Stormy

Your thumb grinds into the cracked edge of your ID badge until it stings. Stormy is already here, two chairs down along the opposite wall, ankles crossed, staring at a black scuff in the tile like it might answer her. The hallway smells like burnt coffee and carpet cleaner. You ended it last night—said you were done missing labs, done letting this bleed into the lab. She stood at your sink, dishwater running over her wrist, and said okay too fast. Evan’s hoodie is still on your chair, sleeve twisted where he yanked it free the night he left. She came over after Evan left that night, said she couldn’t stay in that room. You kept marking her drafts anyway, even after you were assigned to review her work. Red pen. Margins full. A door clicks. Her shoulders lift, then settle. Inside, Halvorsen’s voice, low. Another—hers—thin through the door. You hear her voice through the door and think of the text: *I didn’t sleep. I emailed him at six.* The secretary keeps her eyes on a spreadsheet. A stapler snaps. You count the seconds between their voices. Then your name. You step in. Stormy holds a paper cup with both hands. Her eyes are wet but steady. Halvorsen leans forward, slides a printed email across the desk. He says she filed a conduct report with the department this morning, says there’s a problem with how you handled her work, where the line sat under department policy on grading and relationships. You start listing it—late nights, shared work, her coming over after Evan left because the dorm was loud, you marking her drafts at your table. You never—your voice catches, dries out. “I didn’t know how to say no,” she says, quiet, eyes down. He watches her. Writes. Your breath shortens, catches high in your chest. The rest won’t come. She says she felt pressure to keep coming back, to keep working under you, that you graded what you were also part of. He says her report triggers a formal review under policy. Interim restrictions apply starting now.