ZOE'S POV
I was sitting in Professor Mercer's office chair, swinging my legs like a little kid, when I heard his footsteps in the hallway. The coconut bread sat on his desk in its pretty white box, and I couldn't stop grinning. This was either going to be really sweet or really awkward.
The door opened and he stepped inside, then stopped completely. His eyebrows shot up as the smell of coconut and vanilla hit him.
"Washington?" he said, looking around his office like he wasn't sure he was in the right place. "What are you—"
"Surprise!" I jumped up from his chair, practically bouncing on my toes. "I brought you something."
He stepped all the way into the office and closed the door behind him, his eyes fixed on the white bakery box.
"What is that?"
"Coconut bread." I picked up the box and held it out to him like it was a treasure chest. "I heard it was your favorite."
His face went completely blank for a second, like I'd just told him I knew his deepest secret. Then he reached out and took the box from me, his fingers brushing mine for just a moment.
"How did you—" He stopped, opening the box carefully. The sweet smell got stronger, and I watched his face change as he looked at the golden-brown loaf inside.
"It's from Donald's Bakery," I said. "The little place downtown? The woman behind the counter said a guy who looked like you used to come in every night after work. She remembered you because you always ordered the same thing."
Professor Mercer lifted the bread out of the box, turning it over in his hands like he couldn't believe it was real.
"Every night for three years," he said quietly.
He looked up at me then, and for the first time since I'd known him, his face was completely open. No mask, no professor expression. Just surprise and something that looked almost like gratitude.
Then he smiled. Actually smiled, not the tight, professional thing he usually did. A real smile that made his whole face different.
"Oh my God," I said before I could stop myself. "You should smile more often."
He let out a soft chuckle, the sound so unexpected that it made my heart do a little flip.
"That's quite a gift, Washington," he said, setting the bread back in the box. "What's the catch? Do you want extra credit? An extension on your theory assignment?"
"Nothing like that." I sat back down in the student chair across from his desk, tucking my feet under me. "I just wanted to say thank you."
"For what?"
"For letting me incorporate jazz into my classical pieces. For not yelling at me when I went off-script during the recital. For actually listening to what I was trying to say with my music."
He sat down in his chair, that smile still playing around the edges of his mouth. "You earned those compliments fair and square. The audience response wasn't because of me."
"Yes, it was. You taught me how to build the structure. How to make the jazz elements work within classical form instead of fighting against it."
"You already had the instincts. I just helped you organize them."
"Professor Williams would have made me play straight Bach and called it a day."
"Professor Williams has his methods. I have mine."
I leaned forward, excited to finally have this conversation with him. "That's what I love about music. There's no one right way to do it. Jazz taught me that first, but working with you showed me that classical music can be just as flexible if you understand the rules well enough to bend them."
"Careful, Washington. You're starting to sound like a real musician."
"As opposed to what I was before?"
"Before you were talented but undisciplined. Now you're talented and learning to channel that talent into something meaningful."
"So you don't think jazz is just noise anymore?"
He was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming against his desk. "I think... I may have been too harsh in my initial assessment."
"That's the closest thing to an apology I'm going to get, isn't it?"
"Probably."
We talked for another twenty minutes about music theory, about different interpretations of classical pieces, about jazz musicians who had successfully crossed over into classical performance. It was the most relaxed conversation we'd ever had, and I found myself wishing it could go on forever.
Then my phone rang.
"Sorry," I said, digging it out of my bag. "I should have put it on silent."
It was Kai's name on the screen, and I remembered I'd promised to meet him as soon as he finished submitting his project.
"Kai?" I answered. "Are you done? I'll be at the park in two minutes."
"Yeah, just finished. The professor took forever to look over my portfolio, but I think it went well."
"Great! I'll see you in a bit."
I hung up and started gathering my things, feeling a little sad that our conversation was ending.
"The person I saw you with yesterday," Professor Mercer said suddenly. "That was Kai?"
I looked up, surprised by the question. "Yeah, that was him. Why?"
"Just curious."
I stood up, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "I don't have any classes today. I just came to campus with Kai while he submitted his final project for his photography class."
"I see."
There was something weird in his voice, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I headed for the door, then stopped with my hand on the handle.
"Thanks again for not being mad about the jazz thing," I said. "And for being such a good teacher. You're not nearly as scary as everyone says you are."
"Everyone says I'm scary?"
"Terrifying, actually. But they're wrong."
I turned the handle and was about to leave when his voice stopped me.
"Zoe."
I froze.
That was the first time he called me Zoe and not Washington. It felt strange but sweet.
I turned back, and he was looking at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"Is he your boyfriend?"
The question hung in the air between us. I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again. There was something about the way he'd asked it, something careful and guarded, that made me pause.
And I found myself asking him the same question that had been bugging me since I saw him with that blonde from two nights ago.
"Is the woman from yesterday your girlfriend?" I heard myself ask back.
The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever.
His eyes searched mine, and for a moment I wished I could take the question back. But I didn’t.
Finally, he spoke—his voice low, measured.
"No. She’s not."
Relief stirred in my chest, but before I could say anything else, he stepped back.
"Goodnight, Miss Washington," he said softly, with that maddening formality again. Then he turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the quiet hallway.