Chapter 21: Twenty One

I was curled up in bed, the lights off, the glow of my laptop the only thing illuminating my room. It was well past midnight. Cassie had gone to sleep and the apartment was still and quiet. I was watching a video essay on YouTube about witchcraft. A text popped up on my screen from Mara - grades are up for the EE paper.

Phew. Grades for our last assignment had been released. The one I’d actually worked hard on. The one I knew I’d done well on. I clicked through absentmindedly, not expecting anything surprising. It was Declan’s assignment, and I had discussed this with him once; I had listened intently in class and knew my work was good.

And then I saw it.

C

A fucking C.

My chest went hollow. I blinked at the screen, then leaned in as if maybe I’d read it wrong. I hadn’t.

C

I stared at it for a solid minute. Not a B. Not even a B minus.

A C.

The words blurred a little on the screen. I wasn’t someone who usually cried over grades, but this. I’d never gotten a C before. In my life. Ever.

I had written that piece at three in the morning, curled over my desk. I had read so many papers. I had had three sleepless nights straight. And I had been honest and put in my own views too. Declan had always said he appreciated depth, vulnerability, narrative risk.

And I gave him all of it.

So what the fuck was wrong with my work?

I sat back against my pillows, mouth dry. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I considered letting it go; maybe it wasn’t worth it. Maybe I’d get a better grade next time. Maybe it wasn’t deliberate.

But that single alphabet again echoed in my skull:

C.

This could ruin my whole GPA.

I opened my email. Typed out his name. The familiar auto-fill popped up instantly. I stared at it for a moment, then started typing.

Subject: Request for Meeting Regarding Grade

Hi Dr. Ashwell,

I hope you’re well. I just saw the grade for the last assignment and was hoping I could schedule a time to meet with you to discuss it.

Would you happen to have office hours tomorrow or sometime this week?

Best,

Willow Whitefield

I read it over twice. It was calm. Professional. Neutral. I had to make sure, because I knew for a fact the university had access to the faculty and students’ email accounts.

I hit send.

Then I closed my laptop, set it aside, and laid back down.

The next day, the hallway outside his office was too bright. It was so early in the morning - 7 30 AM, and the sun had just risen.

I stood there for a second, clutching my tote bag tightly. I had barely slept. The email he sent back that night had been short and formal.

Hi Willow,

I’m available at 7:30 if you’d like to drop by my office.

— D.A.

Not Declan. Not even Dr. Ashwell

Just initials. Cold and clipped.

I raised my hand and knocked.

“Come in,” came his voice from behind the door.

I pushed it open.

He was sitting at his desk, typing something on his laptop, coffee steaming beside him in a brand new mug. It was nice. White, with some kind of blue design.

He didn’t look up until I sat down in the chair across from him.

“Miss Whitefield,” He said in acknowledgement. “Give me a second.”

“Of course,” I said. The room was silent except for the clanking sounds from his keyboard as he typed something. Still engrossed in his laptop, he said lowly, “Sorry about this early morning meeting. I have a conference to attend in the day.”

“Not a problem.”

He closed the laptop and folded his hands, looking at me. “You wanted to discuss your grade.”

I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yes. I saw I got a C on the last assignment. I just… I was hoping you could explain why. I thought I’d done well.”

“You put effort in, that’s clear,” he said. “But effort and execution aren’t the same thing.”

My jaw tensed. “Okay. Then what exactly was lacking?”

He reached for the printed copy of my paper sitting beside him; annotated, lines underlined, a few notes in the margins.

“The assignment was to evaluate a local or national environmental policy using a cost benefit framework. Most of the class chose things like fuel subsidies or carbon tax models. You chose a community composting initiativei.”

“Right,” I said, defensive already. “Because it's real. It’s grounded. You always say to choose something that’s not abstract. Rooted in real work.”

