Only If You Stop Halfway

Iris

Thursday. Early October.

Still warm, but the air has that shifting crispness--the kind that makes the back of your neck feel watched. There's no breeze, but the leaves are holding their breath. The sky is cloudless, but Iris keeps looking up like she's waiting for something to fall.

She woke up at 10:43. First class was at 10:30. She didn't go. Didn't even try. Just lay in her twin bed in an oversized t-shirt she stole from an ex-girlfriend's older brother--some band that doesn't exist anymore, probably never did.

She scrolled Reddit for half an hour pretending to read a thread on queer literature, then went down a rabbit hole trying to figure out if Eileen Myles is single. They are. Allegedly. That made Iris feel a little feral.

Iris steps into the shower like she's walking into a confessional.

The water's too hot, and she doesn't turn it down. She lets it sting her shoulders, her neck, the slope of her back--like it might cauterize something.

Her body is slight, wiry, all tension and intent. No softness, no curves to fold into. Her chest is almost boyish--flat with small, tight nipples that go hard in the steam. She never hated it, exactly. But she noticed. Always. The way other girls filled out bras like offerings, the way she still gets mistaken for younger than she is. She doesn't hide it anymore. She doesn't pad. She lets her shirts hang, lets her collarbones show.

Her thighs are thin but strong. She runs. She doesn't admit it, but she likes the ache. The proof of effort. Her hips are narrow, her stomach a taut plane that trembles slightly now under the spray.

And below--she's unabashed. A full, thick thatch of copper between her legs, redder than the curls on her head, soaked now and clinging to the pale skin beneath. She doesn't shave. Never did. Once, someone told her it made her look European. Another said it made her look "serious." She liked that one.

She scrubs without hurrying. Small, precise motions. Her hands drift across her ribs, her chest, the hollow beneath her navel. She doesn't linger. Not today. Today she's not trying to cum. She's just trying to be.

The steam fogs the mirror outside the stall. Her reflection disappears.

And for a moment, she feels perfectly alone. Not unloved. Not invisible.

Just... unobserved.

And somehow, that's the most erotic thing of all.

Now her red hair's in a damp, frizzy knot on top of her head like a war wound. No makeup yet--just the wine-colored lipstick from her desk drawer, smudged slightly at the corners. That's the point.

Now it's lunch.

Or whatever passes for it.

She's outside, legs stretched under a round metal table outside the library, half in the sun like she owns the quad. She hates eating indoors--too many eyes with nowhere to go. Out here, she can pretend she's not waiting for anything.

Trashy meal: plastic-wrapped pesto panini, cherry Coke, sad little cup of hummus with pretzels that'll cut her mouth if she eats them too fast. She's not really hungry. She's just full of want. But she eats like it's a dare.

There's a book open--Bluets by Maggie Nelson. Underlined to hell. Scribbled margins. One line circled three times:

I want you to feel what I feel.

Next to it, in all caps:

TAMAR WOULD HATE THIS.

Her phone's face-down. Cracked screen. She checks it every three minutes anyway. No texts. A few Discord pings. A Tinder match with someone named Cy who's clearly a bot. She doesn't care.

She watches people go by with sharp, assessing eyes. That girl in the red backpack? Noticed. That guy in the bike shorts? Looked too long. She clocks everything. She likes being seen. Not approached. Just--registered. Filed away.

When she reapplies her lipstick--slowly, deliberately, using the tiny cracked mirror in her compact--it's not about fixing anything. It's about control. It's about the performance of control. About mouth as weapon.

She checks the time again. 12:38.

The lecture is in just under an hour.

Topic: Feminist Reinterpretations of Lilith.

Guest speaker: Professor Tamar Elisheva Klein.

Iris doesn't care about the title. Doesn't care about the flyer.

She saw the name, and something in her spine snapped to attention.

She doesn't know what Professor Klein is into. But she knows how women with names like that walk. She knows the scent of danger dressed in scholarship. Knows when something is going to matter and wants to matter back.

She watches a couple pass--Callie and Lexi. Calexi. Campus royalty. The kind of couple that people write stories about by accident. Visible. Digestible. Eternal Sunshine lesbians. One open and cardiganed, the other taut and haunted.

Iris doesn't envy them. She envies the legibility. The fact that their grief became a story, and their story became a love that people believed in. They're easy to root for.

Iris? She's not a story. She's a fucking glitch.

She doesn't want to be understood.

She wants to be felt.

Callie glances her way. Just a flicker.

Iris tips her chin. Acknowledges.

Lexi doesn't look at her at all.

That's fine. Lexi never looks unless she means it. And Iris--she respects that.

Still. She watches them disappear, shoes crunching softly on gravel. Not with envy. Not even longing.

More like research.

At 12:57, Iris packs up. Leaves the Coke. Folds the book open to a page that hurts. Slides it into her bag like a weapon. Walks toward the lecture hall with that deliberate, hips-swinging pace that says don't you fucking dare talk to me, but look. Look hard.

The sun catches the smudge on her lipstick.

Her boots click on the pavement like punctuation.

She's not going to learn anything.

She's going to change something.

She doesn't know what yet.

But something is going to shift.

And she wants to be in the front row when it does.

Front row like she planned it. Because she did.

Iris walks in late--not late enough to be disrespectful, just late enough to be noticed. The room is small, hot with over-interested undergrads and a few desperate faculty trying to be seen supporting "interdisciplinary engagement." There's a little hum of earnestness, bodies in folding chairs, the unmistakable musk of ethically sourced deodorant.

And there's Tamar. Already talking, already lit up. Whiteboard behind her covered in notes, scrawl that looks like it was written in passion, not planning. The kind of lecture that makes the classics kids drool and the queer lit majors feel seen.

Iris doesn't even pretend to care. She drops into the front row like a bomb, lets her backpack thud under the chair. Crosses her legs. Unwraps a cinnamon gum slowly, like a striptease for her mouth. She doesn't look at Tamar--at first. She looks just past her. Casual. Like she's here because there was nowhere better to be.

But she's exactly where she wants to be.

