Tides of Temptation
Cruz woke from a restless sleep with the remnants of a dream fading fast: a pair of green eyes, a lingering warmth, a sense of near completion before everything vanished. She sat up in bed, heart pounding. Just a dream, she told herself, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. But the residue of longing stayed, fueling the nerves that raked her body.
Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains of her dorm room in Greenwich Hall, and she squinted at the clock on her phone: 7:04 a.m. Plenty of time before I head to campus. She’d been dreading and anticipating this day in equal measure.
She had an office hours appointment with Aaliyah around midday. After weeks of tinkering with her NGO research, Cruz hit a snag trying to gather primary interviews. She needed more direct insight from people who worked on the ground in Yemen. Normally, she’d plow forward on her own, but she knew Aaliyah had the right connections.
That’s the only reason I’m going to see her, Cruz tried to insist, though her racing heart said otherwise. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring Bobby’s soft snores coming from the other room.
As she pulled on a hoodie, her phone buzzed with a text:
[Bobby]: Up yet? Don’t forget you have that “meeting” with Ms. TA. Also, we’re out of milk.
Cruz rolled her eyes, typing back a quick reply:
[Cruz]: Yeah, I’m up. I’ll get milk later.
She paused, thumb hovering over the screen, then added:
[Cruz]: Meeting’s at noon. Kinda nervous.
[Bobby]: You’ll be fine. Keep me posted.
Cruz dropped the phone onto her comforter. I’ll be fine, she echoed internally. But the flutter in her stomach refused to settle. The memory of that library encounter—the brush of fingers, the jolt of heat—had haunted her every time she let her guard down.
Professional boundaries, she reminded herself. She’s made it clear that’s the line.
Yet, the intangible current between them kept pulling her back, an undercurrent she couldn’t escape.
--
Despite her best efforts, Cruz arrived at the track an hour later with her mind only half on training. Coach Joe had scheduled a short morning practice—mostly drills and form exercises. The crisp winter air made her breath come in white puffs, her muscles protesting the early workout.
She tried to focus on the moment, counting her steps as she sprinted down the straightaway, forcing her mind to cling to the burn in her legs. But as soon as she paused to catch her breath, her thoughts wandered back to Aaliyah’s poised face, the softness in her eyes whenever they discussed something beyond mere academics.
Shit. She stumbled slightly, nearly losing her footing.
“Manuelos,” Coach Joe barked from the sidelines. “Eyes forward. Where’s your head at?”
“Sorry, Coach.” Cruz readjusted, exhaling hard. “Just distracted.”
A flash of concern—or annoyance—crossed Coach Joe’s face. “Get your act together, or you’ll be on the bench for the next meet.”
That snapped Cruz to attention. “Yes, Coach.”
She pushed through the final sprints, sweat stinging her forehead, calves screaming. When the session finally ended, she hurried through a shower in the athletic center’s locker room, changed into jeans and a clean T-shirt, and wolfed down a protein bar for breakfast.
Her phone showed 10:45 a.m. If I grab the subway now, I can be on campus with time to spare. She tossed her practice clothes into a duffel and slung it over her shoulder.
The ride across campus felt interminable, her nerves building with each station. Calm down, it’s just office hours, she told herself. But deep down, she knew today’s meeting could shift the dynamic between them—for better or worse.
--
By the time Cruz reached the political science building, it was nearly 11:50 a.m. She paused in the hallway outside Aaliyah’s usual office, heart hammering from a mix of nerves and the brisk walk from the subway. Her reflection in a nearby glass panel showed a young woman with determined eyes and a tense jawline.
You’ve faced worse than this. Just breathe.
She knocked gently, and a muffled voice called, “Come in.”
Inside, Aaliyah sat behind her small desk, textbooks stacked around her laptop. She looked up, and for a moment, Cruz saw a flicker of warmth in her expression before she schooled it into polite calm.
“Hey,” Cruz said, shutting the door behind her. “Hope I’m not early.”
Aaliyah gestured to the clock on the wall. “Right on time, actually.” She folded her hands on the desk, inclining her head. “How’s the research coming?”
Cruz dropped her backpack onto a spare chair, exhaling. “It’s… stuck, to be honest. I can’t get interviews with local experts. Most organizations won’t respond to a random undergrad email.”
