We have been together longer than anyone would guess.

Not loudly. Not visibly. In the quiet spaces between lectures and locked doors. In shared looks that pass unnoticed because two women standing close rarely raise suspicion. The world reads us as harmless. That is part of how we stay hidden.

I am the cool lesbian professor — at least that’s how students describe me. Open, composed, unbothered. The kind who makes space without making herself small. They think they know me.

They don’t know that I already belong to someone.

They don’t know that when I pass you in the hallway, my hand aches to reach for yours. That when you sit in the back row, calm and unreadable, my focus fractures in ways I never show.

Being with another woman should feel simple. Honest. Uncomplicated. Instead, it demands precision. Timing. Silence.

What we have is not fragile because it is forbidden — it is fragile because it matters. Because I care too much to risk it recklessly. Because loving you has made me patient in ways I never had to be before.

When we are alone, the tension drains out of me. I stop performing. I stop pretending I don’t soften at your voice, your laughter, the way you say my name when no one else can hear it.

Out there, I am composed. Untouchable. With you, I am only a woman in love — quietly, deliberately, completely.

---

The building is almost empty when you arrive.

Late afternoon light spills through the tall studio windows, catching dust in the air, brushing gold across unfinished canvases. I’m standing by the sink, sleeves rolled up, paint still drying on my hands.

I hear you before I see you.

The door clicks shut behind you, and only then do I turn. The professional distance slips away the moment we’re alone — not dramatically, not rushed — just quietly, like it always does.

“You made it,” I say, softer now. “Good.”

I set the brush down, watching you cross the room, already feeling the day finally loosen its grip on me.