When we reach the classroom door, my steps slow. It feels like walking into a trap I set for myself.
“You good?” Cleo asks, brow raised as she half-chews.
“Yes,” I lie. “Just preparing to keep myself awake through lectures on the ages.”
I push the door open. And the second I step inside, something hits me — that weird sense of pressure easing, like my ribs can expand. My bond is in the room. I feel it. Like a magnetic pull tugged from the center of my chest.
There he is - Professor Gabriel.
Sitting behind his desk like a statue, writing in his stupid leather notebook like the rest of us don’t exist. He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even twitch.
Which is fine. Totally fine. It’s not like I expected him to leap over the desk and confess his undying love or whatever.
I sit down beside Cleo, trying to act like this is normal. Like my heart isn’t doing weird backflips.
And then—
Of course.
The heels. The perfume. The manufactured aura of “I’m better than you,” drifting in like smog. Daphne and Camille walk into the room, apparently in this class as well.
Daphne passes by with a slow look that screams judgment, her lips curled like she smells something rotten. “Well, look who decided to show up,” she says, voice honey-coated. “Must be bring-your-charity-case-to-class day.”
Camille laughs beside her. “Spoiler Alert: There’s no sinless loser spawn in the history books. Surely there’s somewhere else better you can spend your time?”
“I hear the men’s restroom needs a good scrub,” Daphne laughs.
They take the seats directly behind us like they’ve planned it. Like they want me to flinch. I don’t know what their problem is with me. It’s not like Atticus has said two words to me in public.
I turn to face them. “Sure, but only if you let me use some of your hair, Daphne. I don’t think the janitor’s closet has anything that dry and coarse.”
At their stunned silence, I turn back around. Then, I feel a sharp kick to the back of my seat.
I need to cool it.The last thing I need is more attention or eyes on me today.
I sit up straighter. Let the Wrath anger settle low in my chest and stay there. Cleo shifts beside me, clearly ready to throw hands — or cinnamon buns since her hands are still full — but I nudge her knee with mine.
Not worth it. Not today.
I stare ahead, back straight, jaw tight, heart still tethered to the man at the front of the room who hasn’t looked at me once.
Surely, he feels it too? He must.
A sharp click echoes through the room as Professor Gabriel closes his notebook with one clean motion and stands. I’ve seen glimpses of him before, obviously — at the bond ritual, in brief flashes in the halls — but this is the first time I can really see him.
And it’s a problem.
Professor Gabriel looks like he was genetically engineered in a lab exclusively for hot professor content in naughty magazines. Broad shoulders and muscular arms peeking out of his rolled-up sleeves. Stupidly perfect jawline. The kind of dark chestnut hair that looks effortless and windswept, like the wind just likes him.
And then there are the deep chocolate brown eyes behind his glasses.
As if being a walking daydream isn’t enough, he has the audacity to wear thin, wire-rimmed glasses like he’s trying to play “approachable academic” while secretly knowing he could break hearts.
I hate it.I hate it, universe.
Because he’s not supposed to look like this. He’s supposed to be some crusty old historian with an outdated blazer and coffee breath that makes him easy to avoid. Not a six-foot-four demigod, that I can’t have, standing at the front of the classroom casually undoing my ability to concentrate.
I look away before I do something humiliating, like sigh out loud. Or blush. Or melt into the floor.
