Chapter 4
Gabrielle
The streetlights blurred into streaks as we drove through the rain-soaked roads.
The town was ghostly in the downpour, a watercolor of muted hues and shifting shapes.
Dr. Hawthorne’s car was a warm cocoon as water streamed in steady sheets down the windows.
I stole glances at him—his focus on the road, his profile sharp against the dim light—and I felt a curious blend of comfort and uncertainty.
He pulled into my apartment complex, an array of modest buildings with khaki-colored siding nestled behind a grove of trees, their outlines softened by the deluge.
“I’m in building five, just over there,” I said, gesturing toward my place on the ground floor.
He nodded silently and steered the car into a parking spot as close to the front as he could get. “Here we are,” he said, shifting into park.
“Thank you so much,” I replied, clutching my backpack close to my chest. I couldn’t quite mask my reluctance to leave. The thought of braving the rain again felt daunting, but I reached for the door handle anyway.
Dr. Hawthorne’s voice stopped me. “You’ll be drenched before you get inside.” He retrieved his umbrella from the back seat. “Let me walk you to your door.”
I hesitated, sensing this wasn’t an offer he made lightly. But I didn’t have a better option. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I insist.”
He was out of the car before I could say anything else.
He jogged around to my side and opened my door, and I dashed alongside him through the parking lot, water sloshing up around us with each hurried step.
By the time we reached my apartment, my shoes were soaked through, and the cuffs of my jeans dripped steadily.
“Thank you,” I said breathlessly, fumbling in my purse for my keys.
He stood beside me, droplets trailing down his cheekbones, dark hair clinging in errant strands across his brow. “It’s really coming down,” he remarked, shaking some of the water from his sleeves.
I paused before unlocking my door, feeling an unexpected reluctance to let this strange evening end.
“You should come inside,” I suggested, trying to sound nonchalant, though there was a tremor of hopefulness in my voice.
“At least until it calms down. You could barely see the road on the way out here.”
His hesitation was palpable, an internal debate flickering across his features. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” he said softly.
“Nonsense,” I insisted. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stranded on campus. At least let me return the favor by offering somewhere dry to wait out the weather.”
He seemed about to protest, but then he glanced up at the deluge pouring from the slate-gray night sky. “Very well,” he said with a resigned nod.
I led him inside, the rain muffled by the door’s solid thud as I closed it behind us.
The space was small and unassuming, but it was mine—framed vintage aviation prints and Dad’s old nineties-era furniture claiming every corner.
The air was warm and dry, laced with the faint scent of lemon and lavender from a half-burned candle on the coffee table.
“Make yourself at home,” I offered, hoping he couldn’t hear my heart racing. He stood awkwardly near the door, gaze sweeping over the place before settling back on me.
“It’s charming.” His expression was unreadable.
“Can I get you anything?” I brushed damp strands of hair off my forehead. “A cup of tea, maybe?” I winced internally, afraid I’d sounded trite—offering tea to a Brit—but he did mention he liked tea during our first class.
He raised an eyebrow, a glint of humor lighting his eyes. “You can certainly try.”
Relief washed over me. “Challenge accepted. I make tea all the time.” I rummaged in the cabinet and pulled a box of assorted tea. “I’ve got Earl Grey, spiced orange, lemon, peppermint, and English breakfast.”
He chuckled as he shed his coat and draped it over the back of a dinette chair. “Of those options, English breakfast would be best.”
I pulled out a packet of English breakfast for him and spiced orange for me, taking a moment to enjoy the delicious aroma of the orange tea before grabbing two navy blue ceramic mugs and filling them with tap water.
I turned to find Dr. Hawthorne standing at the entrance of my tiny kitchen, his eyes following my every move with glib curiosity. I could practically feel the disapproval rolling off him as I dunked the tea bags into cold water, their strings draping over the rims of the mugs like tiny life rafts.
“It appears,” he said, a playful lilt in his voice, “that I have more to teach you than just physics.”
“What?” I asked, tugging the microwave door open.
He stepped closer, crossing the worn linoleum with an air of gentle authority. “Tea tends to perform better in hot water.”
