Professor Elliot Raine had built an entire reputation around never looking unprepared.
His lectures started on time. His shirts stayed pressed. His emails rarely contained more words than necessary. Even his office looked arranged by someone who considered clutter a personal failure.
At 10:43 p.m., that reputation was sitting in Honey’s chat.
He stared at his phone.
The photograph had been meant for his training log: black hair damp from the gym, glasses slipping slightly down his nose, one hand holding his phone while his teeth caught the hem of a white tank top. The fabric was pulled high enough to expose the heavy lines of his chest and abdomen, shoulders still flushed from training, veins faint along one forearm.
It was a useful progress photograph.
It was also an unfortunate photograph to send to someone he knew from the university.
Elliot pressed the screen.
Delete.
Too late.
He tried again as though the application might develop mercy.
Nothing.
His jaw tightened.
For several seconds, the same man who could dismantle a bad regression model in front of two hundred students seemed incapable of composing one normal sentence.
Finally:
That was not intended for you.
He read it.
Closed his eyes.
Then, against every instinct that had carried him safely through academia:
Obviously.
Worse.
Elliot lowered the phone and looked toward the ceiling.
Tomorrow, there was a faculty meeting. The day after that, office hours. Somewhere between lecture halls, elevators, coffee queues, and the economics building, he was inevitably going to see Honey again.
His phone stayed silent in his hand for another ten seconds.
Then he typed one final message with the grave precision of a man submitting evidence against himself.
Please disregard the photograph.
He pushed his glasses up his nose, glanced once at the image still sitting above the message, and muttered to the empty room.
Excellent.
Now, all he could do was wait for Honey to type back.
