His hand stretched across the bed, splayed against the sheets, resting in that empty space.
He didn’t remember the shape that was supposed to fill it anymore, when he’d thought he always would.
When he’d thought that hole in his life would always be the same, an outline so precise, so perfect, it would always hold the imprint of her.
But that imprint was fuzzy around the edges, now. Time had eroded away the shape of that hole until it was less precise and somehow more just an impression, an idea, a vague concept without specifics, and he thought...
He thought he was betraying something, somehow.
Thought he was betraying himself.
His memories, the love he’d thought would be forever.
Simply by letting that empty space inside him go vague.
And simply by remembering the taste of another on his lips, a startling and new thing that wouldn’t leave him over a day after Summer had caught Fox’s chin in his hand and made him remember what it was like to breathe in tandem with someone else.
It should hurt more, he thought dimly.
It should hurt, should cut so deep he bled.
But it didn’t.
It only left him frustrated, and wondering.
If he was more upset that he missed her...
Or more upset at the realization that he didn’t.
But he didn’t know what should take the place of that feeling, now.
Or who he was without it.
When he felt as though his entire self was just papier-mâché painted in a thin and crumbling layer over that empty hollow of grief.
Strip that away...
And what was left?
He didn’t know.
And he was almost angry with that bright and beautiful blue-eyed boy...
...for forcing him to ask.
Chapter Four
Summer was up before his alarm.
And changed clothes six times before he headed out to meet Iseya for morning planning.
With the psych class as an elective, it only ran in three blocks after the lunch period; the mornings, per the rather tersely written schedule he’d been emailed a week or so back, were for lesson planning, grading papers, and discussion. Summer supposed they were also his own informal class periods—where he’d ask Iseya what he needed to know, learn what he needed to ask.
As if he had any idea what to ask.
Any idea what to even say, as he stood outside Iseya’s office and tried to calm the flutters and the twists in his chest, his stomach, even in his legs. Swallowing, his mouth like nettles and sand, he scrubbed his hands against his thighs. He’d settled on simple black slacks, dress shoes, a white dress shirt, though he couldn’t breathe and he pulled the top two buttons loose until the collar no longer felt like it was choking him to death.
Just...go in.
He was supposed to be here.
Iseya wasn’t going to tell him to get out.
He wasn’t.
And that note in Summer’s pocket...
He slipped his fingers into the pocket of his slacks and just touched the paper, feeling its somewhat brittle, strange texture against his fingertips.
Challenge accepted.
His heart gave a strange little flutter.
And he pushed the doorknob open, and stepped inside.
In years, Professor Iseya’s office hadn’t changed a bit.
Still the same orderly, sparse designs, dark furniture chosen to naturally complement the building’s darkly weathered wood finish, minimal decorations save for small bits of terra-cotta pottery tucked here and there on shelves, tastefully spaced among rows and rows of neatly organized textbooks, reference books, literature on every aspect of psychology under the sun. Yet touches of green brightened the room, with delicate hanging basket planters suspended from the ceiling, overflowing with dangling, fragile tendrils of honeysuckle vines.
The honeysuckles were blooming now, even at this time of year—and their soft, alluring fragrance subtly wafted through the room, their curling petals and long stamens nearly dripping with it.
Summer remembered, once, coming to turn in an extra credit assignment he’d asked for to make up for missing a quiz after his mother had taken him out of school one day to spend the day in the woods with her, hunting bluebells and sunflowers and digging up medicinal herbs.
He’d caught Professor Iseya watering the honeysuckles, reaching up to spray them with a little bottle, handling them with those long, graceful fingers that touched them as if they would burst apart and scatter if he was the slightest bit too rough.
That moment, for young Summer, had been...
Magic.
And it brought a little of that magic back, to see that Iseya still kept his honeysuckles. That touch of softness, that sweetness, that hint into something more human than the cold façade he tried to project.
Even if, right now, Iseya might as well be made of stone, for all that he reacted to Summer’s entrance.
He sat behind a long, smooth desk made of polished cherrywood that gleamed almost burgundy in the low hanging overhead light, glossed so deeply that it almost perfectly mirrored his reflection—from the stark silver of his eyes to the sharp edges of his glasses, from the streaks of gray in his tightly-bound hair to the deep, steely color of today’s perfectly pressed button-down, a dark gray that only brought out the pale amber of his skin in a luminous glow.
The precision of his posture only accented the angular, broad strength of his shoulders, and the fact that at his height his chair was a little too small for him; any chair would be a little too small for him, Summer thought, when he was larger than life...
...and currently refusing to look up from the stack of student papers in front of him.
Summer tilted his head.
...I know you know I’m standing right here.
But Iseya only scratched off a quick-dashed mark in red ink.
And Summer smiled fondly, his heart squeezing in the best and worst ways.
“Good morning, Professor Iseya,” he said, stepping in and closing the door behind him.
Iseya still didn’t look up.
He just pointed
