"Punctual," he says, setting his bag down. "I like that."
"I'm always early. It's a compulsion.” I laugh, only half-joking. It occurs to me, as the words come out of my mouth, how easy it is to talk to Romeo. How much more relaxed I feel around him than?—
I push the thought out of my head before it can finish.
"Not a bad compulsion to have." He takes the seat across from me rather than next to me, which I appreciate. It feels less intimate, less threatening. "So. Minoan religious iconography and architecture. Where do you want to start?"
I pull up the assignment guidelines on my laptop. "Dr. Kouris wants us to analyze how religious symbolism is integrated into the architectural design of Knossos."
"The architecture as a physical manifestation of religious authority."
"Exactly." I'm surprised he's grasped the concept so quickly. "Most people think of Minoan religion as separate from the palatial structure, but I think they're inseparable. The palace itself is a religious space."
Romeo leans forward, his dark eyes intent on my face. "Walk me through your thinking."
I feel my pulse leap in my throat. There’s nothing condescending in his face, nothing to indicate he’s being anything other than entirely honest. I feel irrationally excited as I start to talk, walking him through all of my notes and thoughts and the sketch of an outline that I’ve started on so far for the paper.
And helistens. Hereallylistens. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't dismiss me at any point, doesn't check his phone or let his attention wander. He asks questions that are thoughtful and intelligent. He's not just hearing my words, but engaging with the ideas behind them.
It feels revelatory.
He taps his finger next to one section of my notes. “What about this? The placement of windows. You said last week there might be something to that, right?”
I blink at him, stunned. He actually remembers something I said. He listened to me talking in class. “You—yes. I did. I thought it might be rather important, actually.”
“You seemed excited about it. So of course, I listened.”
I should be alarmed by that statement. It implies he cares more than he should about what I have to say. But I can’t shake how good it feels to hear that. Thad can't remember the name of my dissertation advisor.
"You were paying attention." It comes out more surprised than I intended.
Romeo's mouth quirks. "I always pay attention when you speak."
There's something in his voice that makes my face heat. I look down at my notes, suddenly flustered.
"We should—we should start outlining the paper. Figure out our main arguments."
"Of course."
We work for the next two hours, and it's the most intellectually stimulating conversation with someone other than a professor that I've had in months. Maybe years. Romeo has clearly done extensive reading on Minoan civilization—not just the assigned materials, but additional sources, scholarly articles I haven't even encountered yet. He challenges my interpretations, but not dismissively. He asks me to defend my arguments, to provide evidence, and when I do, he engages with that evidence thoughtfully.
It's intoxicating.
We're debating the significance of the throne room when I reach for one of the books at the same moment he does. Our hands collide, and the contact is electric—a jolt of awareness that shoots up my arm and straight to my chest. I jerk my hand back like I've been burned.
"Sorry," I say quickly. Too quickly.
"Don't be." His voice is low. When I look up, he's watching me with an intensity that makes my breath catch in my chest. It’san unfamiliar feeling—no one has ever made me feel the way he does. I know it’s dangerous. "Savannah?—"
"We should take a break," I interrupt, standing abruptly. "I need coffee. Do you want coffee?"
He studies me for a moment, and I have the unsettling feeling that he can see right through me. That he knows exactly why I'm fleeing.
"Coffee sounds good," he says finally.
We go to the café on the ground floor, and I use the time in line to remind myself of all the reasons this is dangerous. I'm engaged. Romeo is intense and intimidating, and there's something about him that feels cunning, a predatory focus, even when he's being kind. I barely know him.
But when we sit down with our coffees, and he asks me about my undergraduate thesis, and actually listens to my answer, and asks follow-up questions that show genuine interest—I forget all those reasons.
