Phoebus had served an enlistment in the Army. He did six years in one term and was honorably discharged at the end of his contract. Not interested in succumbing to the oil field industry, he took the college route despite his father's protest. He flourished in the service, so he claimed. The first half he climbed to Corporal. Shortly after he was meritoriously advanced to Sergeant via his commanding officer after a lengthy deployment. In the little time she was able to become familiar, Esmeralda could see how he managed to swindle the ranks. He was quick-witted, charismatic, and his eyes, a calculating blue, shined a unparalleled cunning. No doubt from the trials of war. He was matured and seasoned. She wasn't given his age, but if she were to guess, he was nearing thirty, not entirely too old to be stepping out of uniform and into college grounds.

But football?

It seemed too trivial for her. It was too trivial, in fact.

From boots to the ground to cleats across astroturf, she didn't understand what he saw in such a sport. Esmeralda was more of music and arts, not so much anything else. Perhaps that is why she didn't understand his plan of action.

As she sat passenger en route to Notre Dame, her stomach began to twist and flop. Her hands mirrored the same discomfort by wringing within her lap. Though she was in the presence of good company, so she assumed, a number of things sent her anxiety near the edge. Foremost, she missed several classes. Three, to be exact. Theology had only seven minutes left on the clock. Secondly, Theology. Third, Phoebus.

They had slept in the same bed. The previous night had been nothing but a hazy recollection, though he claimed it was nothing more. Could she trust his answer? Did she feel he was omitting details?

She stole a glance his way. An arm rested on the door while the other draped casually across the 12 position of the steering wheel. His fingers brush the surface of the dash. The morning sun shined through his hair and the tuft of gold beneath his lip. He looked stern as he drove, quiet and focused as the radio softly played. He was handsome, she'd give him that. But what happened during the night that brought her to this very morning? Was there something between them? He had broken up the fight, she remembered that. He had doctored her cat scratches, but then what? There was drinking. That was evident by her queasy stomach and lack of memory.

In her thoughts, she decided she would trust his answer. What reason would he have to lie about it? She wasn't an unattractive girl so there would be no sense in lying about it. And if anything, she could ask Nadia. Nadia knew everything. This conclusion placated her nerves slightly, but only to stir again when her eyes caught sight of the university spires creeping over the walls of trees.

"Where would you like me to drop you off?" Phoebus' voice came over the soft hum of music.

She pointed to a building and said, "There."

"Arts and Letters," he confirmed, turning into the narrow street lined with parked cars. He drove them into the parking lot and positioned the truck at the front of the entrance. Her nerves were on fire now, sparking jolts of anxiety and worry. She should have asked him to drop her off at the dorm, but she remembered seeing students returning to their quarters after a long weekend. The Walk of Shame some called it. She was not shameful. They had done nothing, Phoebus claimed.

Before she could turn and thank him, he got out and went around. She knew what he was doing, hated that he was doing it because it costed her even more precious seconds and left them exposed to wandering eyes. But she stayed put anyway as he made purchase on the door handle and opened it. He widened it and offered a hand. But Esmeralda didn't want to take it. Out of feigned ignorance and sheer defiance, both of her hands clutched her purse and she avoided seeing the gesture altogether as she stepped out.

"Thanks again." she muttered. She wanted to keep it short but her efforts were cut. Phoebus side stepped, placing himself directly in her path to the door. He lifted his arms and pulled her into an embrace.

He smelled good and felt firm and warm. If things hadn't started off questionable, Esmeralda would have returned the hug, but that was not the case. In any other instance, she would have loved this attention. Phoebus was young and vital, muscular and charming. He radiated masculinity and discipline, but he was not Claude. Comparing the two would be silly.

And then he kissed her temple and the scruff of his goatee brushed her skin and made her shudder. Her reflex kicked in and she jerked her head away. He released her and offered a puzzled look.

"I'm sorry," she sighed, trying to find the compassion she was so good at, but she needed to get inside. "I'm late for class and school is really important." Her own attempt to assuage her agitation waned slightly, but not enough to convince Phoebus. Her eyes kept darting up towards the windows above them. Claude could see them if he decided to look out the window.

"Gotcha. Well, you're welcome." he muttered with a certain blasè.

He stepped around her, barely brushing shoulders as he returned to his truck.

And for a moment, Esmeralda felt guilty.

Youths, Claude thought with palpable disdain. He had seen enough.

His arms were tight over his chest as he moved from the window and back towards his desk. Papers were scattered from earlier lectures. He couldn't remember what he had the students write about. He couldn't remember why he decided to get up and move towards the window. But again, he had seen enough. Drawn to her from the moment they met, he wandered towards the window in time to see her step out from a cerulean blue truck. A man was waiting for her on the other side, a young man. Claude's poor heart knew what he was seeing, but his proud mind refused to believe it. They had embraced. A one-sided kiss was exchanged. What was that? Repulsion? Her head moved in such a manner, Claude almost saw the reluctance across her face. It must have been a trick of the eye, he thought. Even from the second floor, he could see the stout man was hale and hearty and many years junior.

A light on the far side of the auditorium flickered and waned, catching his attention. This irritated him. Everything around him suddenly seemed like more agitations piling on top of one another. The room was stifling. The sun was too bright shining in. It was too quiet. He was too lonely, too old, too devastated at the sudden transgression. He was too heartbroken. But he would never openly admit this. No, he intended to treat this like any minor set back.

Scowling ruefully at his own stupidity, he approached his desk chair. He paused before it and began to ponder. He didn't want to sit. Sitting would center his efforts on thinking. He didn't want to think, even as his chastising conscience began to shout, he pushed it aside. He didn't want to think. He wanted to pace. Pacing channeled this energy into motion. Maybe he could walk himself into a calm or, at the very best, help clear his mind.

