Perpetual

Zemo sat hunched in the dim glow of his desk lamp, the amber light pooling over Elena’s graded paper like liquid gold. His office smelled of bergamot ink and unspoken regrets. He traced a fingertip over her looping cursive, each word a testament to her sharp mind—a mind that had dissected Kant’s philosophies with more wit than half the tenured faculty. The edges of the pages were soft from his relentless handling, the ink slightly blurred where his thumb had lingered too often on her name. He traced her closing line—“To worship at the altar of reason is to starve the heart”—and wondered when her words had become a mirror.
She’s beautiful, sweet, charming, intelligent, and definitely not interested in you, he chided himself, the mantra worn thin from repetition. Her absence gnawed at him. She’d vanished from his lectures weeks ago, though her name still clung to the attendance roster, teetering on the razor’s edge of permissible absences. Clever girl, he thought bitterly. You calculated it all—how to haunt me without ever setting foot here again. Even now, her phantom presence lingered: the ghost of her laughter during debates, the way her pen had tapped her bottom lip in thought, those devastating eyes tracking him with a focus that had made his collar feel too tight.

He leaned back in his creaking leather chair, the Countess—a persnickety Siamese with fur like storm clouds—winding herself around his ankles. Her insistent mew sliced through his brooding. “Alright, alright,” he muttered, scooping the cat into his lap. Her purr vibrated against his chest, a counterpoint to his racing heart. “You win. I’ll send the damned flowers.” The decision, once voiced, felt inevitable. He’d rehearsed this moment in a hundred sleepless nights: the roses, the note, the fragile hope that she might… what? Forgive you? Notice you? He shoved the thought aside. Her address blinked on his screen, pulled from the university database with a few keystrokes. For a man who lectured on ethics, the act should’ve tasted sour. Instead, it felt like his first full breath in weeks.

* * *

Elena jolted awake to the sound of her room's door shuddering under Iolanda’s frenzied knocks. Pietro and she were staying at Elena this week. “Elena! Open up before I break this thing down!” Sunlight stabbed through her blinds as she fumbled for her slippers, Iolanda's urgency slicing through her morning haze. “Swear to God, Iolanda,” she grumbled, yanking the door open, “one day I’m gonna—” The threat died on her lips. Iolanda stood breathless in the hallway, arms buried in a riot of blood-red roses, petals spilling over her sweater like a velvet avalanche.

Elena’s heart stuttered. “I—I can’t.” Her hands trembled as she cradled the roses, their heady perfume wrapping around her. Somewhere down the hall, Pietro’s muffled shout cut through their chaos: “Do you morons know what ‘indoor voices’ means?!”

Iolanda kicked the door shut with her heel, herding Elena toward the bed. “Sit. Breathe. Now read it.” When Elena shook her head, Iolanda plucked the card with a dramatic flourish. “Fine. I’ll do it.” She cleared her throat, pitching her voice low in a mockery of gravitas:

“Dear Ms. Elena,

I’ve been troubled by your abrupt departure from my class, particularly as you were among my most exceptional students. If I’ve wronged you, I beg you to name the transgression. I fear I’ve fractured something precious, though such harm was never my intent. These roses are a poor substitute for your laughter in our hallways—a sound I find myself aching to hear again.

With sincerest regards,
Zemo.”

Silence pooled between them. Iolanda’s smirk faded as Elena paled. “Wait. The professor? The one with the…” She mimed a ring on her finger.

“Engaged,” Elena whispered. The word curdled in her throat. She’d memorized the glint of that golden ring during office hours, a beacon warning her to keep her distance. Now the roses in her arms felt like a betrayal. Or a taunt. She surged to her feet, stalks crunching in her grip. “They need to go.”

“Are you insane?” Iolanda blocked her path to the trash, arms spread. “These are Valentino Reds! Do you know what these cost?”

“I don’t care!” Elena’s voice cracked. “He’s got a fiancée, Iolanda! What is this, some—some midlife crisis?” She wrestled past her friend, but Iolanda snatched the bouquet, cradling it like a wounded thing.

