Her throat works. The room’s mostly empty now. Just one student by the door, leaving.
“Careful,” she says.
I take a breath and check myself. There’s a line between calling her out and cornering her. I’m already toeing that line and have been since that night at the club.
“I’m not going to run to Brose,” I say, voice lower. “Or Daddy. Or faculty. That’s not my style.”
“Good,” she bites out.
“But you keep pretending I’m some harmless kid with a crush, and yeah—it pisses me off.”
Her eyes flare. “What do you want from me?”
Honest question. No wiggle.
“A chance,” I say. No joking, no grin. “A real one. Not as your stepbrother. Not as some annoying student you help with assignments. As a man who wants to take you to dinner and talk and see if I can get under your skin the way you have mine.”
She stares at me, breathing a little harder now. Her fingers curl around the strap of her bag.
“You’re not listening,” she says, but it sounds less certain. “I can’t. You’re in my class. There’s a power imbalance. There’s ethics, there’s?—”
“You preach about how norms are just lines people draw,” I say quietly. “Feels like you like those lines better when they keep things safe for you.”
Her mouth parts. Anger flashes through her eyes. “That’s not fair.”
“Probably not,” I admit. “But neither are you, acting like I’m the only wrong thing in your life, when you’re out here collecting deviant points like it’s a loyalty card.”
Her nostrils flare. “You done judging me, or do you want to write a paper too?”
I smile then, but it’s not real. “I’m not judging you. I’m…interested. As in, I see you.”
Silence stretches. She looks away first.
For a second, I think she might say yes. Not because I wrung it out of her, but because there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes—recognition, annoyance, curiosity.
Then she shakes her head, jaw locking into place.
“No,” she says.
Just that.
It hits harder than all the little jokes from before.
I swallow it. Nod once.
“Okay,” I say. “You said no. I heard you.”
Something in her gaze softens at that. Barely.
“So don’t pull this shit again,” she says, shouldering her bag. “Don’t imply. Don’t ‘I know this about you’ me. You don’t get to weaponise what I told you in confidence just because you’re mad I won’t fuck you.”
That stings, mostly because she’s right.
“I’m not sorry for knowing what you hide,” I tell her, still leaning in close. “You think being careful keeps you safe, but secrets don’t stay buried forever.”
“Careful,” she warns, but it comes out thinner than before.
I smile. “You keep saying that like you’ve got anything left to threaten me with.”
