“I expect you to do your job,” he replied, his tone so calm it almost mocked mine, “and to be intentional with your voice.”
The words hung between us, barbed and suggestive in a way that had nothing to do with volume. It wasn’t a compliment. It wasn’t a warning either. It was a test, one I hadn’t agreed to take.
He reached for a manila folder and slid it across the desk, his movements unhurried, precise in their control. But when his fingers brushed mine, the contact was brief, so brief it could have been accidental. Except it wasn’t. It felt engineered. His skin was warm, the touch fleeting yet searing in its awareness. It sent a pulse through me, a sudden spark that fractured the air, sharp and uninvited, as though someone had struck the wrong chord in a familiar melody. My breath faltered for a heartbeat before I caught it, before I smoothed the reaction from my face.
I hated that I felt it, the thrum beneath my skin, the betrayal of my own body responding to something I wanted to dismissas nothing. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It didn’t. And yet, long after he withdrew his hand, the echo of that touch remained, ghosting across my skin, lingering and unwelcome, a reminder that even control had its limits.
He cleared his throat, the sound low and composed, as though he was measuring even the air between us. “Preliminary materials,” he said, sliding the folder closer. “Schedule, guidelines, themes under review. You’ll assist with structuring the abstract panels and managing correspondence. Weekly meetings begin on Monday. That won’t be a problem, will it?”
The question wasn’t really a question. His tone carried an edge of faint amusement, the kind that implied he’d find it far more entertaining if itwasa problem. I kept my expression calm, refusing to let him see that he was already pushing. “I’ve endured worse things on Mondays,” I said evenly.
He tilted his head slightly, a faint glimmer passing through his eyes. “Let’s hope that doesn’t apply to me.”
“No promises,” I replied, allowing a small, careful smile to slip across my lips. I tucked the folder under my arm, holding it as though it were both an acceptance and a challenge.
Our eyes met for a moment that stretched far beyond what was appropriate. The air between us thickened until it almost hummed. There was something unreadable in his gaze, too measured to be curiosity, too intent to be indifference, but I held it. I made him feel the weight of being seen. Then, just as deliberately, I looked away. I hated that I was the one to break it, even if I did it on my own terms.
Without another word, I turned and crossed the room. My pulse pressed against my throat, quick and erratic, betraying the composure I fought to keep. The moment I stepped into the corridor, the winter air slid against my face, cold and startling, but it did little to ease the tightness in my shoulders. My jaw ached from holding too much tension. He hadn’t raised hisvoice. He hadn’t done anything overtly cruel. And yet I felt stripped bare, dissected, categorized, dismissed, all in the quiet civility of a conversation that should have meant nothing.
Quiet,he had said. As if I hadn’t spent my entire life being told to take up less space, to temper my tone, to smooth the edges that made people uncomfortable. As if he had already decided who I was, filed me neatly away into his collection of easily understood people, waiting only for me to prove him right.
I walked faster, the sharp rhythm of my heels cutting through the emptiness of the corridor, each step echoing my irritation. The folder pressed against my chest, a barrier that did nothing to keep the thoughts from igniting under my breath.
“Cold, arrogant, infuriating son of a—” I hissed, the rest of the sentence dissolving into a mutter as I stormed down the hall. “Thinks he’s a goddamn monologue wrapped in cashmere. I should’ve spilled the coffee harder, maybe it would’ve knocked some humanity into him.”
I rounded the corner too fast and nearly collided with someone.
“Whoa, easy, soldier.”
Aster.
She stepped back, crossing her arms, one brow lifting with that infuriating blend of amusement and concern. Her gaze swept over my face slowly, assessing, as though searching for signs of trauma.
“You look like you just walked out of a hostage negotiation,” she said dryly.
“Worse,” I exhaled, my voice still sharp with residual frustration. “A meeting with Professor Stone.”
Her eyes brightened immediately, the corner of her mouth curving upward. “Ah, the emotionally constipated deity of the literature department. Tell me, did he assign you a paper or plan your funeral?”
“Both,” I muttered. “And then he’ll critique my tone in the eulogy.”
Aster grinned, clearly delighted. “Well, you’re alive. Mostly.”
“Barely,” I said under my breath, clutching the folder tighter against me. “He’s a walking existential crisis dressed in pressed slacks.”
She fell into step beside me as we made our way through the corridor, the sound of our footsteps echoing under the vaulted ceiling. Aster’s gaze flicked toward the folder in my arms, then back to my face with calculated curiosity.
“So,” she said, drawing the word out with dangerous sweetness, “was that a normal conversation or did he hand you your soul in a sealed envelope?”
I released a breath that hovered somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “More that he handed me a to-do list with a personalized critique attached to it.”
Aster smirked, bumping her shoulder lightly against mine, her amusement bright enough to cut through the gray air of the hallway. “Isn’t it at least a little suspicious that he picked you out of everyone? I mean, fate has a cruel sense of humor. Either that, or this is his grand revenge arc for the tragic coffee-stained coat.”
I turned my head, giving her a look that carried equal parts disbelief and fatigue. “I didn’t ruin anything. It was a minor caffeine-related accident.”
She grinned. “You literally launched yourself into the man with a latte in your hand. I call that making an impression.”
I rolled my eyes, though the edge of a smile betrayed me. “You make it sound intentional.”