Tamar's talking about Lilith--of course she is. Lilith as the first woman who refused to lie beneath. Lilith as the woman who left. Lilith as a figure of divine rage, feminine autonomy, sexual knowledge without shame. There's fire in it. Not just in the text, but in the way she talks. Tamar gets animated when she teaches--pacing, gesturing, curling her lip when something's especially loaded.

And Iris is close enough to see everything.

The buttons on Tamar's blouse strain when she gestures with both hands. Her voice dips when she quotes Hebrew. And when she leans against the podium, head tilted, talking about how Lilith wasn't banished from Eden but walked out, Iris sees it. Just the edge of skin between blouse and trousers. That faint, dark line. Soft and deliberate. A treasure trail that leads exactly where Iris wants to go.

She doesn't hear half the lecture. She couldn't give a fuck about the textual analysis. She's not here for the theology. She's here to watch this woman unravel a myth with her body, not just her words. To see the little flashes of sweat at her hairline. The glint of a necklace that falls right between her breasts. The way she owns the room without ever asking for it.

And Iris? She shifts in her seat. Lets her bare knee brush the leg of the table. Tilts her face up a little too slowly when Tamar glances down.

There's a pause.

Just a flicker.

And Tamar--Tamar fucking Klein--catches it. Just for a second. Her words don't falter, but her eyes do. They land. Right on Iris. Right on that wine-dark mouth and those unrepentant eyes.

Iris doesn't smile.

She knows she's winning.

Iris came to college with a half-used vibrator, two tote bags full of queer theory, and the unshakable belief that somewhere on this godforsaken campus was a woman who'd teach her more than Judith fucking Butler ever could. She's not here for the degree. Not really. She's here for the experience. For the stories. For the kind of heat that leaves marks and the kind of mistake you don't regret until you're forty.

And yeah, maybe she treats it like Match. com. Like a fuck-it-all dating app with better lighting and worse cafeteria food. Office hours instead of DMs. Panel talks instead of party invites. If you squint, a guest lecture is basically a profile bio with live audio.

It's not wise. It's not even safe, sometimes. But Iris doesn't do safe. Not now. Not when she's eighteen and made entirely out of hunger and nerve. Her body's a weapon, a temple, a project--and she wants it seen. Wants to watch older women flinch when she enters a room. Wants them to notice the lipstick, the open posture, the calculated ankle-cross, and then have to look away.

She tells herself she's not trying to seduce anyone.

She's just... being available. Visible. In case someone interesting looks back.

She's had a couple flings already. A hot mess of a junior who wrote slam poetry about her after a week. A weepy ceramics major who called her "angel" during sex and ghosted the next day. Nothing that lasted, but that's not the point.

The point is proximity. The point is heat. The point is figuring out what kind of woman she can be by seeing who responds when she turns up the volume.

And now Tamar has looked. Really looked.

And Iris? She's not thinking about consequences. She's thinking about how far she can push it. About that little tremble in Tamar's jaw when she makes a particularly brutal argument about divine feminine vengeance.

She doesn't realize--yet--that this one could burn back. That Tamar isn't some overread sophomore or shy TA.

She's a grown woman with teeth.

And when Iris bites, Tamar might just bite harder.

Tamar

Tamar leans back against the podium, hand still curled around the edge like she needs something to ground her. She's smiling, answering a question--something about demonology and post-structuralism, some breathless young thing in the third row who genuinely believes they've discovered nuance. She answers, because it's what she does. She knows how to fill a room with her voice, how to keep people listening.

But her eyes--

Her eyes flick to the front row. Empty now.

Iris is gone.

Slipped out just before the closing applause, like a ghost that never intended to stay. No goodbye. No glance back. No performance this time. Just a quiet exit, the sway of her hips marking time like punctuation. One long, final sentence.

Tamar watches the empty chair like it might confess something.

Her heart is doing that thing it hasn't done in years--fluttering, betraying her. She breathes deep. Focus. She thanks the audience. She unclips her mic. She smiles at the organizer, the dean, the simpering adjunct who tries to flirt by quoting bell hooks badly.

But inside? She's a mess.

That girl--Iris--she's not just reckless. She's fucking dangerous. Not because she's bold. Not because she's sexy. Because she doesn't know what she is yet. She hasn't learned the rules, the consequences, the long shadow that follows women like Tamar when they stray too close to the edge.

Tamar knows better. She's worked too fucking hard to build a life out of caution and sharp elbows. She's sat through Title IX training, watched colleagues get burned, watched herself almost fall once--back in grad school, when she still thought desire was something you could compartmentalize.

She's not that woman anymore.

And yet--

Iris sat there with her legs crossed and her lips smudged like a bruise and looked up at her like she was reading scripture. Like she knew Tamar's body better than Tamar did. Like she wanted to be the next chapter in a story Tamar had stopped writing.

It wasn't a crush. It wasn't admiration.

It was invitation.

And now Iris is gone, leaving behind the ghost of her heat and the lingering scent of cheap cinnamon gum.

Tamar exhales.

She knows better.

She also knows she'll be looking for her next time.

Iris

She doesn't eat much. Just some weird-ass quinoa thing from the vegan station and a microwaved bao from her dorm stash, eaten half-cold while leaning against the windowsill like some tragic Victorian ghost with chopsticks and a vengeance. Her roommate's gone--thank fuck--and Iris is free to pace.

She's not thinking about Tamar's body. Not intentionally. Not like a creep. More like... her brain is orbiting around it. Like a moon with bad boundaries.

It's the treasure trail. That fucking strip of soft black hair leading down beneath her blouse. The way Tamar leaned forward at the podium, hand bracing her hip, neckline gaping just slightly too far. Not on purpose, maybe. But maybe. God. Iris wants to believe she imagined it, but her imagination isn't that generous.

She licks the inside of her bottom lip and tosses the rest of her dinner in the trash. Her thighs ache from sitting too long. Her spine's tense. She needs to move.

So she pulls on her beat-up sports bra, the one with the unraveling strap, and those tight black shorts that hug her ass like a scandal. Hair in a high, angry ponytail. She skips the campus rec center--too many frat guys and too much neon lighting--and hits the smaller basement gym in her dorm instead. The one that smells like rubber mats and repressed rage.

It's mostly empty. Just her and some overenthusiastic psych major doing deadlifts with bad form.

Perfect.

