"Smile. Father wants this for the newsletter," Louis said, smirking.
Flash. Flash.
The crowd parted. The procession of Professors exited the building, a sea of red robes against the grey stone. Sebastian walked with Henderson. He saw the Baker family. He hesitated for a microsecond, then adjusted his mask and walked straight toward them.
"Professor Smith, Henderson! Over here!" Henry called, spotting him.
Sebastian approached, the wind catching his scarlet robes, making him look devastatingly handsome and intimidating all at once.
"Mr. Baker."
"Thank you for coming over," Henry said. "And for looking after Emily. I know she's... a handful."
"Louis Baker," Louis said, extending a hand to Sebastian. "I've heard... interesting things about your research, Professor."
"Shaking Louis's hand firmly, Sebastian said, "A pleasure."
Then he turned to Emily. The world seemed to stop. The noise of the crowd, Henry's blustering, Louis's cynicism, all of it faded.
"Congratulations, Miss Baker." A beat. "Or should I say... Master Baker?"
He extended his hand. Formal. Professional. Emily took it, his hand warm against the cold air.
"Thank you, Professor."
As they shook hands, Sebastian's thumb pressed firmly into the back of her hand. A squeeze. A pulse. A silent promise. He held the handshake for one second too long, then released her hand.
"We're heading to Midsummer House for a celebratory dinner," Henry said. "Tasting menu. Why don't you join us? It would be an honor."
Emily stopped breathing. She looked at Sebastian. Don't say yes.
Sebastian looked at Henry, then glanced briefly at Emily.
"That is a very generous offer, Henry. But I'm afraid I must decline."
"Prior engagement?" Henry said, disappointed.
"Yes. An important one." He looked straight at Emily. "I have a meeting I've been waiting a month to attend. I can't be late."
Emily felt a flush of heat rise up her neck. Louis narrowed his eyes slightly, sensing something, but shrugged it off.
"Enjoy! You've earned it, Emily," Sebastian said. He nodded to the men and walked away, his red robe disappearing into the grey mist of King's Parade.
Emily watched him go, her heart pounding in her throat.
"Intense guy," Louis said, checking his phone. "A bit theatrical, isn't he?"
"He's a genius," Henry said. "Come on, the car is waiting."
Henry and Louis turned toward the waiting Bentley. Emily lingered. She felt her phone buzz in the pocket of her gown, inside the heavy fabric. She pulled it out. Message from Sebastian.
Enjoy the celebration with your family. I'll pick you up once you're done. Dress warm. I have somewhere to show you.
Emily looked at the message. Then she looked at her father and brother waiting by the expensive car. She took a deep breath of the cold air. She wasn't their little girl anymore. And she wasn't Sebastian's student anymore.
She typed back. OK.
She shoved the phone in her pocket, hiked up her gown, and ran to catch up with her family.
❦
Eleven at night, the fog had rolled in thick and heavy, wrapping the iron gates of the Baker estate in a ghostly shroud. A small side door opened with a heavy clang. Emily stepped out, wearing oversized jeans and a thick cable knit sweater, her face still bearing the makeup of the evening. She leaned against the brick wall, exhaling a plume of white breath. She looked drained.
A pair of headlights flickered on in the darkness across the street, not bright, just a signal. The silhouette of an Aston Martin sat quietly under an old oak tree. Emily pushed off the wall and crossed the street, opening the passenger door and climbing in.
Warmth. The heater was blasting. Jazz played softly on the radio. Emily sank into the leather seat, closing her eyes.
"If I ever have to hear Louis explain the difference between a trust fund and a hedge fund again, I will stab myself with a dessert fork," she mumbled.
Sebastian sat in the driver's seat, wearing a worn grey t-shirt and a flannel overshirt. He looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"How was the tasting menu?"
"Small. Expensive. And cold." She opened one eye and looked at him. "How long have you been waiting?"
"An hour. Maybe two."
"You could have gone home."
