Rachel Ellis had never been afraid of an office.

  She’d had plenty of them over the years—professors’ offices with their leather chairs and faint power-smell, advisors’ offices with their motivational posters, her own new little corner of campus that still felt like a set she hadn’t learned to act on yet.

  Dr. Karen Clarke’s office, though, had the particular atmosphere of a place where excuses went to die.

  It was small and bright in the practical way of academic spaces, crowded with paper, mugs, and the kind of books that looked like they’d been written to punish someone. A whiteboard behind Karen’s desk still had half-erased reaction mechanisms and a grocery list on it, as if her brain refused to sort categories on principle.

  Rachel sat opposite the desk and tried to look like she wasn’t trespassing. She did belong there, technically. She was the lab instructor attached to Karen’s lectures. She had the right degrees.

  She felt like someone walking to the gallows with a clipboard all the same.

  Karen didn’t look up right away. She was answering an email with brisk, stabbing keystrokes, jaw set in mild irritation at the concept of being interrupted by anything that wasn’t urgent or caffeine-related. Rachel kept her hands folded in her lap so she wouldn’t fidget.

  She failed. One knee bounced.

  Finally, Karen hit send with the decisive violence of someone ending an argument. She leaned back, took a sip from her mug, and regarded Rachel over the rim.

  “Well,” Karen said, leaning back in her chair. “This is ominous.”

  Rachel swallowed. “It’s not—”

  “No, don’t start. I’m choosing to interpret this as either you need an extension on your entire life, or you’ve discovered a new way to accidentally set something on fire.” Karen held up a hand before Rachel could protest. “I’m hoping for the latter. The paperwork is easier.”

  “It’s neither,” Rachel said. She immediately wished she’d stopped there, because saying it’s neither invited the universe to prove her wrong later.

  Karen’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully—not unkind, just sharp. She looked Rachel over with the clinically observant eye of someone who had survived a doctorate and knew exactly what burnout looked like under fluorescent lights.

  “Actually,” Karen said, her voice going a shade lighter, as if she’d made a decision to be annoying on purpose. “Before you start… you’ve been looking better.”

  Rachel blinked, thrown off track. “Better?”

  “Less like you’re about to launch yourself into the river behind the science building.” Karen gestured vaguely with her mug. “A few weeks ago, you looked like a cautionary tale with a lanyard. You were editing rubric formatting at 3:00 a.m. I saw the timestamps.”

  Rachel felt heat climb up her neck. “I wasn’t—”

  “You were,” Karen said, tone flat with the confidence of someone who had receipts. “You were fine professionally. Great, actually. But you looked like you were being haunted.” She took a sip of her coffee, watching Rachel over the rim. “Now? You look… grounded. It’s suspicious.”

  Rachel’s mouth went dry. Her first instinct was to deflect—to make it smaller. Her second instinct—newer, more uncomfortable—was to not do that.

  She inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “I’m… okay,” she said, which was a pathetic answer in any context that mattered.

  Karen watched her for a beat, expression unreadable. Then she set the mug down. “Good. So. What’s the actual reason you’re here, and why are you sitting like you’re about to confess to a felony?”

  Rachel’s throat tightened. She looked at her hands, then forced herself to look back up. “I need to ask you for a favour.”

  Karen sighed, but it was more theatrical than irritated. “If this is about the reagent budget, I’ll fake my own death right now.”

  “It’s not,” Rachel said quickly. “It’s… marking.”

  Karen’s brows knit. “Marking?” She glanced toward the pile of papers on Rachel’s lap like they might bite. “You’re behind?”

  “No,” Rachel said. “I’m not behind.”

  “Then why—”

  “I need you to take over marking one student’s lab reports.”

  The words landed in the office like a dropped beaker—no shatter, but enough to make everything go quiet for a second.

  Karen blinked once. She didn't speak immediately. She just tapped her pen against the desk—once, twice—while she processed the request.

  “Okay,” she said slowly. “That’s… specific.”

  Rachel’s face felt hot. “I know.”

  “Why?”

  Rachel’s brain tried to generate an answer that was technically truthful but not humiliating. It returned nothing usable.

