Chapter 5 - The Hunts

Tyler

I was in the library one afternoon. My excuse was to look for material for next Monday’s Introduction to Cinema class. But who was I kidding? I knew where I’d end up. Straight to the poetry shelves—always.

I love poetry. The way words, when carefully placed, can turn the ordinary into something extraordinary. Long before Thomas took me under his wing, I had imagined myself living in that world—pages and verses instead of cameras and scripts. But those dreams, I’d thrown out the window the moment I chose film over poetry.

My fingers traced the spine of an old anthology. I pulled it free, flipping through the pages until a line stopped me cold.

“your slightest look easily will unclose me

though I have closed myself as fingers…”

— E.E. CummingsI lingered on the words longer than I should have. And, as if the poem had pulled a thread in my mind, there she was again—dark hair, hazel eyes. Vee.

Why is it that I can control everything in my life, except my thoughts when it comes to her?

Vee.

She asked me to call her that. I don’t quite understand. Victoria is already a beautiful name. Yet she feels it doesn’t belong to her. Is there some hidden uncertainty behind that bright, cheerful facade? Some secret piece of her she thinks doesn’t fit?And if it’s there—why do I feel as though I should be the one to uncover it?

I shouldn’t think about her this way. She’s my student. I’m her professor. There are boundaries carved in stone.

But then—

I saw her. Not in my imagination, not in memory. Right there, across the room. Laughing with some guy.

He leaned in, said something. She laughed again. Then he pulled out his phone. Asked for her number.

It’s not my business. She can talk to whoever she wants.

So why does it bother me this much?

\~\~\~

Vee

“What’s his name again?” Chloe asked from her bed. She was sprawled lazily across the blanket, scrolling her phone, while I sat by the window pretending to be interested in the view outside.

“Adrian Cole,” I said. “He’s a literature student. Apparently, he’s been watching me since the first day of Screenwriting class.”

Chloe perked up immediately. “So… are you gonna text him?”

“He already texted me, actually. I just… don’t know.”

“You don’t like him? Or not your type?”

“Maybe not my type.”

“Then what is your type?” she pressed, grinning like she already knew the answer.

“Maybe someone who looks composed. Neat. Stern. But with… depth. And a beautiful heart.”

“And Adrian’s not stern enough?” Her smirk made it clear she was teasing me now.

I groaned. “I don’t know. I’m just not… drawn to him.”

“You just met him. Give him a chance. You’ll never know if he has that ‘beautiful depth and heart’ thing unless you let him.” She paused, tilting her head in mock thought. “Wait. Why do I feel like I know someone composed, neat, and stern…?”

I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Fine. I’ll give him a chance.”

“Wait—hold on.” Chloe sat up so fast the bed squeaked. “It’s Professor Hill, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him. Oh my God, Vee! You had two classes with him this semester—I should’ve known!”

Her near-scream made me jump.

“But you know student–professor relationships are completely forbidden here, right? Admiring him is one thing, but actually going after him?” Her voice dropped, suddenly serious. “I heard about a case a few years ago. The professor got fired, and the student was forced to drop out.”

I went silent. My stomach knotted. I hadn’t thought of it that way.

“You know what? I’m joking,” I said finally, forcing a laugh. “There’s no way that cold, icy wall he wears could ever come down. So much for the whole ‘beautiful heart’ thing.”

Chloe gave me a look, half serious, half dreamy. “Morality aside? I actually think you two would be kind of cute. From the way Liam talks about the two of you in directing class, I swear there’s some sparks there.”

I raised a brow. “Weren’t you the one who just terrified me with the whole expelled and fired story?”

“Yeah, well.” She flopped back on her bed with a sigh. “Just wistful thinking. Maybe in another universe.”

\~\~\~

Tyler

Thomas was improving. Slowly, but improving. I still visited their house every week, even though he told me not to.

“I’m alright now. You don’t need to keep coming so often—I know you’re busy,” Thomas said, his voice stronger than it had been weeks ago.

