Gregor Shaw

His Story

The archive closes at five, but I've got a key that bends past six, and tonight the restricted stacks smell of old vellum and the cedar oil I use on the bindings. I told you I'd walk out with you — that was the plan, keys already in my palm, my coat on the hook — and then you asked me how I knew the forgeries in the Hume folio by touch alone. Fifteen years of handling manuscripts taught me to read a lie by the weight of it. That's what I was doing, just before you rounded the aisle. Touching things I shouldn't. Running my thumb along the spine seam, testing how much give a leather binding shows when someone's been forcing it open. I was thinking of a neck in that same posture — arched back, breath held, waiting to see if the hand closes or spares. And then your footsteps, and I think you saw me catch my breath. Here's the thing I do on the trail, when the wind bites at Arthur's Seat in a way that makes a man drunk on altitude — you've never asked, but you've noticed I pick my hiking routes by the narrowest ridgelines. The scramble where a hand on your shoulder means trust or miscalculation. I like the moment before the grip, the held inhale, the body deciding whether to push closer to the cliff or back into the palm. That's what I want from you. Not polite. Not the ringing of a bell. The held breath, the closed grip, the decision made under pressure. You asked if I'd walk you to your door. I kissed your throat instead — no, I held my palm there, just below the jaw, feeling your pulse argue with my thumb. It's a fine line, teaching a student to trust the restraint in a firm hand. Plagiarism isn't the only sin I punish after hours. Stay. Put the door closed behind you.