She climbs onto the treadmill and starts at a walk, just to warm up, just to feel herself again. Every footfall a thud that echoes somewhere behind her ribs. She pumps it up to a jog, then faster. Hair bouncing. Mouth open. Not pretty. Not for anyone.

And still--Tamar.

Tamar's breasts. The slope of them. Heavy and defiant. Not delicate. Not fake. Real enough to spill out if she leaned forward too far. The way her waist cinches just enough to make space for the curve of her hips. The presence of her. Like she's always slightly too much for the room she's in.

Iris speeds up. Her legs are flying now. Her lungs are burning. Her nipples are hard against the thin cotton of her bra and she's sweating but it's not just the workout--it's that low, gnawing want under everything.

What would Tamar do if she showed up at her office like this? Still damp from running, shirt clinging to her stomach, flushed and buzzing and utterly without shame?

No. She wouldn't. She won't. She can't.

But fuck, she wants to.

By the time she slows down, her whole body's trembling. Not just from the sprint. From the imagining.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and steps off the machine like she's coming down from something illegal.

She's not thinking about Tamar's body.

She's haunted by it.

The walk back to her dorm is quiet, misty. Cool air on hot skin. Her shirt's stuck to her back in places. Her thighs are still twitching from the sprint. Her lungs feel like they've been hollowed out and replaced with something thirsty.

She doesn't talk to anyone. Doesn't check her phone. She takes the back stairwell, skips the common room entirely.

In the shared bathroom, she strips fast. Not graceful, not cinematic. Clothes dumped in a heap. She steps into the shower with the kind of urgency that isn't about hygiene. It's about need.

The water's too hot. She wants it that way. She tips her head back and lets it scald the back of her neck, lets it run down her chest, over her tight, flat little breasts, nipples still hard from the treadmill and Tamar and the fact that she hasn't touched herself in a week because she's been waiting. For what, exactly, she doesn't know. But tonight? She's not waiting.

She soaps up quick, then slower. Lets her fingers slide down, across her ribs, between her thighs. Just pressure. Just warmth. No finesse yet. She bites her lip.

And she thinks about Tamar.

Not just her body now. Her voice. The way it dropped when she talked about Lilith walking out of Eden. The way she held her arms when she quoted Torah, like she was holding someone. Like she wanted to be held.

She thinks about that treasure trail again. But more than that--she imagines undoing the buttons of Tamar's blouse. One by one. Slow. Knuckles brushing skin. That soft give of heat. The way Tamar's breath would catch--not a gasp, just a pause, an allowance.

Iris slides her fingers in, soft at first. Not desperate. Not yet.

She imagines Tamar saying her name. Not in class. Not in front of others. Just--low. Dark. Iris. That fucking voice. Like a spell.

She pushes deeper. Tilts her hips toward the tile. Her forehead rests on the cool wall.

Now Tamar's mouth. Full, plush, intentional. She imagines it trailing across her collarbone. Teeth, maybe. The kind of kiss that bruises. That claims.

She speeds up. Her breath breaks. Her thighs clench. Her body arches just a little, knees going soft. She's going to come and she knows it. Knows it like a rising tide. Like punishment.

She lets herself say it, quiet, soaked in steam: "Fuck--Tamar--"

And then she does.

Not a scream. Not a whimper. Just a shudder. A release. A collapse of all that heat and hunger into one long, tremoring exhale.

Afterward, she leans there. Still. Water pounding. Mind blank.

She shouldn't have said the name. She knows that.

But it's too late now. It's in her mouth. It's in her blood.

She towels off in silence.

Crawls into bed without brushing her hair.

And dreams about crossing lines.

Tamar

The alarm goes off at 6:30, and Tamar wakes up like a woman who's been dragged out of some deep, judgmental ocean.

She doesn't hit snooze. She never has. That's not discipline--it's inevitability. Her body just moves. Like it's been doing this since before the sun remembered how to rise.

She stretches once, slow and full-bodied, arms over her head, spine arching until something pops. The sheets are still warm. Her body smells like sleep, like skin, like the trace of something she won't name. She's alone. She always is. That's how she likes it. Mostly.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed. The floor's cold. She likes that too.

First: the kettle. She doesn't speak, doesn't think, just fills it and clicks it on. Her apartment's quiet, still smelling faintly of last night's incense--frankincense and myrrh, the good stuff, not the headachey new-age shit from undergrad dorms. Tamar buys hers from a woman in Berkeley who speaks in riddles and carries grief in her shawls.

While the water heats, she rolls her neck, shakes out her arms. Strips off her sleep shirt--oversized, black, nothing written on it--and steps into the bathroom. She doesn't look in the mirror yet.

Toothbrush. Cold water. She scrubs her teeth with the same brutal efficiency she uses on patriarchal readings of Genesis. Then face. Then hair--curly, unruly, defiant. She doesn't fight it. She coaxes it, oils it, pins it half-up with a silver clasp shaped like a pomegranate.

Back to the kitchen. The kettle sings.

She pours hot water over loose black tea, lets it steep in silence. No music. No phone. No news. Just morning. She stands by the window in her robe, one breast half-exposed without caring, and watches the early fog roll across the apartment courtyard.

Eventually, she eats something--half a grapefruit, maybe. A piece of toast with za'atar and olive oil. She takes her time.

Then she dresses. Always intentionally. Today: a deep burgundy blouse that clings a little too much to be entirely professional, and dark slacks that hug her hips. She buttons slowly. Leaves one undone. Debates it. Leaves it. She's not hiding.

She puts on earrings--small hoops. She considers makeup. Decides against it. Her face is expressive enough. Her eyes do most of the work.

Her last ritual: she chooses a book. Not one she's teaching. Something just for her. Today it's The Book of Longing by Leonard Cohen. She slips it into her bag like a secret, then slings it over one shoulder and steps out into the morning like she owns it.

Because she does.

She doesn't think about Iris.

Not yet.

But the echo is there, somewhere behind her ribs. Something low and simmering. Something that hums when she buttons her blouse and imagines a certain redheaded girl in the front row who hasn't earned her attention but has it anyway.

She locks the door behind her.

She walks to campus with tea in hand, unread desire tucked under her arm like literature.

