A sleek black playing card is pinched between his fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb along the edge, that absentminded thing he does when he’s not particularly volatile towards me.
But he does watch me.
Considers me.
And it’s an effort to wrench my gaze from his.
I only manage to look away when the firmness of a finger presses into my shoulder.
I flinch and swerve around.
Behind me, a small student, maybe a second or a third year, lurks. His frown flickers over me before he extends the thick folded parchment pinched between his fingers.
I snatch it and watch him leave without a word.
Once he’s out of sight, and there are no prying eyes around, I bring the note closer and unfold it.
‘The burnt science lab.’
A frown digs into my face.
Maybe from one of the masters who’ve realised that I’ve been slacking off more than usual.
But then, it would be signed if it was from a master.
Oh.
Eric.
There’s no doubt that it’s him as I scan the faces in study hall and see that he’s not among them.
With a huff, I stuff the parchment into my cardigan pocket, then start shovelling my books and loose papers into the backpack.
“You’re not finished,” Courtney says, looking up from her own essay, already on the fourth page.
Six pages is required, handwritten.
I’m only two pages in.
The lie comes smooth as I hoist the bag strap over my shoulder. “I have a phone call.”
Ignoring the burn of Dray’s gaze itching at my cheek, I clammer off the bench and stalk out of study hall.
My steps move swift up staircases, down corridors, taking sharp corners—not because I’m in anyway excited to see Eric or talk about whatever tangled mess was once between us, but just to get it over with.
That purpose keeps my pace all the way to the science lab with the black door, as charred as the room beyond it.
Every time the rooms down this corridor are repaired, another fire breaks out in class, so it feels like it’s just always in this burnt state.
I flatten my hand on the charred wood. The promise of splinters scratches at my palm as I push the door open.
The hinges creak as I slip inside.
And I spot Eric immediately.
He leans on the ledge of the long, frosted window, one of three that line the left wall.
The faint lights of the old bulbs on the ceiling are in dire need of changing—and he looks just as fatigued as those bulbs.