  “I…” Rachel started, and then stopped. Tried again. “There’s a conflict of interest.”

  Karen’s gaze held hers. Unblinking. Unhelpful. Like she was waiting for Rachel to either grow a spine or evaporate.

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  “A conflict of interest,” Karen repeated, voice dry. “Meaning what—he’s family? You’re dating his brother? You hit his car?"

  Rachel made a helpless sound that was supposed to be a laugh.

  Karen tilted her head. “Who.”

  Rachel’s stomach dropped. It was ridiculous that a name could feel like a trapdoor, but this one did.

  She said it anyway. “Noah Bennett.”

  Karen’s eyes lit, immediate recognition sparking like a match. “Ah.”

  Rachel’s heart seized. “You know him.”

  “I do,” Karen said, with the faintest hint of amusement. “Which is rare, for me. I don’t usually do names when it comes to first years. They’re all just panic and hoodies until at least Christmas.”

  Rachel’s grip on her bag tightened. “Is that… bad?” Rachel asked, her voice tighter than she intended. “Did he do something?”

  Karen waved a hand, dismissing the panic. She leaned forward slightly, pen still in hand.

  “No,” she said. “He’s just… memorable. Tall. Quiet. Asks good questions that actually relate to the lecture material.”

  Rachel stared at her.

  “Handsome,” she added, then pointed her pen at Rachel after a small reaction. “Not relevant. Still true.”

  Rachel felt her soul attempt to leave her body through her ears. “Karen,” she hissed.

  Karen blinked innocently. “What? I have eyes. We’re allowed to use them, Rachel. It’s biology.”

  Rachel tried to speak. Nothing came out that wouldn’t incriminate her. She just sat there, burning, unable to form a defense that didn’t sound like a confession.

  Karen watched her struggle for half a second and then, like someone flicking on a light, her expression shifted.

  Not shocked. Not offended. Just… understanding, arriving cleanly and fast.

  “Oh,” Karen said.

  The syllable hung in the air, heavy and absolute.

  Rachel’s stomach bottomed out. “It’s not—”

  Karen held up a hand, cutting her off with lazy authority. “Relax. I’m not calling campus security.”

  Rachel made a noise that was half a breath and half a prayer.

  Karen sat back again, studying Rachel with a new kind of focus. Not judging. Assessing. She looked from Rachel’s flushed face to the stack of papers, connecting the dots with terrifying efficiency.

  “So,” Karen said, voice mild. “Conflict of interest, you say.”

  Rachel’s pulse hammered in her throat. “I’m not— I’m not going to—” she began, then stopped, because she could feel herself spiraling into a speech she didn’t want to give.

  Karen waited.

  Rachel forced the words out, each one carefully measured. “I can’t be objective.”

  Karen’s eyebrows lifted. “To be clear, my lab instructor is telling me she can’t be objective with one of our students?”

  Rachel’s face went nuclear.

  Karen’s lips twitched. “That’s not an interrogation,” she said. “That’s me enjoying your misery. Briefly.”

  Rachel closed her eyes for a second. “Karen.”

  Karen sighed like she’d been asked to do a chore she found mildly entertaining. “Okay. Fine. Let’s be professional for ten seconds.” Karen rested her forearms on the desk, her expression sobering. “Is this a situation where you’re going to be too generous,” she asked, “or too harsh?”

  Rachel opened her eyes, then blinked. “What?”

  “Overcorrection,” Karen said simply. “Some people panic and mark like they’re trying to prove they’re impartial, so they tank the grade. Others… grade with their heart.”

  Rachel could feel her ears burning. “I don’t—” she started. “I don’t know.”

  Karen didn’t let her finish. “Rachel.”

  “I’m coming to you because I don’t want to find out.” The words came out easier than Rachel thought they would.

  Karen nodded once. “Good. Principled, if we ignore the elephant in the room. You’re doing the correct thing by removing yourself.”

  Relief hit Rachel so hard it almost made her dizzy. She’d come in expecting… something else. A lecture. An ethics speech. A warning that she was about to ruin her career. Karen’s face didn’t even have a fraction of that on it.