Aaliyah nodded, face thoughtful. “Understandable. Field workers can be cautious. Did you reach out with an official NYU address and mention you’re doing academic research?”
“Yeah, but no luck,” Cruz admitted, slumping into the chair. Focus on the paper, not her lips, not her eyes. “I was hoping you might have a contact or two. Or maybe some idea about connecting with field offices in Yemen, or the UN workers who coordinate stuff with the NGOs.”
A flicker of a smile graced Aaliyah’s lips. “As a matter of fact, I might. A friend of mine interned at the UN Office for Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs. She could point you to someone who’s done on-site work in Yemen.”
Cruz’s eyes lit up. “That would be incredible. Seriously.”
Aaliyah opened her laptop, fingers tapping swiftly. The small space was charged with a tension that felt almost palpable, and Cruz’s gaze slipped over the elegant curve of Aaliyah’s neck. Don’t stare—she’ll notice, she chastised herself.
“There,” Aaliyah murmured, sending an email. “I just reached out. She’s usually quick to respond.” She closed the laptop, meeting Cruz’s gaze. “So… how else is the research going?”
Cruz shrugged, forcing a nonchalant tone. “It’s fine. Just that roadblock with first-hand sources. The theoretical stuff is locked in, though.”
Aaliyah nodded, her shoulders relaxing as if relieved. “Good. You’ve come a long way since the start of the semester.”
Something in her voice—pride, maybe—made Cruz’s heart twist. “I couldn’t have done it without your guidance.”
Aaliyah’s expression softened. “I’m glad I could help.”
--
They spoke for a few more minutes about chapters, structuring arguments, potential pitfalls in referencing. But the atmosphere felt heavier than usual, as if each breath carried an undercurrent of suppressed emotion.
“So,” Cruz said, fiddling with the zipper of her bag, “besides emailing your contact, is there anything else you think I should do? Maybe revise the section on tribal governance again?”
Aaliyah leaned forward, resting an elbow on the desk. “Actually, yes. Emphasizing how tribal leaders negotiate with NGOs could strengthen your argument. You might compare it with how local officials respond to external agencies—some synergy, some friction.”
Cruz nodded, scribbling notes. But her mind wandered to how close Aaliyah’s hand was to her own across the desk, maybe a foot away. The memory of their fingers brushing in the library hovered, sending a pulse of heat through her veins.
“Right,” she said, voice quieter now. “Synergy versus friction. Got it.”
A lull settled, the air thick. Cruz forced herself to look up, and her gaze locked with Aaliyah’s. Something flickered in the TA’s dark eyes—something that flared like an invitation, or a warning, or both.
Cruz, don’t do anything stupid. But the tension was so tangible, she almost thought she saw Aaliyah lean a fraction closer.
Then Aaliyah cleared her throat, averting her gaze as if catching herself. “Is that all you needed?”
Cruz pressed her lips together, an ache forming in her chest. “I guess so. Thank you for connecting me with your friend. I really appreciate it.”
Aaliyah offered a polite smile, though her voice was soft. “Of course. Always here to help.”
A silent beat passed—both of them suspended in the charged stillness. Cruz sensed if she rose to leave right now, she’d be safe from the swirl of feelings threatening to overtake her. But a rebellious spark urged her to linger.
--
Against her better judgment, Cruz mustered a small smile, voice teasing. “You know, I owe you a coffee or something. You’re doing more than your fair share for this paper.”
Aaliyah’s lips parted slightly, surprise lacing her features. “Cruz, you know—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cruz interrupted, holding up a hand. “Boundaries. Student, TA. I get it. I’m just… expressing gratitude.” She tried to keep her tone light, though her chest tightened.
Aaliyah looked down at the desk, fiddling with a pen. “I appreciate the thought. But we should keep things professional, at least until the semester ends.”
Cruz nodded, swallowing back the lump in her throat. At least until the semester ends. The words landed like a door half-closed. But not fully locked. “Right, of course.”
In the hush that followed, she noticed how Aaliyah’s breathing had quickened, how her pulse throbbed at her neck. If Cruz didn’t know better, she’d think the TA was just as affected by this push and pull.
“Anyway,” she said, forcing a laugh, “you’re off the hook.”
Aaliyah raised her gaze again, eyes lingering on Cruz’s mouth for a fraction of a second before flicking away. “Thank you for understanding.”
