said.”
“You were correct.”
“That’s deeply unsettling behavior from you.”
Phillip’s mouth twitched.
“I contain multitudes.”
Rain drummed harder overhead as the Defender turned down another street.
Eloise glanced outside again.
“…how do you know where I live?”
Phillip looked genuinely confused for half a second.
“Oh.”
“Oh?” Eloise repeated. “That is not a reassuring answer.”
A smile threatened at the corner of his mouth.
“You told me.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You did.”
“When?”
Phillip stopped briefly at another red light before answering.
“Staff dinner last semester.”
Eloise frowned, trying to remember.
“You were arguing with Professor Halworth about public transportation funding,” Phillip continued calmly. “Very passionately.”
“That narrows nothing down.”
“You said your neighborhood bus route had been reduced again and called the city council intellectually bankrupt.”
“…that does sound like me.”
Phillip nodded once.
“You also mentioned getting lost near the river because every street in that area curves for no reason.”
Eloise stared at him.
“You remember all that?”
Phillip glanced sideways at her then back toward the road.
“I'm particularly attuned to the things you say, darling.”
Eloise looked away quickly toward the window, tightening the sleeves of his jumper around her fingers.
By the time Phillip finally pulled into her street, the storm had become almost violent. Rain hammered against the pavement hard enough to blur the building entrances entirely.
Eloise hesitated as he parked.
“Well,” she said finally, gathering her bag slowly, “thank you for the rescue, Agroboy.”
Phillip looked faintly offended.
“You keep using that nickname as if you meant something else.”
“I don't want to say anything other than that you continue driving a huge vehicle designed for mountain expeditions.”
Eloise looked toward the building entrance once more before exhaling quietly.
“Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?”
Phillip blinked enough for her to realize she had genuinely surprised him. Eloise immediately wanted to throw herself into traffic.
“It’s raining,” she said quickly. “And you drove me home. Social convention demands I offer something warm.”
Phillip’s mouth curved slowly.
“Social convention?”
“Don’t ruin this for me.”
To his credit, he looked genuinely thoughtful for a moment before nodding once.
“I’d like a cuppa.”
Her apartment was warm in a way Phillip had not expected. Books covered nearly every available surface. Some neatly shelved, others stacked precariously beside chairs and beneath windows. Papers crowded the dining table. A half-finished article sat abandoned on the couch beneath an aggressively annotated copy of The Second Sex.
There were framed photographs along the hallway wall. Family. Friends. Moments frozen mid-laughter.
And somehow that affected him more than he expected.
“You have approximately four hundred books here,” he observed.
Eloise disappeared briefly into the kitchen.
“Double that, probably.”
Phillip ran his fingers lightly along a bookshelf as he passed. Political theory. History. Philosophy. Gender studies. Botany.
“You own three books on plant ecosystems.”
“They were for research.”
Phillip smiled to himself.
“Of course they were.”
Eloise reappeared carrying two steaming mugs and immediately narrowed her eyes at his expression.
“Don’t start.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“That has never stopped you before.”
She handed him one of the mugs carefully.
Their fingers brushed briefly.
The storm raged louder outside as they settled onto opposite ends of the couch, steam curling softly between them.
This felt more intimate than any argument they had ever had.
Phillip leaned back slightly, glancing toward the rain-soaked windows.
“You know,” he said casually, “I can drive you tomorrow.”
Eloise looked over immediately.
“That seems unwise.”
“You’re currently carless.”
“Yes, but if students see us arriving together, they’ll become completely unbearable.”
Phillip took a slow sip of tea.
“They already are.”
“That is not encouragement.”
His gaze flicked toward her over the rim of the mug.
“What are you worried about, exactly?”
Eloise frowned.
“I’m not worried.”
Phillip’s mouth curved faintly.
“Are you afraid they’ll assume you spent the night with me?” He sounded more sincere than teasing.
And to Eloise’s immense horror, warmth rushed through her entire body so quickly it felt almost violent. Because suddenly all she could picture was spending the night with him.
Phillip watched her carefully now, something quieter settling into his expression as realization slowly dawned across both their faces simultaneously.
"You say things so casually without thinking," she tried to regain her composure, still feeling her cheeks burning.
"Who said I didn't think about it?”
Eloise became suddenly aware of how close he was. Close enough that she could see the faint exhaustion beneath his eyes after the long day, to notice the way his fingers tightened slightly around the mug. Close enough that kissing him would be frighteningly easy.
The realization sent heat rushing through her all over again. Phillip’s gaze dropped briefly toward her mouth. And for one suspended moment, she genuinely thought he was going to kiss her.
Instead, he exhaled quietly and leaned back against the couch.
“Well,” he murmured after a moment, voice softer now, “it’s late.”
Eloise stared at him, because apparently her brain had stopped functioning entirely.
Phillip set his empty mug carefully onto the coffee table before standing.
And absurdly, ridiculously, a sharp flicker of disappointment moved through her chest.
Phillip grabbed his jacket from the armchair near the door, then paused when he noticed she still hadn’t moved from the couch.
“You’re frowning at me.”
“You’re leaving.”
His eyebrows lifted slightly, visibly surprised by the accusation.