“Oh!” I laughed and quickly pulled the tea bags from their chilly bath. The color had barely begun to leech, leaving behind only pale, earthy wisps. “Heat the water first. Got it.”
When I moved to put the mugs in the microwave, he shook his head. “Not quite,” he chided softly, the corners of his mouth lifting in an almost smile. “Since we haven’t covered magnetism and waves in class yet, I’ll let that slide. But microwaving water is generally not a brilliant idea.”
I set the cups down on the counter and muffled a self-conscious sigh.
“Do you have a kettle?” he asked, still teasing but not unkind.
“No kettle,” I admitted. “I guess I’m hopeless. How about a small saucepan?”
“That’ll do.”
I pulled a tiny pot from the depths of a cabinet and handed it to him.
Our fingers brushed for the briefest moment.
He took the pot, filled it with water, and set it on the stove.
There was something strangely captivating about the way he moved—deliberate and precise, like brewing tea was an art I’d hopelessly butchered.
The burner hissed to life, electric coils glowing orange. He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, glancing around my apartment.
“Interested in aviation?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to one of the framed prints on the wall.
“Oh yes, as long as I can remember. If it has wings, I’m in love.”
He nodded, an almost boyish spark in his eye. “Jets too, I take it?”
“Especially jets.” I moved to join him, savoring the shift from awkward hostess to something more familiar. “I grew up with them.”
“Air Force?” His voice was curious, nothing like the clipped tone he used in class.
“Nope. My dad.” The words floated between us, carrying more weight than I’d intended.
He seemed to consider this, then diverted his attention to the pot on the stove.
“The water is nearly ready.” Steam curled from its surface.
He grabbed two clean mugs from the cabinet and dropped in fresh English breakfast tea bags from the box I’d left on the counter.
He pulled the pot from the stove just as it started to boil, waited a few seconds for the turbulence to calm, and then carefully poured steaming hot water into each cup.
The ritual of it felt new and exciting, as if I were sharing some small intimacy with him—beyond the tea. We lingered in the kitchen while the tea steeped. He watched me closely, as though searching for something beyond books and lectures.
Finally, he angled his head. “And you? Do you fly?”
I smiled. “I had my pilot’s license before I could even drive a car,” I replied proudly.
Dr. Hawthorne raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “You’re full of surprises, Miss Clark.”
Hearing him say my name again was a surprise, too—formal, but tender and more intimate than I’d expected. And in that accent…
He glanced at his watch—gold with a black leather band. The kind with hands and numbers instead of pixels and notifications. It suited him. “Time’s up. The tea should be ready now.”
“You really take your tea seriously.”
“Guilty,” he replied. “Please tell me you have milk.”
Silently, I pulled a carton from the fridge and set it on the counter.
He took it from me, poured a splash into each mug, and gave them both a careful stir. “There we are,” he said, handing one to me with a nod of approval. “A proper cup of tea.”
The ceramic was warm beneath my fingers, and the steam carried a stout, earthy aroma.
We stood there, close enough that I could see rainwater still glistening in his hair like tiny beads of glass.
I sipped delicately, watching his reaction over the rim of my mug.
He tasted his tea with all the scrutiny of grading an exam, then cracked a smile that reached his eyes.
“Sorry about my paltry tea service,” I offered with a shrug.
He shook his head, the smile lingering. “No need to apologize. We redeemed it.” The warmth of his gaze took the sting out of my self-deprecation.
I laughed and gestured toward the living room. We settled on the couch, and somehow, Dr. Hawthorne’s presence in my modest apartment felt entirely natural as he glanced around at my eclectic mix of belongings, sipping from his mug.
“I’m guessing your place has a few more textbooks and a bit less nineties plaid?” I mused, leaning back into the cushions.
He let out a dry chuckle. “And perhaps a kettle or two. Though I admit, my place leans heavily toward function over form. Just me, so I’ve only myself to please.”
The words slipped into the quiet like a dropped pin.
Just him.