  Karen picked up her mug again and took a sip. Then, casually, almost to herself, “You have good taste.”

  Rachel choked.

  Karen’s eyes flicked up, amused. “What?”

  “I—” Rachel sputtered. “That’s not—”

  “You didn’t say I was wrong,” Karen observed. “Try to also have good judgment.”

  Rachel pressed her lips together so hard they nearly disappeared.

  Karen set her mug down. “Okay,” she said briskly, sliding into problem-solving mode like it was home territory. “Logistics. You want me to mark his lab reports from now on.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, quickly, before Karen could reconsider.

  Karen frowned. “For the rest of the term?”

  Rachel hesitated. “At least until… until it’s not a conflict.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. “And when will it not be a conflict?”

  Rachel stared at her.

  Karen stared back.

  Finally, Karen exhaled. “Indefinitely. Fine.”

  Rachel’s shoulders dropped, grateful.

  Karen leaned over, grabbed a notepad, and scribbled something in tidy, aggressive handwriting. “I’ll take Bennett’s lab reports,” she said. “Make it easy for me, though. Let’s not turn this… simple arrangement into something that doesn’t look reasonably normal.”

  Rachel’s chest loosened. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me like I’m doing charity. This is self-preservation.” Karen waved a hand, dismissing the gratitude before it could get sticky. “I do not want to be cc’d on whatever paperwork comes after ‘reported.’”

  Rachel managed a weak laugh, but Karen wasn't finished. She tilted her head, studying Rachel with a look that was uncomfortably perceptive.

  “He seems like a good student,” she said, almost as an aside. “And you’re a good instructor. It’ll be fine. I trust you.”

  Rachel felt the flush hit her neck—not of embarrassment, this time, but of a quiet, fierce pride she wasn’t allowed to voice. She cleared her throat, forcing her brain back to the syllabus. “He is,” she managed, keeping her tone strictly professional. “His data is always clean. He… cares about the work.”

  Karen’s expression softened slightly—not by much, but enough that it counted. “Look,” she said, and her tone shifted into something more careful, more human. “You’re not the first person to have a complication. And you’re handling it.”

  Handling it felt like a generous description for the internal screaming Rachel had been doing for weeks. But looking at Karen—steady, unbothered, treating this like a scheduling conflict rather than a moral failing—Rachel felt the panic recede.

  "I’m trying," she admitted.

  Karen’s mouth twitched again, the ghost of a smile. “Okay,” she said, tone lightening just enough to take the edge off. “I’m going to give you the only advice I’m legally qualified to give.”

  Rachel nodded—then immediately regretted the speed of it, aware it probably made her look exactly as doomed as she felt.

  Karen pointed her pen at Rachel like a warning label. “Be careful. Be smart. And don’t do anything stupid on campus.”

  “It’s not…” Rachel started, then exhaled. “I wouldn’t—”

  “I’m not asking for details, Rachel. I’m asking you to remain employed.” Karen cut her off with a look, then leaned back with that same dry amusement as before. “Also, tell your tall handsome student to stop making the entire front row look bad with his questions.”

  Rachel stared. “I can’t exactly—”

  “Sure you can. You just can’t do it in a lab coat.” Karen shrugged. “I assume you’ll have the opportunity to do it elsewhere.”

  Rachel made a sound that might have been a laugh if her embarrassment hadn’t swallowed it whole.

  Karen tapped her pen once against the desk. “Anything else?”

  Rachel stood, gathering her bag with hands that were finally steady again. “No. That’s… that’s it.”

  She turned to leave, but Karen didn't immediately look back at her email. She watched Rachel for a beat, her impatience disappearing for the first time.

  “Good. Now get out. I have seventeen emails and one of them is going to make me consider arson.”

  Rachel smiled despite herself. At the door, she paused and glanced back. “Karen?”

  Karen looked up.

  “Thank you,” Rachel said again, and meant it this time.

  Karen rolled her eyes, but her voice was softer. “Try not to look like you’re going combust the next time you need help.”

  Rachel escaped into the hallway with her heart still hammering—lighter, now, in a way she hadn’t expected.

  Maybe the world wasn’t built to punish her for choosing him.