Iris

She's on the quad again, sprawled out on a crumbling patch of grass pretending it's a chaise lounge. Oversized sweater, no bra, coffee she hasn't touched, sunglasses too big for her face--her whole vibe says casual indifference, but her heart's pacing like it's got an early flight to catch.

Because Tamar's lecture is in two hours. And Iris already knows what she's going to wear. Tight jeans, button-down shirt, lipstick like a sin. She's not showing up for the content. She's showing up to rattle someone.

So when the psych major from the gym wanders up--James? Jamie? Something with a J and a vibe like he just discovered Carl Jung--she groans internally but lifts her chin. Lets him approach. He was kind of cute, in that soft boy, good intentions, probably-cries-during-sex kind of way.

"Hey," he says, all friendly confidence. "I think we've seen each other in the gym a few times?"

She raises an eyebrow behind her glasses. "Maybe. I'm not great with faces when I'm sprinting toward death."

He laughs. "Yeah, you go hard. It's impressive."

She shrugs. "I go out of my mind. Slight difference."

They chat. He's not unbearable. He's got this eager, lopsided smile and he listens too closely, like every word she says might be part of a riddle he could solve. He asks about her major (Undecided), her favorite book (she lies and says The Waves), and what dorm she's in (she changes the subject). He's sweet. Earnest.

And she's bored.

Because Tamar's shadow is stretched out behind her eyes like a cathedral. Because Tamar speaks in ancient languages and wears silk like it's armor and looks at her like she's dangerous. This boy doesn't look at her like that. He looks at her like she's a possibility. A puzzle. A project. It's fucking exhausting.

And then he says it.

"So... would you want to get dinner sometime? Or coffee? Just us?"

There it is. That turn. The air shifts. Her body tenses. Not in fear--just in clarity.

She smiles, slow and surgical.

"That's sweet," she says, voice low. "But I'm sort of... hyperfixated on someone right now."

"Oh," he says, blinking. "Cool. Yeah. Totally cool."

"I mean, it's not cool. It's deeply irrational and probably doomed. But I'm in it. So."

He nods, too fast. Rubs the back of his neck. "Okay, yeah. I respect that. Thanks for being honest."

"I'm always honest," she says, standing up and brushing grass off her ass like punctuation. "It's a flaw."

She leaves him there, a little dazed, a little wounded, and doesn't look back. She's already thinking about Tamar's mouth. About the way her voice dropped yesterday when she talked about transgression.

She's got exactly ninety minutes to get ready.

And she's going to make it count.

The transformation starts the second she's back in her dorm. Not a rush. A ritual. She strips naked, not out of necessity but out of defiance. The room's cold, and she likes it that way--likes the way her nipples peak, the goosebumps across her thighs. She stares at herself in the mirror for a beat too long. She doesn't smile. She's not here to be pretty. She's here to provoke.

First: the jeans. High-waisted, sharp as a line of poetry. Tight enough that breathing becomes a decision. Then the shirt--white, slightly sheer, top two buttons undone, the neckline falling open like an invitation no one asked for but everyone wants. She tucks it in with precision. Messy on purpose.

No bra.

She wants Tamar to know.

Lipstick: wine-dark again. She applies it slow, like she's practicing a sin. Mascara just on the outer corners. She doesn't want to look done, she wants to look like someone Tamar might imagine undressing.

Hair: wild. Not up. Not tamed. Red and frizzy and there, like it might catch fire if the light hits it right. She sprays just enough scent--something smoky and strange--that Tamar might catch it when she passes too close.

And then she walks.

Back across campus, sun low and warm, air thick with dusk. She moves like she's wearing heels, even though she's not. She struts. Every step is intentional. She knows her hips move like punctuation. She lets them.

And when she walks into that lecture hall?

Every head turns. But she doesn't give a fuck.

Because Tamar's head turns too.

And that--that look? That one flicker of shock that passes through Tamar's eyes before she tightens her jaw, before she remembers she's supposed to be in charge, before she schools herself into professionalism?

That's the payoff.

Iris slides into the same front-row seat like it's her throne. Crosses her legs slowly. The shirt gapes just enough. The lipstick is perfect. The eyes lock.

She came to win.

And she so fucking does.

Tamar

Tamar's setting up. Or pretending to. Notes arranged in an order she'll abandon within ten minutes. Marker caps twisted off and balanced between her fingers like weapons. She's rehearsing, half under her breath, the opening line about exile and the erotic, about Eve and shame and knowledge--because this one matters. There's a visiting scholar in the back. A departmental review happening next month. She wore the navy slacks today, the ones that whisper around her thighs when she walks. Professional. Intentional. She needs to be sharp.

She's adjusting the mic when she feels it.

The air changes.

She looks up.

And Iris fucking Adler walks in like she's about to be photographed for sin.

It hits Tamar like heat. No preamble. Just--there. White shirt loose, undone at the collar, those pale sharp collarbones gleaming like they were dusted in some goddamn spell. Lips dark as bruises. Jeans that should be illegal. No bra. That much is obvious. And the way she walks--like she knows Tamar's watching, like she wants her to, like she's offering herself as a dare.

Tamar stiffens. Grip tightens on the podium. She feels her body betray her, just a little--heart rate up, mouth dry, a familiar twinge low in her belly. It's shameful. It's infuriating. It's alive.

Iris takes the same fucking seat. Front row. Legs crossed, shirt open, eyes lit. She doesn't even smile.

Tamar swallows.

She starts the lecture on autopilot. Voice calm, steady. But her mind is not calm. Her body is not steady. Because now Iris is there, twenty-four inches away, leaning forward with every question like she's trying to fall into Tamar's gravity and take her down with her.

Tamar knows better. Has known better her whole damn life.

But her eyes keep drifting. To the gap in that blouse. To the shadows that flicker under it. To the line of Iris's throat. Her smirk. Her stillness.

Tamar thinks: She dressed for me.

And worse: I want to thank her.

She keeps talking. Something about the feminine divine, about fragmentation and desire. She hears herself say "disruption is a form of knowledge," and nearly chokes on it. Because Iris looks up--looks at her--like she knows exactly what she's doing.

And Tamar?

Tamar is fucked.

