He bends down slowly, and the edge of his chest brushes my shoulder. His voice drops low enough that it’s just for me.
“Help with a question,” he says, all smooth confidence. “Thought maybe you could explain something… personally.”
My pulse skips. I can smell his cedar and citrus cologne. I should move, tell him to back up, dosomething, but all I can do is grip my pen tighter and keep my eyes on the paper.
“This one?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
“Mhm.” He doesn’t even glance at the page. He’s looking at me, and he already knows he’s getting under my skin.
I swallow and force myself to sound like I’m in charge here. “You’re mixing up folkways and mores; re-read the prompt and clarify which norm is being violated, then tie it to the group’s sanctions.”
His hum is low and quiet, a vibration that runs through me before my brain catches up. “Right,” he says. “Got it.”
Professor Brose looks over and nods, approving. Great. Perfect. My pulse is doing the samba, and I’m out here winning Teacher’s Pet points.
“Thank you, Miss Penelope,” Talon says, dragging out the title like he knows what it does to me.
I look up at him, meet those dark eyes that shouldn’t look that intense at nine-thirty in the morning. “Anytime, Mr. Grant.”
He grins—half challenge, half sin—and strolls back to his seat like nothing happened.
I exhale, my pen trembling slightly against the paper.
When I catch his eye again, I mouth, “Stop pushing.”
He just chuckles, a low rumble that’s going to end up in my head later whether I want it there or not.
The rest of class crawls. Every time I glance up, he’s watching me. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that my skin buzzes with it. I focus on Brose’s voice, highlight notes I already know, anything to stop from thinking about the way Talon’s breath felt against my neck.
When class finally ends, students spill out like a wave. I pack my things with shaky hands, tell Brose I’ll update the slides later, and step into the hall before I can second-guess how flushed my face must look.
My phone buzzes.
Dad.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, trying to sound normal.
“Hey, sweetheart. How’s school?”
“It’s good. Busy, but good. How’s work?”
“You know. Meetings and coffee.” His voice is calm, steady. “You’ve been eating, right?”
“Dad—”
“I’m just asking. You forget when you’re stressed.”
“I’ve been eating,” I lie.
“Good.” There’s a pause. I can hear the faint clink of dishes; he must be loading or unloading the dishwasher. “Come by for dinner tonight. Abi’s making something special.”
Abi. Right. The future stepmom, who’s basically a Pinterest board in human form. She’s polite and pretty in that perfectly practiced way, but so stiff it’s like talking to someone who walks around in heels half a size too small.
Still, she tries. And Dad’s happy. That’s what matters.
“Sure,” I say. “What time?”
“Six sharp. Don’t be late.”