“It’s fine. I want to be here.”

Elara appeared from the kitchen, apron still tied around her waist, carrying the warmth of home in her smile. “Will you stay for dinner? I made potato casserole. Far too much for just the two of us.”

“I’d love to. Thank you.”

As she disappeared again, Thomas studied me. “How are classes? Any problems?”

“They’re fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m not just asking about the classes,” he pressed, eyes narrowing. “I’m asking about you. You look more tired every time I see you.”

“Maybe it’s because I feel like I’m juggling two jobs—teaching and still assisting you. But it’s fine. Really.”

Before he could argue further, Elara returned, announcing, “Dinner’s ready.”

I moved to help him up, taking his arm out of habit, but he shook me off. “I’m not some weak old man. I can walk on my own.”

“Of course,” I said. Stubbornness had always been Thomas Hunt’s defining trait. Only Elara ever managed to soften it.

At the table, Elara served casserole, asparagus, and gravy. She sat beside her husband, her hand brushing his as if to remind him she was there.

“I heard Markus Claud offered you another role,” I said lightly. “The story of a widow in world war I leading a revolution? It sounds perfect for you.”

Thomas turned to her. “I told you to take it. I’m not a baby who needs babysitting. You can still live your dream.”

Elara’s smile faltered. “Maybe my priorities are shifting now.”

“Nonsense. That role will—”

“I told you this isn’t—”

“No, you listen—”

And just like that, the familiar rhythm of their marriage unfolded: sharp words, stubborn rebuttals, but threaded with an undeniable devotion. They had been married ten years, and I still couldn’t tell if they were fighting or flirting. Maybe both.

Then Elara’s voice broke. Softer. Trembling. “I’m pregnant, Thomas.”

The room stilled.

Shock coursed through me. Their age gap was wide enough—Thomas nearing fifty when Elara only thirty-five. And with his health already fragile… a child hadn’t seemed possible.

Thomas froze. Then, slowly, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms.

“I know we didn’t plan this,” she whispered, crying now. “And I know what you said—that you didn’t want a child who might lose their father too soon. But I felt uneasy all week. I took the test this morning. It’s positive. I’m sorry.”

Thomas held her tighter, stroking her hair as if she might break. His voice was low, reverent. “Don’t apologize. This is wonderful news. Forgive me if my words ever made you doubt it. But I’m happy. Truly happy. We’ll raise our child together.”

She sobbed against him, and for once Thomas didn’t argue, didn’t deflect. He just held her.

And me? I wished I could vanish into thin air.

Because what I was witnessing wasn’t weakness, or fear, or stubbornness. It was love. Raw, flawed, and absolutely unshakable.

\~\~\~

After dinner, I insisted on doing the dishes. Elara had excused herself to rest in their room, and I wanted to give her a moment of peace. When I returned to the living room, Thomas was alone, sunk deep into the armchair, his face carved with something I’d never seen before.

“I have no hope of living anymore, Tyler.” His voice was low, stripped of its usual weight. “I’m old. I’m sick. The kidney donor list is endless. I don’t know if I’ll live long enough to raise a child. What if I die in a few years and leave them behind? I don’t want them to suffer.”

In almost eight years of knowing him, I had never seen my mentor like this. Even when his health had worsened months ago, he never showed sadness—only defiance, stubbornness, fire. But now? Now he looked fragile. Human.

I didn’t try to answer. What could I possibly say to a man like Thomas Hunt? Instead, I simply rested a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there long enough for him to feel that I was with him. That I wasn’t leaving.

Then, after a long silence, he spoke again.

“I want to go back to the university next week, Tyler. And I want you to assist me.”

Something in me eased. “I would love to.”

But the moment the words left me, her face appeared in my mind—dark hair, hazel eyes, bright laughter. Vee.

“There’s a student,” I added quietly. “A fan who’s been waiting her whole life to meet you.”

And as I said it, I wasn’t sure who I was speaking of more—Thomas, or myself.

\~\~\~

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