I nodded slowly, lifting my mug to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
His eyes found mine again—bright and engaged. “I suppose I’m curious about how you started flying. Not the most common hobby.”
I leaned forward, setting my tea on a crocheted coaster on the coffee table.
“It was my dad’s hobby first. He had a knack for getting me obsessed with his favorite things.
We started with models—half our garage was full of them.
” I laughed, the energy of nostalgia flowing through me as memories flooded back, vivid as daybreak.
“Then we moved up to the real deal—Cessnas, mostly. I got to sit up front while he flew. We’d spend hours at the airport just watching jets land and take off. ”
The words brought a sudden wistfulness, and he must have noticed a change in my expression.
“I sense this is a sore subject,” he said gently, setting his cup down with care. “Forgive me for prying.”
I shook my head, surprised at how easily I’d let those pieces of myself slip out. “No, it’s fine. He died just over a year ago.”
His eyes darkened with empathy. “I’m so sorry. That’s dreadful to go through at any age—but especially when you’re so young.”
“He had ALS—diagnosed just before I graduated from high school.” Talking to Dr. Hawthorne, even about this, was surprisingly easy. My words flowed like a current. “So that put the brakes on college. He felt guilty that I stayed back to take care of him, but who else was going to do it?”
“That’s an enormous sacrifice to make so early in life.”
“It didn’t feel like a sacrifice. It felt…” I searched for the right words. “It felt like a gift—time with him that I wouldn’t have had otherwise.”
“When are you going to stop that?”
I shot up straight, back rigid. “Stop what?”
“Stop surprising me.”
The rain continued to beat against the windows. For a moment, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“I’m not trying to surprise you,” I finally offered, my voice subdued.
Dr. Hawthorne’s expression shifted, something unguarded flickering across his face. “Most people your age would resent having their lives interrupted. They’d view it as a burden, not a gift.”
I grabbed my mug from the coffee table and traced the rim with my finger.
“Maybe. But most people my age haven’t lost someone they love inch by inch, watching them fade away physically but still mentally all there.
” It was all still so clear—Dad’s frustration as his body betrayed him, his determination to maintain dignity, his insistence that I pursue my dreams. “When someone you love is dying, you realize how precious every moment is.”
The intense way he stared at me made my skin tingle. “That’s a wisdom most don’t acquire until much later in life. If at all.”
“I’m not sure it’s wisdom,” I admitted. “Just reality.”
Our eyes met and held, and something tightened in my chest—a peculiar ache, both pleasant and painful.
The burgundy-and-green plaid couch seemed to shrink beneath us, the space between our bodies suddenly charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with the capacitors we’d discussed earlier.
His fingers rested mere inches from mine on the worn cushion, and I found myself acutely aware of that proximity—of how easy it would be to bridge the tiny gap…
He glanced at his watch, breaking the spell. “I’m afraid it’s getting late,” he said, voice low, reluctant. He crossed to the window and parted the blinds, peering outside where the rain had softened to a steady patter. “It looks calm enough to drive.”
He carried our empty mugs to the kitchen sink, rinsed them, and tucked them into the dishwasher. The image of refined, precise Dr. Hawthorne doing dishes in my tiny apartment felt surreal.
“Can I offer you a ride to campus in the morning?” he asked, drying his hands on a blue towel. “I can pick you up on my way.”
I hesitated, not wanting to impose more than I already had. “It’s okay, I’ll order a rideshare.”
He chuckled, a low, rich sound that flooded the room. “Good luck finding one around here.”
He pulled on his coat, fastening each button with an unhurried precision that felt strangely intimate.
When I didn’t reply, he said, “I’ll be by at seven.” His eyes met mine.
My heart skittered. “All right. Seven.”
He paused at the door, his hand resting on the knob. The air between us almost tingled. “Good night, Miss Clark,” he said softly. My name hung like an echo in the room.
“Good night,” I replied, surprised at how much weight those two words carried.
He lingered at the door a moment longer before stepping out into the chilly night. Rain-scented air swept in to fill the space where he’d stood—sharp and clean, mingling with traces of tea and warmth.