Another crack of lightning brightened the room. The hair rose on my arms.
There was nothing there.
No one in my room, or at the edge of the bed. No one but me, myself and I.
Alone. Shivering. Silently sobbing into my hands.
An overabundance of black coffee might not have been the best cure for a night terror hangover, but it was necessary fuel to carry me through classes for the day. The rich, earthy brew and bitter tang lingered on my tongue. It was the only thing I’d had for breakfast alongside the searing steam from my shower.
I was already on my third cup by the time I got in my car, leaving far earlier in the day than intended. My hands trembled on the steering wheel, gripping it until my knuckles turned white. Ghostly mist shrouded the road, and only the headlights cutting through the gloom paved the way to the university.
The sun had barely risen, casting the dew-kissed quad in a dazzling, gem-like dream. A perfume of petrichor wafted through the air and eased a fraction of the tension in my chest. I didn’t have a class this early, but a change of scenery revitalized my unsettled nerves.
Seniors prowled the quad like lone wolves, hunched over to avoid the worst of the morning drizzle and sporting deep bruises under their eyes. They moved with the careless compulsionof the undead, roaming in search of something imperative to survival but out of reach. Freshmen huddled together, still bright-eyed as the weight of academia had not yet dimmed their boundless energy. But they moved as a unit across the grass, instinctively traveling like a herd watching each other’s backs. They didn’t seem to know what they were afraid of yet.
Neither did I.
Book in hand, I claimed the empty table where I first met Moth, Talon, and Niffy, then began to read where I’d left off the night before. I had seen the group throughout the past week. They seemed to appear out of thin air and vanish when a conversation fizzled out. We exchanged small talk in those brief interactions, but they were friendly enough, and I needed some semblance of cordial human interaction to remain sane.
They had invited me out more than once, but I didn’t feel ready to push my coursework to the sidelines so early in the semester.
But soon. Maybe.
Classes dragged by in a familiar monotony. The cloying sensation of fear in the back of my throat went down with another cup of coffee purchased at the campus cafe in the breath between classes. By the last course of the day, I existed as a jittery, anxious bundle of nerves wrapped in cashmere. I didn’t think I’d ever felt so nervous for a history lesson in all my life.
By some horrible twist of fate, I was the first one to arrive at the lecture hall. Even before the professor. I scurried into my chosen front-row seat, almost dizzy with the rate my mind spun. Where was he? Did he even remember last week? We hadn’t communicated once since then.
As though summoned, the temperature fluctuated, and Professor Quinn strode into the hall, long legs carrying him swiftly to the podium. I began to think he hadn’t seen me until he hesitated before passing my desk.
My breath lodged in my throat.
He rubbed a hand over his face before turning behind the stand. I blew out a breath, watching him unload his materials for the class. I didn’t intend to ogle him, but my greedy gaze traveled across his wide shoulders and the navy suit jacket perfectly tailored to his tall frame. To my detriment, he removed the jacket and draped it across the back of the chair behind his desk and proceeded to roll up his shirtsleeves. His forearms tensed and flexed with the movement, and sitting in the front row gave me a perfect vantage point of the veins running along his arms.
My tongue watered, and my thighs pressed together.
Deep, sea eyes caught the moment. His dark stare snapped up, and the air turned brittle and unmoving. A flare of tension skittered down my spine and lit me up.
Only the subtle movement of his chest, rising and falling with each disciplined breath, told me he was alive.
My heart skipped a beat.
Then a flood of students swept in, and the moment shattered. Professor Quinn turned away, preparing his materials. People swarmed like ants as they navigated to their seats. And I sat in a pool of quivering anxiety, both dreading and anticipating the next words to come from his mouth.
“So…?” My voice trailed off, echoing awkwardly in the emptied classroom. I hugged my satchel close, staring at Professor Quinn’s back flexing under his white oxford as he erased the whiteboard.
His shoulder’s tensed, and his arm stilled mid-swipe.
He whirled around, brows shooting up, surprised to see me there.
“Yes?” he drawled.
“You wanted me to be your assistant, and I haven’t heard anything. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“Ah, that,” he sighed, clearing the whiteboard with a final swipe. Then he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against it. “I’m not sure you’re ready for the position.”
His statement came down with the weight of a gavel. His judgement, final and resolute. Indignation flared within me even as the intense sweep of his eyes sent ice water down my spine.
“Not ready?” I meant to sound confident, but the question slithered out like a hiss.
