Episode 13: The Double Promotion
1197 Words
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The news arrived via email on a Monday.
Emily was grading final portfolios when the notification appeared—not from Malachi, but from the registrar's office. She almost deleted it unread, assuming it was another departmental announcement or deadline reminder.
Then she saw the subject line:
Academic Standing Update: Malachi C. Miller
She opened it.
Dear Faculty Colleagues,
This is to inform you that senior Malachi C. Miller has been approved for accelerated graduation following a faculty review of his academic record and portfolio submission. Mr. Miller will be awarded dual degrees in Business Administration and English with Creative Writing Concentration, effective at the end of this semester—a full semester ahead of his original graduation date.
Please join us in congratulating Mr. Miller on this exceptional achievement.
Emily read the email three times.
A full semester ahead. He was graduating in two weeks, not in May. He was leaving—not just her classroom, but the university itself. Moving into the world his father had built for him, the empire he'd spent his entire life preparing to inherit.
Her chest tightened.
She told herself this was good. This was what he wanted. This was the natural conclusion of his time at the university, the logical next step in his carefully planned life.
She told herself a lot of things.
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His text arrived at midnight.
You saw the email.
Yes.
A pause. Then:
I should have told you myself. I didn't know how. I didn't know what it would change.
What does it change?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Everything. Nothing. I don't know.
I'm not leaving. Not the city. Not—
Not you. Not unless you tell me to.
Emily stared at the screen.
I don't want you to leave.
Then I won't.
You can't just—you have a life. A future. Responsibilities. Your father expects—
I know what my father expects. I've spent twenty-two years knowing what my father expects.
What do you expect?
A long pause. Longer than before.
I expect to wake up every morning and choose my own life. Not the one he planned. Not the one I was told to want. My own.
And you expect me to be part of that?
I don't expect anything. I hope. I wait. I reach toward you and try not to demand that you reach back.
But yes. I hope.
Emily set down her phone.
Her hands were shaking again.
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She didn't respond that night.
She didn't sleep either. She lay in the dark, her phone beside her, his words hovering in the space between ceiling and skin.
I hope.
Three days passed. She graded. She attended meetings. She sat in her office and stared at the wall and tried to convince herself that silence was a form of answer.
It wasn't.
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On Thursday, he appeared at her door.
Not waiting. Not patient. He walked into her office and closed the door behind him and stood in front of her desk with his hands at his sides and his jaw set.
"You didn't respond."
Emily set down her pen.
"I didn't know what to say."
"You always know what to say." His voice was quiet. Controlled. But beneath it, something raw. "You're the person who taught me that words matter. That silence is a kind of answer too." A pause. "I've been trying to read your silence for three days. I don't understand what it's saying."
Emily stood.
Her chair scraped against the floor. Her hands pressed flat against her desk. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.
"I'm afraid," she said. "I'm afraid that if I tell you what I want, it will make it real. And if it's real, I can't take it back. I can't pretend it doesn't exist. I can't protect myself from losing it."
He moved closer.
Not around the desk—around the corner, his body angled toward hers, his hands finding the edge of her desk on either side of her.
"Tell me anyway," he said. "Tell me what you want."
Emily looked at him.
At his steady eyes. His patient waiting. His hands, braced against her desk, holding himself back from reaching for her.
"I want you," she said. "Not as my student. Not as someone I'm responsible for teaching or protecting or keeping at arm's length. Just—you. Malachi."
His breath caught.
"I want to stop pretending that I don't think about you constantly. That I don't remember the weight of your hand on mine. That I don't replay every moment we've touched, every word you've said, every time you looked at me like I was the only person in the room." She paused. "I want to stop pretending that I don't want to be touched by you."
His hands moved from the desk to her waist.
Slowly. Deliberately. His fingers found the curve of her hips and pulled her toward him.
"Say it again," he said.
"I want you."
"Again."
"I want you, Malachi."
"Again."
Her voice broke. "I want you."
He pulled her against him.
Not gently. Not reverently. His hands gripped her waist and pulled her close and held her there, her body pressed against his, her breath catching in her throat.
"Three days," he said against her hair. "Three days of silence. Three days of wondering if I'd imagined everything—the conservatory, your office, Thanksgiving. Three days of convincing myself that you'd finally realized what a mistake this was and decided to let me down gently." His voice was rough. "Don't do that again. Don't leave me in the dark."
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize." His grip tightened. "Just—don't do it again. If you need time, tell me you need time. If you need space, tell me you need space. If you need me to wait longer, I'll wait. I'll always wait." A pause. "But don't leave me not knowing."
Emily's hands found his chest.
"I won't," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I won't."
His breath released slowly.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He didn't release her. His hands remained at her waist, his forehead against hers, his body warm and solid against her own.
"You said you want me," he said quietly. "What does that mean?"
Emily hesitated.
"It means—I don't know what it means. Not yet. Not fully." She paused. "It means I want to find out. With you. Without the rules and the distance and the constant awareness that we're not supposed to want each other."
"It means you're not afraid anymore?"
"No," she said. "I'm still afraid. I think I'll always be afraid. But I'm more afraid of never knowing than I am of losing."
His hands relaxed slightly.
"Then we'll find out together," he said. "Slowly. Carefully. Whatever pace you need." A pause. "But not too slowly. Because I've been patient for four months and my patience has limits."
Emily almost smiled.
"What are your limits?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"I don't know yet. I've never tested them." His thumb traced along her hip. "But I think you're going to help me discover them."
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- Writer
