“Gwen,” I said flatly, but she only lifted her brows higher.
“Look, if Aster asks, I’ll at least mention it to Zayn. You know how he gets when there’s a mystery to solve.”
Aster leaned in, the spark of mischief brightening her features. “And Professor Stone is absolutely a mystery. An arrogant, reclusive, probably-haunts-his-own-office kind of mystery.”
Gwen chuckled, but her voice softened. “Relax. Zayn wouldn’t cross any lines. He just has a talent for finding information quickly.”
“Right,” I muttered. “Because being a master’s student in computer science wasn’t impressive enough, he had to be gifted in digital trespassing too.”
“He’s not a hacker,” Gwen protested, feigning offense. “He’s just…creatively skilled with systems that are meant to be locked.”
Aster snorted. “He hacked into the parking database last semester so we wouldn’t get ticketed.”
Gwen smirked. “That wasn’t hacking. That was love.”
Despite myself, I laughed under my breath. “You’re both unbelievable.”
Aster tilted her head, eyes gleaming. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re just afraid of what he’ll find.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came. Because she wasn’t entirely wrong. Beneath the irritation, beneath the exhaustion of the morning, there was something else, something quieter. A trace of unease. Not about what I already knew of Professor Stone, but about what I didn’t. There was an edge to him, hidden under all that composure, something that felt too controlled to be entirely whole.
Gwen reached into her bag and pulled out her phone, her voice light. “I’ll text him. Just tell me what to send, name, department, and how much digging you want.”
Aster leaned back with a grin that could only mean trouble. “Everything. Academic records, publications, social media, exes, secret families, any suspicious disappearances—”
“Aster.”
She raised her hands. “Kidding. Mostly.”
I sighed, rubbing at my temple. “Fine. Just ask him to keep it subtle.”
Gwen was already typing, her nails clicking lightly against the screen. “Subtlety is Zayn’s version of affection.”
As she hit send, a faint chill crept up the back of my neck, a mix of guilt and something more difficult to name. I told myself it was harmless curiosity. That I didn’t actually care what he’d find. That this was just Aster’s mischief spiraling out of hand. But as the three of us sat there, coffee cooling in our cups and the winter sun spilling weak light across the courtyard, a quieter truth settled in the pit of my stomach.
I did care. And I didn’t know why.
By the time our last class ended, the sun was already sinking behind the city skyline, painting the clouds in bruised shades of burnt peach and rose ash. The cold had settled deeper into my coat, clinging to the fabric until it felt woven into me, and every breath came out sharp enough to sting.
“Movie night,” Aster announced, slipping her arm through mine as we crossed the lot. “Your place. I’m bringing popcorn. Gwen’s bringing chocolate. You—” she glanced at me with raised brows, “—are bringing your dreadful taste in cinema.”
“I have excellent taste,” I countered, tugging my scarf higher against the wind.
“You cried atHowl’s Moving Castle.”
“It was emotionally profound.”
“It was animated.”
“And you wept through that horror movie about a possessed mirror.”
“That mirror was cursed,” she said with perfect solemnity. “There’s a difference.”
Gwen appeared by the car, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold, arms already overloaded with snacks. “No fighting,” she said lightly. “Or at least wait until the third act.”
We drove back to my apartment in the kind of gentle silence that doesn’t feel heavy, only earned. The hum of the tires against the road became its own rhythm, soft and steady, and every dip and turn seemed to lull the world into stillness. Aster was behind the wheel, humming under her breath, while Gwen sat in the passenger seat, halfway through a bag of crisps and unapologetic about it.
I sat in the backseat, hands folded tightly in my lap, eyes fixed on the passing glow of streetlights. I didn’t speak. I rarely did in cars. Even now—after years—something about being enclosed in that confined space still made my chest tighten. I hid it well, the quiet panic that pressed at the edges of memory. But sometimes, when the world outside blurred too fast or the brakes caught too suddenly, the ghost of that night stirred beneath my ribs. The echo of twisted metal. The silence that came before the screaming. The way the air had turned too thick to breathe. Even now, with friends beside me and warmth wrapped around my shoulders, the memory still moved beneath the surface, an old scar pulsing in time with the city lights.
