For a moment, I simply stood there—awkward, uncertain—feeling the bass vibrate through the floor until it found its way beneath my skin, a pulse answering another pulse. Then I closed my eyes, just for a breath. The rhythm settled low in my chest, the gin loosening the tightness that had lived there all day.
And then, I began to move.
Not in Gwen’s wild, effortless way, nor in Aster’s graceful precision. My movements were deliberate, careful at first, then looser, a rhythm unfolding through the slow roll of my hips and the faint turn of my shoulders. My fingers brushed the edge of my blouse, tracing the silk as though it held a language only I could read. The music surrounded me, murmuring through the air, an intimate whisper shared between pulse and motion.
It didn’t take long before someone entered my orbit.
A man, tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing the kind of charm that had probably never been tested, stepped close enough for his breath to touch the curve of my neck. “You don’t seem as though you belong here,” he said, voice dipped in amusement and something just shy of arrogance.
I turned toward him, my gaze steady. “And how exactly do I seem?”
His grin widened, slow and self-assured. “Like trouble that knows she’s trouble. The kind that doesn’t warn anyone before she burns them.”
I let a faint smile rise, more dismissal than invitation. “Then it’s best you keep your distance.”
The words landed cleanly, and his confidence wavered just enough to satisfy me. I turned away, letting the rhythm reclaim what he had interrupted, the crowd closing over him as though he had never been there.
Another one came soon after, a blond with dimples and a smile too polished to be sincere. His voice brushed against the music, smooth and sure. “You’re far too beautiful to be here on your own.”
“I’m not on my own,” I said, my tone cool as glass, glancing toward Gwen and Aster without missing a step.
He ignored the signal, leaning closer, the scent of his cologne crowding the air. Before I could move, Aster slid in beside me, her presence effortless but unmistakably protective. Her arm looped through mine as she smiled up at him, the kind of smile that promised trouble if he pressed further.
“She’s taken,” she said softly, her tone honeyed yet edged with steel.
He hesitated, muttered something beneath his breath, and disappeared back into the blur of bodies and sound.
Aster leaned in, her words brushing against the music. “Men never understand boundaries when they think persistence is endearing.”
I laughed quietly, tension easing from my shoulders. “And you never fail to terrify me. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of her mouth.
When the music slowed, we made our way back to the booth, breath unsteady, cheeks flushed. My skin felt warm, the kind of warmth that lingered long after movement stopped. The gin still hummed faintly in my veins, softening the sharp edges of thought.
Sunlight cut through the room, sharp and merciless, slicing through the thin curtains and forcing its way across the bed. I groaned, dragging the blanket over my head, wishing for five more minutes of silence, of nothing. But the light kept coming, relentless, insistent, a cruel reminder that the world hadn’t paused just because I wanted it to. My skull throbbed with the dull ache of regret, each pulse a reminder of every lavender gin, every careless laugh, every turn on the dance floor that had seemed like a good idea last night.
Then I reached for my phone.
8:47 a.m.
My heart stopped. Then it kicked back to life with brutal force.
“Shit. No, no, no—fuck—”
The words came out in a rush as I threw the blanket aside and stumbled to my feet. My first class was at nine. His class.
What followed barely counted as movement, it was survival. I tripped over my boots, pulled my cardigan on inside out, and nearly collided with the kitchen counter before making it to the bathroom. My reflection looked as wrecked as I felt: smudged eyeliner, sleep-heavy eyes, and hair that could be classified as a small-scale disaster.
There wasn’t time to fix anything, only to disguise the damage. Cold water. Concealer. A quick drag of a brush through tangled strands before twisting them into something that could pass for a bun. Black trousers, gray knit sweater.
The mirror offered no comfort, only proof of the chaos I was trying to contain.
By the time I made it outside, the air bit through my coat, cruel and clean. The walk to campus blurred into breathless urgency, the kind that steals thought and replaces it with motion.
When I pushed open the lecture hall door, the silence was immediate and total. Dozens of faces turned. And then his.
Professor Hayden Stone.
