She’s not where I expected, not hiding in the back or trying to be invisible. She’s on the side, three rows deep. A predator’s perch. Her posture is perfect, her expression a mask of cool indifference. She’s already watching me.
A slow smile pulls at my lips, but I suppress it before it can form. This is so much better than fear. Her defiance is a tangible thing, a shield she’s holding up with both hands. It’s beautiful.
I lean back against the desk. “Alright,” I say, my voice filling the room. “Let’s talk about reaction kinetics.”
My performance is for an audience of one. I break down the concepts, making the complex simple, demonstrating a level of mastery that I know she, with her perfect GPA, will recognize and on some level respect. I am showing her that I am not just some dumb jock who got the TA position because of my status. I am showing her that I am her intellectual equal. Her superior.
I am showing her that I belong here, in her world, just as much as I belong on the ice.
I feel her eyes on me the entire time. It’s not the adoring gaze of the girls in the front row, or the desperate stare of the failing students. It’s a focused, analytical watch. She’s studying me. The thought sends a low, pleasant hum through my veins. Good.Look at me. See me.
I let my eyes meet hers, holding it for a beat too long in silent acknowledgment.I knew you’d come.I see the flicker in her gaze, the tightening of her jaw. She doesn’t look away, she challenges me right back. God, the fire in her. It’s intoxicating.
When I announce the quiz, I watch her. No reaction, just a stillness. She waits, letting others go first then she rises, her movements fluid and sure. She takes the paper and returns to her seat. There is no panic in her movements. I’ve cornered her and instead of cowering, she’s sharpening her claws.
Kinsley is the first one to turn it in.
She walks to the front of the room, her gaze fixed on the collection box. She doesn’t look at me, but I feel the sheer force of her will as she passes. I know she’s trying to pretend I don’t exist. The effort it must be taking her is a victory in itself.
After I dismiss the class, I wait until the room is empty. The lingering scent of her perfume, something clean like rain and citrus, hangs in the air. I walk to the cardboard box and reach inside, shuffling through the small stack of papers.
I find hers easily.
Kinsley Fischer.
Her handwriting is precisely what I expected. Neat, precise, a little sharp. The answer is perfect of course, but I’m not looking at the answer. I’m looking at her name, written in her own hand.
I don’t put her quiz in the stack with the others. I fold the small slip of paper once and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans.
The drive back to my off-campus apartment is cold, the autumn air sharp in my lungs with my windows down. My hand rests on my pocket, the folded paper a warm, solid square against my skin. A private trophy. A piece of her that I get to take home.
My apartment is dark and quiet when I let myself in. The building is one of the new luxury towers downtown, catering to the city's wealthy, not students. My uncle pays for it. Asher calls it a ‘distraction-free environment’ to ensure the family investment—me—performs as expected. I call it a cage with a good view.
I drop my bag by the door and head straight to the built-in bar. It’s a floor-to-ceiling glass cabinet, fully stocked with bottles Asher’s assistant has delivered. I don’t know or care how they get here; they are simply always here, a part of the gilded cage. I pull a heavy crystal tumbler from a shelf and pour two fingers of a single-malt scotch that costs more than most students' monthly rent.
I take a sip, the burn familiar and grounding, then walk into my bedroom.
Against the far wall is a heavy, antique oak desk. I unlock the bottom-right drawer with a small, silver key I keep separate from the others and inside is a single, plain black Moleskine notebook.
I take out the folded quiz paper from my pocket, smoothing it out on the desk under the warm glow of a lamp. Kinsley Fischer. I trace the letters of her name with my finger.
Then I open the Moleskine.
It’s half-full of printouts of her class schedule, a list of her known associates, Chloe Marks being the primary, a candid photo I took two weeks ago, notes on her habits. Kinsley always gets the same black coffee from the campus cafe and sits in the third floor carrels at the library.
I’ve been watching her for a long time. The kiss didn’t start this. It just changed the rules.
I take a small piece of clear tape and carefully affix her quiz paper to the next blank page in the notebook. It’s the first piece I have that contains her handwriting. The first piece that she, in a way, gave to me herself.
It’s a new kind of collectible, more satisfying than any game puck or trophy sitting on my shelf. This is the real hunt, and I’m the only one who knows the stakes.
Nine
Kinsley
The next day, Friday, I walk through campus like a ghost. I go to my classes, I take notes, but I’m not really there. My mind is stuck in Dalton Hall, room 203. I can still feel the weight of his gaze, the calm confidence in his voice. He’s not just a stalker; he’s a brilliant, beautiful one, and that’s so much worse. The internal buzzing of hypomania, which usually helps me focus, has become relentless static, making it hard to concentrate on anything but him.
I’m in the library, trying to force myself to study for my anatomy class when Chloe slides into the chair opposite me. She drops her bag on the floor and leans forward, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.
