Barely. Stranger was an ass, though.
Gwen:
Asshole stranger???
Aster:
Pics or it didn’t happen.
Gwen:
Yeah, preferably shirtless. For… research purposes.
A small laugh escaped me before I could stop it, light and unsteady but real. I was still smiling when I rounded the corner and nearly collided with Aster herself.
“There you are!” she said, looping her arm through mine as if she’d been waiting all morning. Her dark hair was piled in a loose bun, curls escaping everywhere, and her oversized knit scarf nearly swallowed her whole. Behind her trailed Gwen, coffee in hand, coat hanging open despite the cold, eyeliner sharp enough to count as weaponry.
“You’re alive!” Gwen declared dramatically.
“Barely,” I groaned. “You two arenevergoing to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Aster said sweetly, squeezing my arm. “We live for your public humiliation.”
“Hey, speak for yourself,” Gwen said, grinning. “I just want to know if the guy was hot.”
I hesitated, remembering the sharp line of his jaw, the chill in his voice, those dark eyes that had looked at me and seen right through. Heat crept up my neck.
“Objectively,” I said at last.
Gwen whooped loud enough to make two students glance over. “Knew it. She always spills on the emotionally unavailable ones.”
“I’m cursed,” I muttered.
“No,” Aster said solemnly, “you’re just manifesting chaos again.”
I rolled my eyes. “Remind me why I’m friends with either of you.”
“Because we have dirt on you,” Gwen said without hesitation.
“And snacks,” Aster added helpfully.
I laughed, the tension that had coiled in my chest finally loosening. Together, we moved through the corridor toward Room 214, passing students hunched over coffee cups and notebooks, the air alive with that restless energy that only came with the start of a new term.
Maybe, I thought, today could still be salvaged.
When we reached Room 214, Gwen peeled away, pausing only long enough to lean in and press a quick kiss to Aster’s cheek and then mine.
“I’ll leave you nerds to your literary adventures,” she said with a grin that carried the kind of mischief only Gwen could manage. “See you at lunch.”
And then she was gone, her boots clicking in rhythmic confidence down the corridor until the sound faded beneath the steady murmur of other students. Aster and I slipped into the classroom, choosing seats halfway up the tiered rows. I unpacked my notebook with hands that still trembled faintly, my pulse finally beginning to even out.
Maybe they were right. Maybe today could still be salvaged. Forget it, I told myself.Focus.
Today marked the first lecture of Contemporary Literary Criticism, one of the core classes for third-year students. Normally, it was taught by Dr. Rowe, a sharp, brilliant womanwho could make Derrida sound almost comforting, but she had announced an early maternity leave just before the term began.
Rumors about her replacement had filled the department all week, whispers of a new guest lecturer, someone young yet already accomplished, a name that appeared in journals and conference programs with effortless regularity. He was said to be brilliant, the sort of scholar whose reputation arrived before he did, and if the gossip in the hallways was to be believed, more than a little intimidating.
New term. New professors. A clean start.