Because in that moment, with the marker in her hand and the whiteboard full of names that haven't been spoken aloud in a thousand years, all she can think about is how it would feel to grip Iris's hips and pull her shirt wide open.

To stop pretending.

To sin.

Tamar can't concentrate for the rest of the lecture. Her sentences start sharp but lose cohesion midstream, her mouth full of half-finished metaphors and trailing clauses. She flips the marker in her hand too many times. Her back itches. Her thighs are too aware of the way her slacks cling. She pretends she doesn't see the way Iris shifts in her chair, how she leans on one elbow with her shirt sliding open like a confession.

And when the talk ends--applause, chatter, that wave of deferential student energy swirling toward the exit--Tamar pretends to shuffle her notes just long enough for everyone else to leave.

Except Iris.

Because of course Iris stays. She lingers. The moment everyone else begins to file out, she stretches, just a little. Like a cat. Like temptation made physical. She doesn't speak yet. Just waits.

Tamar gives up pretending she's packing.

"Iris."

Her voice is even. Too even.

Iris looks up slowly. Lips curled. "Professor Klein."

And there it is--that flicker of something between challenge and reverence, deference made dangerous. Tamar wants to snap, to warn, to grab her by the wrist and say what the fuck are you doing? But also--she wants to close the distance. To smell that smoky perfume again. To stand close enough to see if Iris's pupils dilate when she says her name.

"I need to ask," Tamar begins, walking around the podium, "what, exactly, you think you're doing."

Iris tilts her head. "Attending your lectures."

"With your blouse unbuttoned and your legs crossed like a loaded question?"

A beat.

"Do you want an apology or a thank you?"

Tamar inhales through her nose. Steadies herself. She's not angry. She's intrigued. Which is worse.

"You're eighteen," she says quietly.

"And you noticed."

"You're playing a dangerous game."

"I don't think it's a game."

Tamar steps closer. Not touching distance, not yet. But close enough that she can smell the sweat still faint under Iris's perfume. Close enough to see that the lipstick is just slightly smudged. Close enough to see that Iris wants something--but Tamar can't decide if it's power, or attention, or simply truth.

"I should report this," Tamar says.

"Should," Iris echoes. "But you won't."

And fuck her, she's right.

Because Tamar can't decide. Is she here to stop this? To lay down a boundary and hold it firm? Or is she here to get close enough to understand what Iris wants--so she can dismantle it, or indulge it, or match it?

"You don't know what you're doing," Tamar says, more to herself than to Iris.

"I think I know exactly what I'm doing," Iris replies. And then: "You're the one who can't decide."

Tamar's breath catches. For just a moment. Long enough.

Then she turns away. Walks back to the podium. Grips the edge like it's the only solid thing in the room.

"This is your one warning," she says, over her shoulder.

"Warning," Iris repeats softly. "Got it."

But she doesn't leave.

And Tamar doesn't tell her to.

It's late. Past midnight. The world outside Tamar's apartment is dead quiet, except for the occasional rustle of leaves and the dull, insistent hum of a refrigerator she keeps meaning to fix. She's in bed, finally, after grading too many half-formed essays and ignoring three texts from a woman she used to sleep with out of convenience.

Her glasses are on the nightstand. The lamp is still on, dimmed low. She's lying on her back in an old t-shirt that clings in places she doesn't usually let it, and a pair of black cotton underwear that she hasn't bothered to remove.

She doesn't plan it. It just happens. One slow slide of fingers over her stomach. Then lower. Her breath shallow, eyes closed, hand creeping down between her legs, that soft familiar rhythm she's done a thousand times. A ritual. A release.

She's not thinking of anyone. Not at first.

Just the feeling. The heat building under her skin, her thighs parting. Her lips parting. The curl of her toes, the pressure of her fingers. A pace she knows by heart.

And then--Iris.

Unbidden. Immediate.

The open blouse. The smirk. That low, infuriating voice that pretends not to be seductive. The way she said Professor Klein with that barely-suppressed laugh, like she knew exactly what she was doing and didn't care about the fallout. The way her nipples showed through her shirt. The way she crossed her legs in the front row like she was posing for a portrait only Tamar could see.

Tamar's fingers stop. Just--stop. Mid-motion. The breath in her chest catches like a fishhook. Her body is still begging. Still aching. But her mind is suddenly flooded with her. Not fantasy. Not memory. Just Iris. Too real. Too young. Too fucking bold.

She yanks her hand back like she's been burned. Presses it to her stomach. Tries to slow her breathing.

"Fuck," she mutters. Sharp. Disgusted. At herself.

Because it was close. She was close. And now it's all tainted. Now it's not pleasure, it's power. It's confusion. It's the wrong kind of heat.

She turns on her side, shoves the blankets off, like that'll cool her down. Like she can punish the thought away.

But her body's still humming. Her cunt still wet. Her thighs still slick with need. Her fingers still twitching with the memory of where they were.

She clenches her eyes shut.

She does not finish.

She does not try again.

Instead, she lies there in the dark, every nerve lit like a fuse, Iris's name in her mouth like a swallowed match, and tells herself:

This is the last time.

It's a lie. But she needs it.

For now.

Subject: Follow-up on Lilith?

Dear Professor Klein,

I wanted to thank you again for the lecture yesterday--it's been turning over in my head since I left the room. The way you framed exile as an erotic gesture, particularly in relation to Lilith, was... unsettling, in the best way. I think I've always been drawn to women who choose to walk out of paradise, even if they don't know what they're walking into.

I was hoping you might be open to a brief conversation sometime this week. I have some thoughts--questions, maybe--about the texts you mentioned, especially the Zohar reference that got glossed over near the end. I know it's not strictly within the assigned readings, but I've been doing some extra research and I'm curious where you stand on a few of the more... ambiguous interpretations.

Also--and I hope this isn't inappropriate--I'd like to talk about the way I've been presenting myself in your class. I get the sense that I've made a certain kind of impression, and I'd rather not leave that unnamed. I value clarity. Transparency. I think you do too.

Let me know if you have time.

Warmly,

Iris

That final paragraph isn't a confession--it's bait. It doesn't apologize. It dares Tamar to acknowledge the thing they're both pretending not to see.

Every word is soft. Polite. Academic. And sharp as fuck.

She knows it'll hit like a spark in a dry room.

