He’s two seats down and one row forward, profile in three-quarter view. Elbow on the desk, pen tapping in even beats that sound soft slate blue. His glasses have slipped down his nose again. He hasn’t noticed. He never does.
He’s broad through the shoulders under a Henley. His forearm is roped and steady where it brackets the notebook. Fine-line ink traces neat constellations along the skin—sharp black stars, precise connecting lines.
It should just be art on skin. I tell myself it is.
When he leans in to think, really think, his back sets, solid and sure. The sight leaves a faint ache under my ribs. It makes me want to be seen. Not touched. Just seen. Just once.
“Before we move on—particular solutions.” Professor Feldman taps the equation he left hanging. “Who wants to take a stab at it?”
The room performs mass stillness.
I raise my hand because letting the silence drag makes my ribs ache.
“Miss Marin.” Feldman looks relieved. “Show them the method.”
I stand, ignoring the whispers that trail me—teacher’s pet, try-hard—and head to the board. The marker is cool in my hand. “For a cosine input, we assume a cosine response. Match constants, simplify.” The math falls into place, neat and contained. I cap the marker and step back.
“Correct,” Feldman says. “Textbook.”
I head for my seat.
The door at the top of the lecture hall swings open.
Cold air floods in first. Then Kieran O’Connor walks through it.
The room shifts. Sound tilts warmer, louder, like someone just turned up the volume without asking. A girl in the back row lets out a muffled giggle. Someone whispers, “Oh my God, that’s him.”
Professor Feldman pauses mid-sentence.
Kieran doesn’t apologize for being late. He enters the room and claims it, doing a casual scan of the rows.
Then he spots me.
And heads straight down the aisle.
He stops at the seat beside mine, the one that stays empty because nobody sits next to the nerdy girl who volunteers.
“Mind if I?”
His tone is casual, but he waits, a hand braced on the desk. I nod, and he drops into the chair. His knee angles close to mine. Not touching, but close enough that I’m aware of every inch between us. Close enough that I have to remind myself I don’t want him there.
He smells faintly of cold air and soap and something else I shouldn’t be cataloging. His hair is still damp. There’s a fresh cut on his lower lip, and I’m annoyed that I noticed.
Around us, the room crackles. A girl two rows back leans so far forward she’s practically falling over her desk. The sudden spotlight that comes with being chosen by the guy everyone watches feels unsettling. Heat crawls up my neck while my stomach locks down.
Feldman clears his throat. “Thank you, Ms. Marin. Everyone, copy that down.”
Kieran leans in just enough that I feel the heat off his shoulder. “Should I be taking notes?”
His voice lands in steel blue—steady on the surface. Underneath, silver threads catch, bright with white-gold.
I don’t look at him. “If you plan to pass.”
He smiles, but his pen stays capped.
Feldman launches into applications. My pencil moves on autopilot. Beside me, Kieran doesn’t write. He just watches, posture loose, his eyes tracking the equations like he’s memorizing the shape of them. The room keeps half turning toward us. I can hear the conclusions forming:Hockey royalty. Engineering 204. Sitting next to her.
I keep my eyes on the board. The numbers behave. My body doesn’t.