"I was afraid you might actually stab someone with a fork," he said, putting the car in gear. "I wanted to be the getaway driver."
He reached over and turned a dial on the dashboard. "Seat warmer is on."
Emily smiled, a tired, genuine smile. She curled her legs up onto the seat.
"Drive, driver. Get me out of here."
❦
The Aston Martin rolled to a stop in front of a weathered brick building at the end of a cul de sac, gritty, industrial, completely silent, a faded sign hanging above a rusted roller shutter. Emily peered out the window, her brow furrowing. She looked at the graffiti on the wall, then back at Sebastian.
"Okay. I have questions. One: where are we? Two: is this where you murder me and hide the body? Because honestly, after dinner with my family, I might be okay with that."
Sebastian killed the engine. The silence of the night rushed back in. He unbuckled his seatbelt, turning to her with a boyish smirk she rarely saw.
"This is my sanctuary. Come on."
He got out. Emily hesitated, then followed, the cold air biting at her exposed ankles. Sebastian walked to the heavy iron padlock on the shutter, fishing a set of keys from his pocket, not the sleek car fob, but a jagged set of brass keys. Emily wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, watching him struggle with the lock.
"You know, for a man who wears bespoke suits, you have some very dirty hobbies."
"The suit is the costume, Emily," Sebastian said, clicking the lock open. He grabbed the handle of the shutter. "This is the reality."
He heaved the shutter up. It groaned loudly, revealing a dark, cavernous space inside. Emily stepped closer, peering into the gloom, her eyes widening as she made out the shapes of tools, machinery, and the curve of a classic car under a tarp.
"Wow."
"After you, Miss Baker," Sebastian said. "Welcome to the Batcave."
He gestured for her to enter. It was a converted warehouse, high ceilings, exposed brick, smelling of engine oil and sawdust. In the center sat a vintage Jaguar E Type, half restored, the bonnet up, tools scattered with organized chaos.
Later, Emily sat cross legged on the hood of the Jaguar, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand, a glass of cheap red wine in the other. Sebastian leaned against the fender, watching her eat.
"This," she said, chewing happily, "is infinitely better than foie gras foam."
"It's grease and carbohydrates," Sebastian said. "It's honest food."
She looked around. "So this is it? The fortress of solitude?"
"I come here when the world gets too loud. Machines don't lie, Emily. If an engine stalls, it's because a valve is stuck or a spark plug is dead. You fix it, it runs. No politics. No tenure committees."
"And what about us?" Emily said. "Why did you take me here. Are we a machine you're trying to fix?"
Sebastian set his glass down on the workbench. He picked up a small, velvet box. He walked over to her, standing between her knees as she sat on the car.
"You're not broken." He handed her the box. "But we did need... timing."
Emily wiped her hands on a napkin and took the box. She opened it. Inside rested a vintage Omega Seamaster, the leather strap worn but soft, the gold rim glowing in the warm light, the second hand sweeping smoothly. Tick, tick, tick.
"Seb... this is..."
"I found it in a junk shop in Shoreditch two months ago. It was seized up. Rusted solid. The owner said it was trash." He touched the glass face of the watch. "I spent every night for the last four weeks taking it apart. Cleaning every gear. Re-oiling the escapement."
"While waiting..." Emily whispered.
"It just needed patience. It needed someone to believe it could run again."
Emily looked at the watch, tears pricking her eyes. She held out her wrist. Sebastian took the watch out. He fastened the strap around her wrist, his fingers warm and steady. He didn't let go of her hand. He kept holding it, his thumb tracing her pulse.
"I approached this... us... like a scientist. I calculated the variables. The risk to my tenure. The risk to your reputation. Logically, the equation didn't balance."
"So why are we here?" Emily said, her voice trembling.
Sebastian looked up, locking eyes with her. His mask was completely gone. There was only raw, terrifying vulnerability.
"Because I made a miscalculation. I didn't account for the variable of... not having you."