Cruz’s heart pounded. She definitely noticed my mouth. She forced an exhale, forcing a playful tone. “I’d hate to get you in trouble with the department.”
Aaliyah’s lips curved into a tentative smile. “You’re doing a good job of that yourself, academically speaking.” Her voice held a note of teasing that sent a jolt through Cruz’s stomach.
Before Cruz could formulate a witty reply, Aaliyah’s phone dinged on the desk. She glanced at the screen. “Ah, that might be my contact. Excuse me.”
Cruz sat quietly, gaze drifting over the curve of Aaliyah’s profile as she typed a response. She’s so beautiful it hurts. That realization welled up, raw and unstoppable. She pressed her knees together under the desk, trying to subdue the ache of longing.
--
When Aaliyah finished typing, she looked up. “Good news. My friend is available for a brief Zoom call with you next week to discuss her experience coordinating NGO efforts in Yemen.”
Cruz’s face lit with genuine relief. “That’s amazing. Thank you so much. This is exactly the firsthand perspective I’ve been searching for.”
Aaliyah’s smile reached her eyes this time, a flicker of triumphant pride that momentarily dispelled the tension. “I’m happy it worked out. See? No more roadblock.”
“Right.” Cruz chuckled, adrenaline spiking at the breakthrough. Her dissertation-like research was back on track. She felt a surge of gratitude toward the woman across the desk—gratitude tinged with a deeper, more complicated emotion.
They allowed a brief moment of shared joy, like two conspirators who’d just pulled off a small victory. But as the excitement ebbed, awareness of their closeness returned.
“So,” Cruz said softly, fiddling with the corner of her notebook. “I guess I can… go now?”
The question lingered, half an invitation, half a question. Aaliyah’s posture shifted; she swallowed, fingertips brushing the edge of her laptop as if seeking an anchor. “Yes, you’re free to. Unless… you had more questions?”
Cruz hesitated. Do I? She felt the weight of every unspoken thought pressing against her ribs. “Actually, maybe just one.”
Aaliyah’s eyebrows rose, but she waited.
Cruz forced a laugh. “It’s not academic. It’s—uh…” She trailed off, pulse racing. The question forming in her head was dangerous. Do you like me? That’s what she truly wanted to ask. But courage failed her.
“Never mind,” she mumbled, deflating. “It’s nothing.”
Aaliyah nodded slowly, though a flicker of disappointment crossed her expression. Cruz almost regretted not blurting it out. What’s the worst that could happen?
Yet the moment passed, tension thick as the hum of a fluorescent light overhead.
--
Cruz stood, gathering her notebook and phone. Her legs felt shaky, as though she’d just completed an intense sprint. Aaliyah rose too, stepping around the desk to offer a polite handshake—something she rarely did, perhaps to keep distance.
Their eyes met, and in that split second, the polite gesture turned into a nerve-wracking standoff. Cruz extended her hand, heart hammering in her chest, and Aaliyah reached out.
The moment their palms touched, the tension that had been simmering exploded into something almost tangible. Cruz’s breath caught as she felt Aaliyah’s fingers curl around hers, warmth radiating up her arm. This feels…
Aaliyah’s gaze flicked to Cruz’s lips, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Time seemed to slow, their surroundings fading like background noise.
And then Aaliyah took a half-step closer, her face tilting upward. Cruz’s pulse thundered—is she leaning in? It seemed insane, but they were mere inches apart now, the air crackling with unsaid longing.
Cruz’s free hand twitched, an instinct to brush Aaliyah’s cheek or waist, to close that final gap. She leaned forward just a fraction, enough to feel the soft puff of Aaliyah’s breath.
A heartbeat, maybe two, suspended in that razor-thin possibility. We’re about to—
Then, abruptly, Aaliyah’s eyes widened in panic. She pulled back, releasing Cruz’s hand as if it burned. A shaky exhale escaped her lips, and she stumbled into the desk behind her, making a small stack of papers slide askew.
“I—I’m sorry,” she whispered, cheeks flaming. “I shouldn’t—this is wrong.”
Cruz’s heart dropped, the rushed high of near contact replaced by a punch of rejection. “No, I—” She swallowed, words failing. “It’s okay.”
Aaliyah half-turned away, hands trembling as she arranged the papers. “We can’t do this. Not while you’re still a student in this class. I can’t.”
