It was nearly dusk when I closed my laptop. The golden light from the window touched the scattered papers and books, stretching long shadows across the floor. The rain had just stopped, leaving behind the faint scent of damp soil. My office felt still, filled only with the ticking clock and the soft hum of the fan. I leaned back and rubbed the bridge of my nose, trying to shake off the fatigue that clung to me after a day of meetings, lectures, and thesis reviews.

A soft knock came at the door. I didn’t turn right away because I already knew that sound—light, hesitant, familiar. She entered quietly, holding a small umbrella, her hair slightly damp from the drizzle. When she smiled, the room seemed to warm. “Finished?” she asked softly. I nodded and stacked the papers before standing.

Everyone on campus knew about us—students, colleagues, even the dean. At first there were whispers, but they faded with time. I was a young professor and she was my wife, still finishing her graduate studies. It wasn’t ideal. I once believed I could separate work from feeling, that reason alone could hold everything together. But love has a way of slipping past logic. Before I knew it, she had become part of every quiet moment. On campus she was my student, beyond those walls she was the reason I came home.

I slipped on my jacket and nodded toward the door. She followed, her steps light behind mine. The corridor was dim and our footsteps echoed softly. A few students greeted us as we passed. I returned their smiles, keeping my calm composure though my eyes lingered on her a little too long. There was pride in walking beside her, not because of what we were but because of how far we had come to stand here together.

The car was parked under a large tree near the gate. The air outside was cool and clean, still carrying the scent of rain. I opened the passenger door for her, then got in behind the wheel. I started the engine but didn’t drive right away. The dashboard lights glowed faintly, throwing soft shadows across her face. Outside, drizzle began again, tapping gently against the windshield. I exhaled, the tension in my shoulders fading as her quiet presence filled the car.

Neither of us spoke. Silence had always been the most honest thing between us. The city passed in blurred streaks of light through the wet glass. I glanced at her briefly, her gaze steady, her reflection soft in the window. There was something about that stillness, how she made the world feel calm just by being there. I slowed the car, letting it roll easily. My hand rested near hers on the console, close enough to feel her warmth. Even that faint nearness stirred something deep inside me. I breathed quietly, pretending to focus on the road though I wanted the drive to last longer. Maybe love was exactly this—simple moments carrying more weight than words ever could.

I remembered how hard I had tried to resist her in the beginning, the hesitation, the fear, the endless reasoning that I shouldn’t let it happen. I wanted to stay composed, to never blur the line. But love never asks permission. It comes quietly, like rain, soft and uninvited, leaving traces that never fade. She became that trace, the mark I could never erase.

“Tired?” I asked at last, my voice low. She turned briefly, smiled faintly, then looked back at the window. I smiled too, eyes still on the road. Just knowing she was there was enough—the sound of her breathing, the warmth between us. I slowed again, not because of traffic but because I wanted the moment to linger.

My fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, following the faint rhythm from the radio. In the reflection of the glass I caught my own face—a young professor who looked composed to the world yet quietly undone by the woman beside him.

I looked at her again. The streetlights painted soft lines across her face. My chest tightened with all the words I didn’t say. The rain had stopped and the road shimmered faintly ahead. I breathed out before asking, “Do you want to eat out, or should we cook at home tonight?”