“I agree,” he said, flipping a page. “But you didn’t tie your analysis back to economic efficiency. You focused almost entirely on the social and cultural value; but you didn’t quantify benefits in terms of avoided landfill costs, or reduction in methane emissions. You didn’t even attempt a shadow price valuation.”

I stared at him. “Because I thought the point was to show that not everything of value is measurable. That in some cases, community cohesion and behavioral change are the benefits.”

“And I appreciate that angle,” he said, tone frustratingly calm. “But this wasn’t a philosophy paper. It was a policy evaluation grounded in economics. You didn’t meet the expectations of the brief.”

I swallowed. “So I get a C?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

His eyes held mine, steady, unreadable. Impersonal.

And then he added, “I want to be clear about something, Willow.”

Here it comes.

“I know things have been blurry between us. But you can’t expect special treatment from me. You’re a student in my class, and I’m evaluating your work like I would anyone else’s.”

My stomach twisted, sharp and immediate. “That’s what you think I came here for? Special treatment?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me with that maddeningly composed face.

“I came here,” I said, voice rising slightly, “because I care about my grade. Because I actually wanted to understand what I did wrong. But I didn’t expect you to twist it into some morality lesson about boundaries.”

“I'm not twisting anything,” he said, still calm. Too calm. “I'm being honest.”

“Honest?” I scoffed. “You think you can kiss me, touch me, say things to me; and then when it suits you, sit there and pretend you’re just some impartial teacher behind a desk?”

His jaw tightened.

“This isn’t about special treatment,” I continued. “It’s about you punishing me for something we both participated in.”

He leaned back slightly.

“I’m not punishing you,” he said. “I’m protecting the one thing I still have control over.”

I stared at him.

The silence stretched again, heavier this time.

“Well,” I said finally, standing up. “You can keep your control.”

“God,” I groaned, “You’re such an ass.” He stood up too, at my words. He stepped out from behind his desk. “I am an ass?” He said, exasperated. “You’re the one who’s fucking flaunting your new boy toy in front of me. And I’m the ass?”

He grabbed my arm, his hold tight. I don’t who pulled who, but we were suddenly so close. I could feel his warm breath fan my face.

“So you’ll punish me? By giving me a bad grade?”

His jaw clenched. He twisted my arm behind my back. My face was so close to his as I looked up. If I wanted to I could kiss him. “You gave me a bad fucking paper,” he said lowly, menacingly, “So you got a bad fucking grade.”

It was me who kissed him. Putting my hand in his hair, pulling his face closer. I kissed him with vigour, my tongue in his mouth; trying to take some sort of control. He did not let me. His hand found my neck, closing around it, choking me lightly. I moaned into his mouth. “I fucking hate you,” I whispered. It made him choke me harder. I loved it.

“No, you don’t.” His voice was mocking as he pulled back slightly. His hand went lower, down my chest, down my stomach. He pressed two fingers against my core. “You’re wet through your pants. And I have barely done anything.”

He pulled me back into a kiss, while he undid my jeans with his other hand. His fingers slid inside. He lightly caressed my hair down there, then felt my clit. He slid a finger inside me. I gasped. “You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered. “Fuck, Willow.”

He moved his finger, and I let out a breathy moan. “Declan,” I moaned, “Oh God. This isn’t - “

He shushed me, “Do you want another finger inside you, dove?”

Dove. Fuck, that brought back so many memories.

“Yes,” I whispered. I grind my hips against his hand. That made him smirk.

“Then beg.”

My eyes rolled to the back of my head, “Please. Please can I have another finger inside me?”

He captured my lips again, slipping another finger inside me, moving them both in rhythm. He was so good with his hands. My lord.

I stumbled back, unable to handle the pleasure, and he grabbed me by the waist. “Stay, baby,” he said softly, “Come on my hand.”

His fingers quickened their pace. I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. I was coming in seconds, waves of pleasure washing over me. My body felt weak and limp. Hazy. Dazed. He let me ride out my orgasm before he pulled out of me.

He brought his hand to his mouth. Eyes boring into mine, he licked his fingers clean.