And once it's sent?

Iris doesn't reread it.

She just waits.

The email arrives at 11:43 p. m. sharp--just like Iris planned--and sits at the top of Tamar's inbox like a lit cigarette left on a windowsill. Unread. Unmoving. But burning.

Tamar sees it almost immediately. She's in bed, laptop on her stomach, tabs open on articles she's pretending to skim. She's not grading. Not reading. She's waiting--though she'd never admit for what.

And then: Iris Adler -- Subject: Follow-up on Lilith?

She doesn't click. Not at first. She closes the laptop like it insulted her and sets it on the nightstand. Turns off the lamp. Tries to sleep.

She doesn't.

Two hours pass like a fever. Tamar lies in the dark, one arm thrown over her eyes, legs twisted in the sheets, her body buzzing not with desire but with something worse--dread. Because she knows what this is. She knows what Iris is doing.

She just doesn't know why it's working.

At 2:04 a. m., she opens the email. The glow from the screen slices through the room like a spotlight.

And she reads it.

Once.

Twice.

A third time, slower.

By the end of the second paragraph her throat is dry. By the third, she's sitting upright in bed, heart in her mouth. That paragraph--"the way I've been presenting myself". Jesus.

It's not a confession. It's a summoning.

And Tamar knows--God, she knows--that the right move is to delete it. To ignore it. To let it rot in her inbox like every other baited trap she's been smart enough to sidestep.

But she can't.

Because Iris didn't just push.

She named it.

And Tamar? Tamar is exhausted from pretending she doesn't want to speak the name too.

So it sits. Unanswered. For four hours.

Then, just after dawn, when the city is fog-draped and still and no one is watching--Tamar writes back.

Subject: Re: Follow-up on Lilith?

Dear Iris,

Thank you for your message. I appreciate your engagement with the material, and I'd be open to discussing your questions further.

If you'd like to continue the conversation, I'll be in my office at 3:30 tomorrow. Please come prepared with your notes and whatever readings you're referencing.

As for the other matter you mentioned--I believe that, too, is best addressed in person.

Best,

Professor Tamar Klein

No warmth. No signature flourish. But the message is there, hidden under every clipped word:

Come to me.

I'm not turning away.

Not yet.

She closes her laptop.

Lies back down.

And doesn't sleep a single fucking minute.

Iris

Iris wakes up early. Earlier than she needs to. Nerves jangling, but held tight under the skin. She showers without music. Brushes her teeth in silence. Doesn't masturbate. Wants to be sharp. Wants to be dangerous without being messy.

She doesn't even glance at her tight jeans. Doesn't touch the lipstick.

Instead: a soft grey turtleneck. Form-fitting, but not clingy. It conceals her collarbones, her chest, her throat--the places Tamar's eyes like to linger. Her hair is up, tied back into a low, clean knot. Minimal makeup. Just mascara and a little balm. Her skirt is long, navy, brushing mid-calf. It sways when she walks, like something from another century. She wears flats.

She looks good, but she looks serious. Like a girl who reads scripture for fun and might already know how this ends.

It's not innocence.

It's strategy.

She stands in the mirror for a moment before she leaves. Tilts her head. Lets her gaze go flat. You are not going to beg, she tells herself. You are going to win.

And then she walks across campus, hands in the sleeves of her sweater, skirt catching the breeze, body humming low with anticipation.

She's not dressed to provoke.

She's dressed to disarm.

Because what's more seductive than a girl who isn't even trying?

When she knocks on Tamar's office door at 3:31--one minute late, on purpose--she's already smiling.

Not sweetly.

Like someone who's come to collect.

Tamar opens the door with a face like polished stone--academic blankness, the kind of guarded neutrality she's honed over years of being watched too closely by men who thought her lectures were invitations. But when she sees Iris standing there--grey turtleneck, hair pinned back, no cleavage, no spectacle, no sex--something tightens behind her eyes.

She steps aside. Doesn't speak.

Iris glides in, calm, graceful, so composed it's almost aggressive. She takes the offered chair, crosses her ankles, folds her hands in her lap. Like a student. Like a nun. Like someone who's about to burn the church down but still knows how to curtsy.

Tamar returns to her seat. The desk between them feels too small.

"So," Tamar says, professional. Crisp. "You had questions about the Zohar?"

"I do," Iris says, all polite, academic silk. "But I think I answered most of them myself. I reread Scholem's translation last night. You were right to skip it--it would've derailed the whole lecture."

Tamar raises an eyebrow. She doesn't like being flattered. It makes her suspicious.

"So you're not here to discuss the text."

"Oh, I am," Iris says, smiling faintly. "I always am. But you said we should talk in person."

Tamar doesn't speak. Her pen rolls slowly between two fingers.

For a moment, it's... pleasant. Light talk. A shared curiosity about interpretations of Lilith that aren't so westernized. Tamar recommends a paper by Daniel Boyarin. Iris jots it down even though she's already read it. Their voices stay low. It's warm. Intellectually intimate. Almost like nothing's happening beneath the surface.

Then Iris leans forward. Just an inch. Just enough.

"And now that we've done the performance," she says, soft, level, "can we talk about why I'm really here?"

Tamar freezes.

It's not a threat. It's not flirtation. It's clarity.

"Iris--"

"I'm not confused," she says. "I'm not immature. I'm not going to tell anyone. I'm not going to make a scene."

Tamar's mouth opens. No words arrive.

"You wanted me to come here. You said it would be better in person."

"I said that because--"

"Because you're afraid of leaving a paper trail. That's smart."

Tamar inhales sharply, as if the air itself has turned dangerous.

Iris leans back. Uncrosses her ankles. Now her legs are just slightly parted under that long skirt. Still modest. Still unreadable. But the energy has shifted entirely.

"I'm not trying to ruin your life," she says. "But I am trying to ruin your composure."

And Tamar--goddess of restraint, priestess of control, stone-faced Professor Klein--feels her cunt clench at that.

"I'm not asking you for anything," Iris continues. "You're the one who can't stop looking at me. I just want to know how long we're going to pretend it's not mutual."

The office is quiet.

Outside, campus life goes on. Backpacks. Laughter. Squirrels.