The finality in her tone made Cruz’s stomach clench. She watched Aaliyah’s tense shoulders, the trembling. She wanted it too, a small voice insisted, but the sting of being pushed away cut deep.
“Right,” Cruz said in a thin voice, not sure what else to say. “I’m sorry for… whatever that was. I’ll go now.”
--
Cruz grabbed her bag, bolting to the door in a haze of mingled shame and disappointment. She didn’t dare look back, fleeing the small office like it was on fire. Stupid, so stupid, she berated herself. Her heart pounded in her ears as she stumbled into the hallway, ignoring curious glances from passing students.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to quell the shaking. Just minutes ago, the day had felt bright with possibility. Now she felt raw, skin prickling with embarrassment. I knew it. She’s not ready, or maybe she’s not interested at all. But the memory of that near-kiss screamed otherwise.
She dashed down the stairwell, each step echoing her racing thoughts. By the time she reached the lobby, her eyes stung. Not here, don’t cry here, she commanded, shoving through the front doors into the chilly midday air.
Rain pelted the sidewalk again, an echo of that earlier drizzle. She had no umbrella this time—she’d never returned the spare to Aaliyah, nor had Aaliyah asked for it back. The cold drops plastered her hair to her forehead, matching her desolate mood.
She walked toward the nearest campus cafe in a daze, ignoring the damp seeping through her T-shirt. She needed a quiet corner to process what just happened.
--
Alone in the small office, Aaliyah stood with her back against the desk, heart pounding as she stared at the disarray of papers. The echo of Cruz’s presence lingered—her scent, her voice, the electricity of that almost kiss. What have I done?
She pressed a hand to her mouth, breathing hard. The swirl of guilt and longing threatened to overwhelm her. I almost crossed a line. The line that protected her career, her integrity, everything she’d built in her pursuit of a PhD.
A shaky sigh escaped her. She tidied the papers on her desk, each movement mechanical, trying to mask the trembling of her fingers. Her eyes burned, a heavy ache settling in her chest. I want her, but I can’t have her. The push and pull was tearing her apart.
Her phone buzzed, snapping her from her spinning thoughts. She saw a group message:
[Nashwa]: Where r u? Lunch at our usual spot?
[Malika]: We want updates on Ms. Track Star. Don’t ghost us.
[Nala]: Are you ignoring us again?
Aaliyah clenched her jaw, ignoring the texts. She couldn’t possibly explain this moment to them right now—it was too fresh, too raw. She sank into her chair, pressing her palms to her temples, fighting the urge to scream. I need space.
At length, she rose, stuffing some papers into her bag. She needed to get away from this office, from the ghost of Cruz’s wide, wounded eyes. With a deep breath, she stepped into the hallway, locking the door behind her.
--
Cruz found a quiet table in the campus cafe, drenched, hair dripping onto the floor. She ordered a hot chocolate more for comfort than thirst. The warmth of the cup seared her palms, but did little to chase away the cold regret coiling inside her.
She fished out her phone, numb fingers swiping to open a chat with Bobby:
[Cruz]: I messed up. Big time. Almost kissed Aaliyah. She freaked. I left.
Seconds later:
[Bobby]: Holy fuck, dude. Are you okay? Where are you?
[Cruz]: Cafe near poli-sci building.
[Bobby]: On my way.
Cruz set the phone aside, staring into the swirl of whipped cream melting into the hot chocolate. Her mind replayed Aaliyah’s startled face, the tremor in her voice: I can’t. Over and over, it battered Cruz’s heart, each repetition a fresh sting.
She wanted it. I felt it. But logic reminded her that wanting and acting were different. Aaliyah had too much at stake—her career, her reputation. Cruz’s chest tightened as she realized the depth of that risk. I put her in that situation. I’m such an idiot.
--
Fifteen minutes later, Bobby burst into the cafe, scanning the tables until she spotted Cruz hunched in a corner, half a cup of hot chocolate in front of her. She hurried over, eyes flicking with concern.
“Cruz,” she said, dropping into the seat. “You’re soaked. Here.” She offered a small towel she’d grabbed from the locker room. “Want to tell me what happened?”
Cruz nodded, voice trembling as she recounted the tense office hour, the flirty banter, the near-kiss, and Aaliyah’s abrupt recoil. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she willed them down. Not in public.
