“Wait here?”he asked.
“I need to go to Ridgeway Hall and get some grading done.”
“After.Will you wait?”
I nodded.“I’ll be in the east carrels.Third floor.”
He took a breath.Squared his shoulders.Walked inside.
I spent the next two hours marking papers I couldn’t remember touching.The clock moved like it was dragging weights.At 11:15, I positioned myself at a carrel with a clear view of the stairwell.
At 11:47, Luke appeared at the top of the stairs.
His face was blank—the game face, the one that gave nothing away.I stood, heart hammering, trying to read the data in his posture, his gait, the set of his jaw.
He stopped in front of my carrel.Said nothing.
“Well?”I whispered.
“Seventy-three.”
The number landed like a puck in an empty net.
“Seventy-three,” I repeated.“Cumulative?”
“Point four.”The game face cracked.Underneath it was something bright and stunned.“I passed, Austen.I actually passed.”
I wanted to kiss him.I wanted him to lift me off the ground and spin me around and shout the number until the whole building heard.
“Statistically inevitable,” I said, my voice dropping an octave.“Given sufficient preparation.”
He laughed—quiet, breathless, the sound of a weight being lifted.“You’re impossible.”
“I’m correct.There’s a difference.”
He stared at me, his eyes bright, the adrenaline of the exam still flushing his skin.He stepped closer.Then closer again.The air between us evaporated.
“Austen,” he breathed.
He didn’t wait for a response.He reached out, curled a hand around the back of my neck, and pulled me in.
It wasn’t a tentative test of the waters.It was a collision.
I made a noise in my throat—half surprise, half surrender—and grabbed the lapels of his coat.His mouth was hot, tasting of mint gum.For three seconds, the building around us ceased to exist.The glass walls all dissolved into the friction of his stubble against my chin and the desperate, solid pressure of his body against mine.
My mind emptied as I held on to him like a life preserver during a hurricane.
Then, reality rebooted.
We broke apart, gasping, chests heaving.
The silence of the third floor rushed back in, deafening.
Panic spiked.I whipped my head around, heart hammering against my ribs.Glass walls.We were in a fishbowl.
I scanned the perimeter.The graduate student three rows down was still hunched over her laptop, oversized headphones firmly in place.The rest of the floor was empty.
“Clear,” I whispered, the word shaky.