He stepped closer, pressing her thighs against his hips.
"I didn't calculate that waking up without you would feel like a system failure."
"Seb..."
"I don't want to hide anymore, Emily. I don't want to be your dirty little secret or some thrill you keep in the shadows. I want to look every other man in the eye and make it clear: you are mine."
He cupped her face with both hands.
"I love you. It is illogical. It is reckless. It is the most unprofessional thing I have ever done. But I love you."
A tear slid down Emily's cheek. She laughed, a broken, happy sound.
"You took your time, Professor."
"I had to be sure the data was correct."
"And?" she said, pulling him down by his collar.
"I ran the simulation a thousand times. Every variable led back to you. It's inconvenient. But it's undeniable."
He kissed her. This kiss was different. It wasn't the frantic, stolen lust of the lab. It wasn't the angry, possessive heat of the gala. It was slow. Deep. Heavy with the weight of a future they were finally choosing together.
They broke apart, foreheads resting together.
"Tomorrow morning. Nine AM. Fitzbillies. The busiest café in town."
"My father has spies everywhere."
"Good," Sebastian said. "Let them see."
Emily smiled, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in the scent of him.
"It's a date."
Sebastian wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the car hood and carrying her towards the old leather sofa in the corner of the workshop.
"No," he said. "It's a beginning."
❦
Fitzbillies smelled of cinnamon and fresh coffee the next morning, its windows fogged with condensation against the cold outside, the little bakery already crowded with the usual Saturday rush of students and tourists and academics hiding behind newspapers. It was, by design, the single most visible café in Cambridge, the kind of place where nothing went unnoticed for long.
Emily arrived first, five minutes early, which was itself a small miracle given the four hours of sleep she'd managed to steal before her alarm went off. She wore her own clothes today, not a borrowed shirt or a silk gown tailored for someone else's expectations, just jeans and the olive green jumper Martha had complimented, her hair loose, the vintage Omega Seamaster catching the light every time she reached for her cup.
She chose a table by the window. On purpose.
Sebastian walked in at exactly nine o'clock, because of course he did, shaking a fine mist of rain from his coat before he saw her. He didn't scan the room for a quiet corner. He didn't hesitate at the door the way he always used to, weighing risk against reward before committing to a single step. He simply walked straight to her table, in full view of the window, in full view of anyone from the Faculty who happened to be walking past on their way to the market.
"You're here," she said, looking up at him.
"I told you. I have a meeting I've been waiting a month to attend." He sat down across from her, close enough that their knees bumped beneath the small table, and he made no effort at all to correct the distance. "I intend to be early to all future ones."
A waitress approached, pad in hand, and recognized him instantly, her eyes flicking with poorly concealed curiosity between the famously unsociable Professor Smith and the elegant young woman glowing across the table from him.
"The usual, Professor?"
"Two coffees," Sebastian said. "And whatever she's having." He glanced at Emily. "She's earned the good pastries."
Emily laughed, the sound easy and unguarded, drawing one or two glances from the neighbouring tables, not that she cared anymore who was watching. Outside the fogged glass, the Cambridge morning carried on exactly as it always had, bicycles rattling over cobblestones, bells tolling somewhere in the grey distance, the whole ancient machinery of the university grinding forward the way it had for eight hundred years. But inside, at a small table by the window, a new equation was quietly being written, one with no hidden variables left to solve, no secret doors between adjoining rooms, nothing left in the shadows at all.
Sebastian reached across the table and took her hand, his thumb finding the worn leather strap of the watch at her wrist, right over her pulse, exactly where he liked to keep it.
"Ready?" he asked.
Emily turned her hand over, lacing her fingers through his in plain sight of the whole bakery, the whole street, the whole impossible, gossiping, watching world.
"I've been ready for months, Professor," she said. "You're the one who was running the calculations."
"Not anymore," Sebastian said, and for the first time in longer than either of them could remember, he smiled like a man with absolutely nothing left to hide.