I should leave. I know I should. Every internal alarm is lit and screaming. But my feet stay planted, stubborn and traitorous.
“You were outside the law library,” I say. “The other day.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t an accident.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“That’s creepy,” I tell him.
His expression shifts—not offended, yet not amused. “Is it?”
“You know it is.”
“Or is it just unfamiliar?” he counters. “You don’t want people to notice you. Yet, here we are.”
The words land too close to something raw.
I cross my arms, defensive. “I didn’t ask to be noticed.”
“Like I said… here we are.”
“Don’t come to my classes again,” I say.
He studies my face, then nods once. “Alright.”
Relief flickers—brief, unwarranted.
“Unless,” he adds, “you want me to.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.”
There it is again. That certainty. That calm, unnerving confidence.
I take a step back, breaking the invisible line between us. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I will.”
The words follow me as I turn away.
I don’t look back. I don’t need to. I can feel him watching until the trees swallow me whole.
And the worst part—the part I don’t admit even to myself—is that some dangerous, visceral piece of me already knows this isn’t the last time we will meet.
12
JUSTIN
The benefits of coming to St Augustine’s today are twofold.
The first is Dean Stockton.
He’s been hounding me for a week now—emails markedurgent, phone calls that somehow always come when I’m unavailable, vague requests for meetings that never quite say what they mean. Today, I finally give him what he wants. Or what he thinks he wants.
His office blinds are half-drawn, cutting the light into narrow strips across his desk. He doesn’t offer me a seat. I take one anyway.
