“I’m working on that first paper for Dr. Kouris’s class—the one about Minoan architecture? I have this theory about how it relates to social hierarchy?—”
She starts to talk faster, her hands moving as she explains, and I find myself leaning forward, genuinely interested. Not because I care about Minoan architecture—though her passion makes it compelling—but because I'm fascinated by her. By the way her mind works, the connections she makes, and how intelligent she is. It’s clear that Whitmore is threatened in some way by this, but I can’t imagine why or how. Savannah is the most physically beautiful woman I’ve ever encountered, but when she’s like this, it’s like looking into the sun.
"That's brilliant," I say, studying her features. I want to memorize them. I want her image implanted on my retinas so she’s the only thing I ever see again.
She blushes. "It's just a theory. I need to do more research to support it."
"It's still brilliant. You really dig deep into this stuff. That analysis shows how excited you are about it.”
"Thank you." She's looking at me differently now, like she's reassessing something. "Most people's eyes glaze over when I start talking about archaeology."
"Most people are idiots."
She laughs—a real laugh, surprised and genuine—and I feel a strange sensation, like something warm spreading through my chest. I’m not sure what it is.
But I want to hear that laugh again. I want to be the one who causes it.
"Do you want to get coffee?" I ask. "Take a break? You've been working for hours."
She hesitates, and I can see the internal debate playing out on her face. She wants to say yes. But there's something holding her back—guilt, maybe, or propriety—the awareness that she's engaged to someone else.
"Just coffee," I say, keeping my voice light. "Between classmates. Nothing scandalous."
"Okay," she says finally. "Just coffee."
We go to a café near campus, and we talk for two hours—about archaeology, New York, our families, though I'm careful with what I reveal, giving her the sanitized version of the Ciresa family business. She tells me about Charleston, and when she talks about her family and her social obligations, especially Thaddeus, I hear the frustration beneath her words, the sense of being trapped.
When we finally part ways, she's smiling, and I feel as if I’ve achieved a new victory, a sense of satisfaction humming through my veins.
This intimacy, this connection—it's more effective than watching from a distance. She's letting me in, slowly, and I'm patient enough to wait.
—
I'min the graduate student lounge when I overhear two students from Dr. Kouris's seminar talking about forming a study group for the midterm. One of them mentions that Savannah Beauregard is joining. I insert myself into the conversation smoothly, expressing interest, and by the time Savannah arrives ten minutes later, I'm already part of the group. She looks surprised to see me, but not displeased.
"Romeo. I didn't know you were interested in joining."
"Seemed like a good idea. I have a feeling the exam is going to be difficult.”
We meet twice a week after that, on Wednesdays and Fridays, in a study room on the third floor of the library. There are five of us in total, and the sessions are productive, with everyone contributing insights and challenging each other's interpretations. But I'm only really aware of Savannah.
She always seems to dominate the discussions. Not because she’s aggressive—I truly can’t imagine a less aggressive woman, with her sweet Southern accent and her soft-spoken speech—but because of how incredibly intelligent she is. She always has answers, thoughts, and when others speak, she always listens. She’s never threatened by anyone else’s intelligence, either—I see the way she gets excited when someone makes a connection she hadn't considered, leaning forward with that light in her eyes.
During our third session, while we're debating the interpretation of a particular archaeological site, one of the other students—a guy named Bryce who's clearly interested in Savannah—makes a dismissive comment about her analysis.
"That's a pretty romantic interpretation," he says, his voice condescending. "You're reading too much into the symbolism."
Savannah's face flushes, but before she can respond, I speak up.
"Actually, her interpretation is supported by the distribution of artifacts. If you'd read the article she referenced, you'd understand the theories she's working from."
Bryce looks taken aback, and Savannah glances at me. I’m worried at first that she’ll be upset I spoke before she could, but instead, she looks grateful. "Thank you," she says quietly, after Bryce has moved on to another topic.
"He's an idiot," I say, just as quietly. "Your analysis was sound."
She smiles, and that warmth spreads through my chest again—that unfamiliar, terrifying warmth.
The next day, instead of following Savannah around, I finally make time to meet up with Luca. He’s been trying to get a private meeting with me for a while now, but I’ve been too wrapped up, and I know that’s a mistake. So I meet him for lunch at a small Italian place in Little Italy that his family has owned for three generations. We're in a private room in the back, away from other diners, and Luca is watching me with an expression that means he's about to say something I won't like.