Bobby listened intently, expression torn between sympathy and exasperation. “That’s… intense,” she finally said. “But are you surprised? She’s been trying to keep things professional.”
Cruz swallowed, throat raw. “I know. I just—something happened, and it felt right. Until it didn’t.” She traced the rim of her mug with a shaky finger. “She practically shoved me away.”
Bobby reached out, covering Cruz’s hand. “She didn’t shove you. She pulled back because she’s panicking. It’s not necessarily a rejection of you—it’s a rejection of the situation.”
Cruz’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Why does it hurt so much?”
Bobby squeezed her hand gently. “Because you actually care about her. And maybe she cares about you, too. Just not enough to risk it yet.”
Cruz let out a shaky exhale, forcibly calming the swirl in her gut. “I feel like I ruined everything. I should’ve never let it get this far.”
“Look,” Bobby said, voice firm, “you both crossed a line, but it’s not the end of the world. She needs space, you probably do too, and in a few months, you won’t be her student anymore.”
Cruz nodded, half-listening. The mention of “a few months” felt like a lifetime. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Bobby eyed her with compassion. “Until then, focus on your paper, your track meets, graduation. Let her decide if she wants to bridge the gap after that.”
Cruz sniffed, blinking away the lingering tears. “I hate waiting.”
Bobby squeezed her hand again. “I know. But if it’s meant to be, a few months won’t kill you. Let her see you kicking ass academically and in track. Show her you respect her boundaries.”
Cruz mustered a watery smile. “I’ll try.”
--
Meanwhile, Aaliyah fled the campus, catching a taxi to her apartment in Greenwich. She stared out the window at the passing cityscape, chest tight. The driver’s radio played soft jazz, which only amplified her inner turmoil.
At home, she tossed her bag onto the couch and slumped in an armchair, pressing trembling fingers to her temple. The memory replayed in her mind: how close she’d come to bridging that final gap, how she’d nearly given in to the craving that gnawed at her every time Cruz was near.
You can’t, she reminded herself, tears pricking her eyes. She tapped open her phone, ignoring the group chat. Instead, she composed a private message to a friend from grad school—someone outside the usual socialite circle:
[Aaliyah]: I need to talk. Almost crossed a line w/ a student. I feel awful.
She set the phone aside, raking her fingers through her hair. Her reflection in the living room mirror showed flushed cheeks, eyes bright with leftover adrenaline. Get it together. If anyone found out, her standing with Professor Asif and the department could be jeopardized. She’d never forgive herself if she tanked her career over a crush.
But her heart ached with the memory of Cruz’s anguished expression. She’s not just a crush, is she?
Her phone buzzed:
[Lina]: I’m here. What happened?
Aaliyah typed a hurried summary, glossing over specifics but conveying the emotional weight. Lina’s responses came gently, urging her to breathe, to consider her boundaries, to decide if this was something she truly wanted or just an impulse.
Finally, Aaliyah concluded:
[Aaliyah]: I care about her, but I can’t risk everything. Not now.
She threw the phone onto the coffee table, exhaustion weighing her down. I need time to figure out what I really want. For now, all she could do was nurse her guilt and longing in silence.
--
Over the following days, Cruz threw herself into track and classwork with an almost punishing intensity. She ignored the dull ache in her heart, focusing on perfecting her pace for the 800-meter run, studying at all hours to ensure her paper took shape smoothly. She refused to attend Aaliyah’s office hours, emailing only if absolutely necessary, keeping her tone strictly academic.
Friends noticed the strain, but Cruz brushed off their concerns. She saw Aaliyah in class, but they avoided each other’s eyes. Professor Asif lectured, while Aaliyah stood by the side with a neutral expression, as though Cruz were no different from the other students. Each time it happened, a pang rippled through Cruz’s chest.
For Aaliyah’s part, she poured herself into her dissertation, side-stepping any casual interactions with Cruz. She told herself it was the responsible choice, the only way to avoid sliding into dangerous territory again. But nights found her sleepless, her mind replaying the near-kiss, the haunting look of hurt on Cruz’s face.
Both of them felt a keen sense of loss, as though they’d glimpsed a precious possibility only to slam the door shut. But maybe, in time, that door could open again, they each secretly hoped, even as they forced themselves to look away.