Tamar

Inside, Lilith's favorite daughter sits with her hands folded in her lap like a fucking saint, and Tamar is burning.

She could lie. Shut it down. Call it confusion. Misread signals. She could say "This isn't appropriate," and end it. She's done it before.

But this time, her mouth stays closed.

Because it is mutual.

And Tamar doesn't know how to pretend anymore.

Tamar closes her eyes.

Just for a breath. Just for a moment.

When she opens them, the performance is gone. No teacher mask, no iron spine, no slow-spoken control. Just Tamar. Thirty-two. Exhausted. Turned on. Pinned in place by a girl of eighteen and twice as fucking fearless.

She licks her lips, slow. Hears the softest scrape of her own breath.

"I tried not to want you," she says.

Iris doesn't react. Not visibly. But her shoulders straighten just slightly. Her head tips, attentive. Feeding off this. Off truth.

Tamar continues, voice lower now, cracking at the edges.

"I watched you walk into my lecture in that red lipstick and that smug little sway like you were casting a fucking spell--and I told myself it was harmless. I told myself I was imagining it. That it was... projection. Classic transferential fixation. But it wasn't."

She's breathing faster. Not breaking eye contact.

"You're not confused," Tamar says. "You're terrifyingly clear. You know exactly what you want. And I--"

She breaks. Not down. Just apart. Peels herself open like bark.

"I haven't felt this off-balance in years. I haven't let myself. I don't... lose it. Ever."

A silence.

Iris leans in, eyes unreadable. Not smiling now.

"So what do you want to do about it?"

Tamar laughs--short, bitter. "You think I can do anything about it?"

"You already have."

And there it is. Naked. Undeniable.

Tamar leans back. Her chair creaks under her. She runs a hand through her hair, curls loosening. Her blouse is sticking to her back. She feels too warm in her own skin.

"I thought I was the one in control," she says.

"You still can be," Iris says, voice velvet. "But it won't make this go away."

And Tamar knows that.

Knows it like she knows the shape of Iris's smirk, the tilt of her hips, the pulse between her own legs every time Iris gets too close.

She knows she should stand up. Should say this ends here. Should send Iris out the door and lock it behind her and forget this ever happened.

Instead, she asks--soft, broken, real:

"Why me?"

And Iris, without missing a beat, replies:

"Because you're the first woman I've ever wanted to ruin me and the first one I wanted to ruin back."

Tamar lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan.

And doesn't tell her to leave.

Iris is sitting there like the fucking devil in a turtleneck. Back straight, lips parted just slightly, like she's holding in the next move--letting Tamar squirm, letting her decide. It's worse than anything Tamar imagined. She expected seduction. Instead, she got judgment. Stillness. Patience. Like Iris already knows how this ends and is just watching Tamar catch up.

And Tamar--goddess help her--is aroused. Aroused in that worst kind of way: gut-deep, unshakable, soaked-through dread.

Because yes, Iris is flat-chested. Too young. A chaos creature who wears sin like perfume. Tamar could destroy her with a single rejection. But that's not the point.

The point is: she doesn't want to.

She wants her. In the worst way. In the oldest way.

She wants to pin her down and tear that fucking turtleneck off with her teeth. Wants to know what Iris sounds like when she loses her composure. Wants to whisper liturgical Hebrew into her mouth and see if the girl flinches or moans. Wants to leave bruises that look like scripture.

And the consequences?

They're not hypothetical. They're concrete. Power imbalance. Faculty hearings. Reputational ruin. Tamar's already imagining the worst-case scenarios. A whisper on RateMyProfessor. A text screen-capped and sent to a bored RA. A career reduced to gossip.

But Iris isn't some helpless waif.

She's not prey.

She's fucking waiting.

Tamar swallows. Hard. The room's too quiet. Her mouth tastes like metal.

"You know this could end badly," she says finally, voice low, hoarse, taut like a bowstring.

Iris doesn't flinch. Just leans in slightly, like gravity's tugging her closer.

"Only if you stop halfway."

Tamar's heart punches her ribs. Her thighs press together. She feels heat rush up her neck, her ears, her cunt.

And still, she doesn't move.

Because the part of her that wants everything is being dragged down by the part that's been surviving on just enough for years. That part that says: you don't deserve this, and even if you do--you'll lose it.

But Iris is still there. Still waiting. Still offering.

And Tamar?

Tamar is so unsure she could scream.

But she's already halfway undone.

And that counts for something.

It happens slowly, like someone tearing out the last page of a holy book. Tamar doesn't speak for a long time after Iris delivers that last line--Only if you stop halfway. The air between them thickens, tastes like metal and memory and the tension between sin and satisfaction.

And then Tamar does the most dangerous thing of all.

She decides.

Not like a girl. Like a woman who's been holding back for too long, who has told herself for years that control is sacred, that her body is a locked archive, that wanting is beneath her unless it's on her terms.

Well. These are her terms.

She stands. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just... stands. Slow, deliberate, like gravity's trying to keep her seated and she's denying it.

She walks to her desk. Opens a drawer. Takes out a notecard--ivory, heavy, expensive, the kind she uses for thank-you notes and letters of recommendation. And on it, in tight, beautiful handwriting, she writes her address.

No name. No explanation. Just an address and a time.

She walks it back to Iris, heels echoing softly on the floor like punctuation marks.

She sets the card on the table between them. Doesn't look at her. Not yet.

"Seven-thirty," she says.

Iris reaches for the card like it's already hers. Reads it. Silent. Breath catching, just barely.

And Tamar--finally--meets her gaze.

"Bring a change of clothes."

Iris blinks.

Then Tamar sighs. Not a frustrated sigh. Not regret. Something heavier. Something surrendering.

"You'll be staying the night."

Iris doesn't smile. That would ruin it. Instead, she nods, slowly, once.

Tamar walks back to her desk. Sits down. Picks up her pen. Pretends to write something. She doesn't say goodbye.

And Iris walks out of the office like a queen leaving a courtroom where she just won the trial and the execution.

The door clicks shut behind her.

And Tamar finally exhales.

She has seven hours to prepare for the worst decision she's ever made.

She's never been wetter in her life.

Iris

Tamar's building is nothing special. That's the point.

