The glass door swings open, swallowing him into the building. I wait until he disappears before I follow.
The lecture hall smells like burned coffee from Brose’s ancient travel mug. Students chatter and scroll on their phones, oblivious to the fact that their TA is living in a soap opera.
Talon sits two rows from the front, eyes on his notebook. He doesn’t look at the door when I walk in, which shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.
I move behind my desk, drop my bag, and pull out my laptop. My fingers hover over the mouse for a second, then shift to the keyboard.
Email.
New message.
To:Professor Brose
Subject:Absence tomorrow
Professor Brose,
I wanted to let you know I will need to miss tomorrow’s class due to an unexpected family obligation. I have prepped the slides and notes for you and attached them here. Please let me know if you need anything else from me ahead of time.
Best,
Penelope
My chest tightens on the word family.
I hit send before I can overthink it. One more piece in place for tomorrow. One more lie built on top of the truth that my “family obligation” involves an extraction and a girl who hasn’t seen her brother in lord knows how long.
Brose shuffles in a moment later, rumpled and oblivious. Class starts. I move through the motions, writing key terms on the board, answering questions, pretending the world is not tilting.
Every thirty seconds my senses trip over Talon. The way his jaw flexes when he’s concentrating. The way his hand tightens around his pen when the topic veers near systems of power and control. The way his eyes flick to me sometimes, quick and hungry, before he drags them back to the textbook.
He obeys every boundary.
No flirting.
No lingering.
No smirks.
It should make this easier.
It doesn’t.
When class ends, students spill out in clusters. Talon takes his time sliding his notebook into his bag, letting everyone else go ahead before he stands. He doesn’t come to my desk. He doesn’t brush my hand. He just catches my eye for a single, loaded second and tilts his head toward the door.
Then he’s gone.
I pack up slowly, heart doing a strange staccato against my ribs. When I step outside, he’s leaning against a tree across the way, pretending to scroll through his phone. The minute he sees me, the pretending drops.
“Culver’s?” he asks.
The question is so normal it almost knocks me over. “Yeah,” I say. “God, yes. If I don’t get food in the next thirty minutes, I’ll start gnawing on students.”
He laughs, and some of the haunted look in his eyes eases. “Come on, then.”
We walk side by side until we get off campus. As soon as we’re not on college grounds, I take his hand in mine and intertwine our fingers. The farther we get from the university, the easier my lungs work.
Culver’s appears like a greasy blue and white mirage. We step inside and order at the counter. I don’t have to think about it when it’s our turn to order.