“Fine. I’ll keep them.” She vanished into the kitchenette, returning with a chipped vase pilfered from a thrift store. The roses arched gracefully over its rim, their beauty suddenly obscene. “But you’re talking to him. Today.”

Elena sank onto the bed, tears hot on her cheeks. “He’s just… messing with me. Why else would he—?”

Iolanda gathered her in a lavender-scented hug. “Oh, draga mea. Men don’t send three-hundred-dollar roses to mess with you.” Her pause was weighted. “Not unless they’re terrified of what they really want.”

* * *

Zemo’s phone became a torment. He checked it obsessively—between lectures, during department meetings, in the dead hours past midnight when the Countess glared at him from her pillow. Nothing. The silence gnawed at him, sharpening his already jagged edges. Students began avoiding his office hours; his once-lively lectures turned leaden. Even the campus seemed to conspire against him. He took lunatic detours past the art building, hoping for a glimpse of her in the stained-glass glare of the atrium. When he finally spotted her—a flash of chestnut hair through the crowd—his body moved before his mind could protest.

“Elena!” The name tore from him, raw and desperate. She froze, a deer in the crosshairs, then spun toward the exit. He cut her off in three strides, his hand closing gently around her wrist. Up close, she was a vision: cheeks flushed, lips parted in shock, eyes wide and luminous as a winter dawn. The sight punched the air from his lungs. “Please,” he murmured. “Just… talk to me. Did you get the flowers?”

Her wrist tensed under his fingers. “Oh, you mean the roses you meant to send your girlfriend?” Her laugh was brittle. “Sure. Got them. Congrats on the grand gesture.”

A wild hope flared in his chest. Jealousy. She’s jealous. He schooled his face into neutrality. “And if I told you there is no girlfriend? That I ended things weeks ago?”

Elena stilled. “You… what?” The façade crumbled—just for a heartbeat—but it was enough. A spark of the girl who’d challenged him in seminars, who’d blushed when their hands brushed over a shared text.

“Because.” He stepped closer, erasing the space between them. The hallway faded—chatter, footsteps, the hum of fluorescent lights—until only her remained. “Every moment with her became a betrayal. Not of her, but of myself.” His thumb grazed her pulse point, feeling it leap. “Her eyes were the wrong shade of brown. Her hands too big. And when I kissed her…” He bent until his breath warmed her lips. “All I tasted was absence. Your absence."

The kiss was electric, a live wire sparking between them. Elena’s fingers fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as the world dissolved. Somewhere, a whistle cut through the fog. A chorus of gasps. Zemo didn’t care. Let them gawk. Let them report him. He’d burn every bridge in this godforsaken place if it meant holding her.

“Professor Zemo!” The department head’s roar shattered the moment. A grizzled man in a tweed jacket stormed toward them, face mottled with outrage. “What in God’s name—?”

Zemo didn’t blink. He fished a business card from his wallet, scrawling an address on the back. “My resignation. Mail my things here. I'll send you a check for the mail expenses.” He pressed it into the man’s sputtering grip before turning to Elena. Her lips were kiss-swollen, eyes dazed. Mine, something primal in him purred. “I’ll be here at three,” he said, smoothing her hair. “Don’t run because if you do, I won't hesitate to chase.”

She blinked up at him. “You’re… serious?”

He grinned, boyish and unguarded. “Deadly.” As he strode away, the weight of his father’s expectations, the tenure track, the life he’d meticulously built—all of it sloughed off like dead skin. For the first time in decades, he felt alive.

Elena watched him go, her knees gelatinous. Joy and terror warred in her veins. Oh god. Oh god oh god. The roses, the kiss, the way he’d looked at her like she’d hung the stars—it was everything she’d fantasized about during those torturous lectures. But reality came crashing back: the two texts glowing on her silenced phone. Thor asking about dinner. Loki reminding her of their weekend plans. She pressed a hand to her mouth. What have I done?