A narrow three-story brick rectangle tucked into a tree-lined side street two blocks off campus, just far enough from the coffee shops and drama majors to be invisible. The kind of place people walk past without seeing--no stoop, no balcony, no drama. Just a faded green awning that says Ashmere Place in font that screams 1996 HOA meeting. One of the E's is chipped.

The building itself is old enough to have seen things, but renovated just enough to pretend it hasn't. Windows with white plastic blinds. An entryway with fake marble tile that always smells faintly of lemon cleaner and disuse. The intercom works, but just barely--you have to jab the button like it owes you money.

There are six units. Maybe eight. Quiet neighbors. No one talks in the hallways. It's the kind of building where lives get lived behind locked doors and nothing leaks. Not noise. Not scandal. Not light.

The outside offers nothing--no clues, no personality. Just a beige anonymity that dares you to imagine anything interesting happening inside. A place that hides its architecture like a shrug. Like a whispered move along.

But Tamar's windows--second floor, left corner--always glow a little warmer. Not bright. Just alive. Light that suggests wine poured in tall glasses. Paperbacks with broken spines. Sex that starts with philosophy and ends in silence.

It's not a dangerous-looking building.

That's why it's dangerous.

Because it promises nothing. And inside, you could be unmade.

Iris stands in the doorway for a breath too long, taking it all in. The place is high-ceilinged, quiet, deeply intentional. Every piece of furniture looks like it was chosen to outlive love affairs. Books in curated piles. A single oil painting above the mantle--dark, abstract, vaguely threatening. The kitchen glows with warm light. Real light. Not the jaundiced fluorescence of campus.

Tamar's barefoot. That alone almost kills her.

She's in a soft black sweater with a wide neck that slips off one shoulder, exposing her collarbone and the curve of one breast held snug in a simple bra. Slacks. Nothing flashy. But the smell--rosemary, garlic, lemon--is erotic in a different way. Domestic. Confident. No seduction here, just competence.

"You're on time," Tamar says, and takes her coat.

"I dress for dinner," Iris replies, trying to sound cool, even though her hands are clenched around the strap of her bag.

"I noticed."

Tamar hands her a glass of wine. Not a cheap one, either. Deep red, silky. She doesn't say the name of the bottle. Of course she doesn't. She just watches Iris sip it and then turns back to the stove.

The table is already set--two places. Real linen napkins. Heavy forks. A candle, but not the romantic kind. The practical kind, like this might be a last meal before a reckoning.

"You made this?" Iris asks, settling into her seat.

"Would I invite you here and order takeout?"

Iris shrugs, swirling the wine. "I figured you might have some grad student with a sourdough kink and too much free time."

Tamar doesn't laugh. She smiles without teeth and begins plating.

Roasted chicken with lemon zest. Carrots glazed with cumin. Toasted farro with dill. It smells absurdly good, like memory and middle age and someone who knows how to cook for themselves and be alone. Tamar sets the plate down in front of Iris like it's part of a ritual. Then sits opposite her.

They eat quietly at first.

The only sounds are the clink of utensils and the soft brush of linen against Tamar's lap as she shifts.

"I read your email again," Tamar says, without looking up.

Iris swallows. "And?"

"You were right. You are terrifyingly clear."

A beat. Then Iris: "Does that scare you?"

Tamar meets her gaze. "Nothing scares me more than clarity."

They fall into something like conversation after that. It's not flirtation. It's sharper. Quieter. Iris asks about the origins of Tamar's name--"My grandmother," she says, "named me after the wronged women of the Tanakh. A prophecy more than a gesture." They talk about teaching. About silence. About how many times in one's life it's possible to reinvent the self.

"I was made for reckoning." She says.

At one point, Iris offers to help clean. Tamar waves her off. "Sit," she says. "Finish your wine."

So Iris watches her. The way she moves in the kitchen. The quiet grace. The absence of chaos.

It is maddening.

Because nothing happens.

No touches. No glances that last too long. No accidental brushes of fingers over plates. It's polite. Proper. Breathtakingly restrained.

And that restraint is the hottest thing Iris has ever felt.

She finishes her wine. Then her water. Tamar doesn't refill either.

Finally, as the last dish is set to dry, Tamar wipes her hands, turns, and says:

"You'll be sleeping in the guest room."

Iris stands. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Tamar arches an eyebrow. "Would you prefer I call it what it is?"

And without another word, she leads her down the hallway.

Dinner was not the foreplay.

Dinner was the interrogation. The permission. The setting of rules.

And Iris passed.

Iris follows.

Each step feels heavier than the last. Not dread. Not exactly. But something coiled and ancient twisting just beneath her ribs. She thought she'd be smug. Thought she'd strut down this hallway like a girl arriving at the reward she orchestrated.

But this doesn't feel like arrival.

This feels like a threshold.

At the end of the hall, Tamar stops.

The door is nothing. Just a white painted frame, like any other room in any other house. She doesn't say anything--just reaches out, turns the knob, and pushes it open.

And Iris sees.

Her breath catches. Not a gasp--a halt. Like her body forgot how to function for a beat.

The room is dimly lit. Clean. Spare. The bed is low and wide, dressed in charcoal linens, cuffs affixed at all four corners. To the left, a polished wooden rack holds implements--leather, wood, metal--arranged with the care of a curator. On the wall: a pair of riding crops, crossed like a coat of arms. Chains. A flogger. A paddle wide enough to leave bruises in the shape of memory.

Everything is immaculate. Nothing dusty. Nothing unused.

And above it all, an atmosphere of stillness. Not menace. Not sleaze. Control.

Tamar watches her. No expression. No reassurance.

"This is the room," she says.

Iris doesn't move. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides.

She doesn't step forward. Doesn't run. Her mouth is just slightly open, like a question is trying to form and can't decide what language to use.

Tamar waits.

No hand on her back. No pressure.

"I don't fuck students," Tamar says calmly. "I don't break rules. I don't play games I don't control."

Just the open door. The implication.

You came to ruin me.

You came to break something open.

You thought this was about power.

And now: what will you do with what you've found?

The scene ends there.

Iris, backlit, motionless.

Not afraid.

But undecided.

Because the room doesn't just ask: Do you want this?

It asks: Can you surrender to it?

And Iris doesn't know yet.