The elevator door opens. Harlan, still towering over me and holding my gaze, adjusts the bag at his side. "Hmm," is his only response, and he steps off the elevator and stalks down the hall to his office.
Ever the king of mixed signals.
I'm on his heels, shoving a strand of hair behind my ear. A tell-tale sign that I'm nervous, though hopefully no one will pick up on it. Suddenly, I feel my stomach roiling as I watch professors and students mill about. As I follow Harlan to his office, I feel like the walls are closing in on me – claustrophobic and practically unable to breathe.
Once I'm in Harlan's office with the door shut behind me, I'm able to exhale, breath stuttering on the way out of my lungs. Harlan, rounding his desk, sets his bag down and lifts his gaze to watch me, expression