“I was under the impression most of our interactions ended with you wanting me gone.”
He stepped closer again then, stopping just beside the couch. Close enough that Eloise had to tilt her head back slightly to look at him.
Phillip reached down slowly, fingers brushing lightly against the sleeve of his jumper she still wore.
“You should sleep,” he said quietly.
Eloise hated how gentle he sounded and even more that she wanted him to stay.
Phillip’s thumb brushed once against the fabric near her wrist before he finally stepped back.
“Goodnight, Eloise.”
And then he left.
The apartment door clicked shut softly behind him. Silence settled immediately afterward.
She remained motionless on the couch for several long seconds staring at the empty doorway.
Then, very slowly, she pulled the sleeves of his jumped over her hands again and dropped backward dramatically against the cushions.
“Oh,” she muttered to the ceiling.
By eight the next morning, she stood outside her building clutching a travel mug of coffee while trying very hard not to think about it.
The familiar low rumble of his Defender turning onto her street sent immediate betrayal through her nervous system.
Phillip pulled smoothly to the curb beside her before leaning across the seat to push open the passenger door.
“You’re late,” Eloise informed him while climbing in.
“It’s eight-oh-two.”
“You’re proving my point.”
Phillip looked suspiciously amused, noticing that she was wearing his jacket, but saying nothing.
The drive toward campus felt entirely different in daylight.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Phillip said suddenly.
Eloise frowned at the window.
“What thing?”
“Staring at me while pretending not to.”
“I was judging your driving.”
“You always judge my driving, darling.”
“Because your routes are terrible.”
Phillip laughed quietly.
When Mayfair University finally came into view through the windshield, Eloise noticed the students immediately.
Clusters of them crowded the pathways between buildings holding coffee cups and backpacks.
Phillip parked near the staff lot, at least twelve students were openly pretending not to stare.
She climbed out first, immediately pulling her coat tighter around herself, but several students noticed instantly she was wearing his jumper underneath.
One girl physically grabbed her friend’s arm.
Phillip came around the Defender a second later, locking the doors behind him.
“You’re walking too fast,” he observed calmly.
“Because the vultures are gathering.”
“That’s rude.”
“You encouraged them.”
Phillip fell easily into step beside her as they crossed campus together.
His hand brushed briefly against the small of her back while avoiding another puddle and Eloise nearly lost the ability to form coherent thought.
“Oh my God, this is not a drill.” someone whispered.
“SHE’S WEARING HIS CLOTHES.”
Eloise pointed aggressively forward without looking at the students.
“If one more person says something, I’m resigning.”
“You’d miss academia within hours.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
They reached the café near the humanities building still quietly arguing about road infrastructure and whether his music choices constituted a human rights violation.
Phillip, traitorously unaffected by public humiliation, held the café door open for her.
Eloise marched inside.
The barista looked seconds away from passing out.
Two students near the windows had already opened what appeared to be a shared notes app titled: OH MY GOD.
Phillip ordered their coffees before Eloise could protest.
When they finally stepped back outside, the morning air felt crisp and bright after the previous night’s storm.
Students still lingered nearby pretending to study.
At the intersection between the humanities and biology paths, Eloise slowed slightly.
“This is where we stop being publicly embarrassing,” she announced.
Phillip looked unconvinced.
“Mm.”
Eloise pointed a warning finger at him.
“Don’t ‘mm’ me.”
His smile appeared slowly this time.
“Do you need help with your car later?”
The softness in his voice caught her off guard immediately.
Eloise cleared her throat.
“My brother’s picking it up before work.”
Phillip nodded once.
“Do you need another ride home tonight?”
Eloise looked up at him. At the fact that Phillip Crane had been standing beside her all semester waiting for her to stop running away from this.
And maybe she finally had.
“Only,” she said slowly, “if I’m allowed to change the music.”
Phillip stepped closer.
“Bold demand.”
“And no ridiculous routes.”
“Bossy.” His voice had gone softer now.
The campus around them seemed to hold its collective breath.
Then Phillip’s hand slid carefully against her waist, drawing her closer with visible restraint, like he was still giving her time to change her mind.
Eloise didn’t. She grabbed the front of his jacket and kissed him, right there in the middle of campus.
For one perfect second, everything went completely silent.
Then the entire courtyard erupted. Actual screaming.
“I TOLD YOU!” One student shouted.
“THE BETTING POOL IS CLOSED!”
Phillip pulled back just enough to look down at her, visibly stunned despite the smile breaking across his face.
Eloise held his gaze, letting the silence stretch until the cheering of the students felt like background noise. She watched the way his expression shifted from surprise to something deeper, more intense. She let him wait, enjoying the rare moment where the ever-composed Professor Crane looked completely out of his depth.
“Don’t get smug about this,” she warned, narrowing her eyes.
“Darling,” Phillip murmured, still entirely too close, “I earned the right to be smug after you kissed me in front of the whole campus.”
“That's only because you lacked the nerve to kiss me last night,” she whispered, leaning in until her lips brushed his ear.
“I submit myself to all punishments for this inexcusable crime.”
She rolled her eyes and turned away from him, walking in the opposite direction from the greenhouses, ignoring the students' stares, knowing full well that it would be an almost impossible day to teach.