But was that even possible? He couldn't be calm now! He knew this would happen! But despite the unlikelihood of their affairs, he was weak. She made him weak, that arrogant minx. She had beckoned him, and like a moth to a flame, he came to her. He was willing. He was drunk from her antics, the purr of her voice, the heat from between her legs that swallowed him whole, and set fire to a his soul that would burn him for eternity. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? For two men to battle over her limitless affections. It was difficult to breathe now, impossible to think clearly while his body reacted to the undertows of emotion. He wanted to stand, sit, run, weep. Anything but dwell within these walls where he first laid eyes on her. He'd do anything to go back to that day and start anew. What would he do differently? Would he brush off her advances? Would he ignore her altogether? Would he report her to the university for her attempted fraternization? Would he have given her a ride home?

He felt his hands were clenched into tight fists that pushed the blood from his knuckles and stabbed his nails into his flesh.

Hate.

Jealousy.

Envy.

Spite.

He wanted to get even, yes. That's what he needed. That would make the pain bearable. Did he actually think this would have worked? Was there ever a moment when he second guessed her motives? Time and time again, he stared into his reflection, trying to gather what it was that brought such a witch to his doorstep. Was it his faith? A faith he seemingly forgot the moment she crawled into his lap? Was it his looks? A callous old man who scowled sun up from sun down? Did she believe he was lonely? That such a succulent being could seduce a holy man such as he with a gift God made so irresistible?

Hurried footsteps came from down the hall. His heart ached and trembled. Claude was alone, amidst an empty auditorium. His face was flushed, snow-white hair disheveled about his brow. His feet anchored as the door opened. Their eyes met and the anger that flooded his veins receded like a morning tide.

"Claude," she breathed at the door way. Her face was contorted with worry. Did she know she had been found? That he had seen the entire thing? And not just the other man, more lively and strong than he? Did she know he was aware of just exactly the person she was? This game was over before it had begun.

But before the pain could fade and become replaced with longing and desire, he dug deep and found it again. He'd claw his way to the belly of hate if it meant he would not be hurt again. His lips pursed as he casually rose a hand and ran it through his silver hair.

He cleared his throat and spoke. "You missed class." The rumble of his voice, known for its base and sultry note, was now foreign to his own ears. "You need to write a three thousand word essay on the religious establishment held within your own household." He closed his eyes briefly. He needed a moment. He couldn't think straight looking into her eyes. "If your family does not practice, please explain what it was like being raised in a secular home." He opened his eyes as he lifted his head and began moving towards his jacket and briefcase. This was the end of the discussion. He hoped she wasn't going to rebuke the matter, that she would leave it merely as such. The pain was surmounting now. It was drowning him, squeezing a cold vise around his heart and weighing down on his chest.

He could do this. He was her professor. Though from this alone, he would accumulate enough lessons for a lifetime of heartaches. But the words that came from his mouth and seeped into her thoughts could have just as well been a slap, judging by her wounded reaction when he stole a glance.

"Claude," she began, stepping into the large room and shutting the door behind her. "Let me explain."

Ahh, those words. They were as old as time.

Refusing to acknowledge her claim, Claude donned his jacket and gathered the papers about his desk. He placed them neatly into the case and secured the latches. The sound of the metal locking into place rang out like a final note. Aside from the percussion of his own heart flooding his head, the room was quiet.

"Claude-,"

"Esmeralda." he cut her off, meeting her green eyes with a steady gaze. "It's come to my attention that we both have explaining to do." He brought the briefcase from its side and erected it.

"What do you mean?" Her face was flushed and there was a glisten at the corner of her eyes. Another ploy to placate the matter, surely. He would not recede.

Claude cleared his throat and for once, he couldn't look her in the eyes. He dropped them to the floor. Being so close, he yearned to feel her body heat, to breathe the fragrance that permeated around her like a blossoming flower. But she kept her distance, suddenly apprehensive, as if the words were already spoken.

"I am a married man," he began. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the entire truth. He was amidst a divorce, but she didn't need to know that. He was aiming for an infliction. He wanted to shatter her hope just as she did to him. He wanted to share this misery with another.

He braced for a number of things. He imagined her crying, falling to her knees in a throe of emotion. He also pictured her storming out and slamming the door. But when he looked up, she had done neither. She kept her silence and the steady weight of her gaze, slowly transitioning into a seething scowl, frightened as well as excited him.

But now the silence was unbearable. It was on his shoulders, his chest, the top of his crown. It was pushing him into the floor, turning his muscle and bone into lead. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. Why wouldn't she just leave him!

"I suppose I should have told you," he managed, keeping the inflection of his voice cold and steady. "But a man like myself saw an opportunity." And then he smirked and for a moment, he felt victorious and his heart tasted relief.

She moved and a crack splintered the silence of the room. His face began to sting.

His cheek took the entire brunt of the strike. He could feel the imprint of her hand tightening the inflamed skin about his cheek. He hadn't seen her move, hadn't felt her near or smelled her essence. He opened his eyes as soon as the door slammed.

She was gone and he was finally alone.

Claude leaned against his desk, expecting solace from this desertion.

But then the tears came and a sobbing softly drifted into the room.

Thereeeeeeeee we go. I'm back. So it's been raining A LOT and that always helps me write, despite that it's...literally flooding in Texas right now.

As ALWAYS, you kind, kind, KIND people with your sweet words and unparalleled patience, thank you for reading and following and assuring me and just being ALL AROUND AMAZING. I wish I could gather you all up like a bundle of kittens and force my love onto you as you claw and mew to get away. ENJOY!