She's Savannah. Brilliant, passionate, brave enough to challenge Dr. Kouris in front of the entire seminar. Brave enough to argue with me, to disagree with me, to treat me like an equal instead of a threat.
And I'm terrified by how much I want her to choose me. Not because I've manipulated her or cornered her or eliminated her other options, but because she wants me. Because she sees me—really sees me, the way I see her—and chooses me anyway. I want her to know me the way I’m getting to know her, and see her not back down in the face of what and who I really am. I want to be hers the way I want her to be mine.
I’ve never been afraid in my entire fucking life, but this girl… this gorgeous, smart girl with soft blonde hair and wide green eyes, who couldn’t terrify a fly, has me shaking inwardly. She could bring me to my knees.
She’s the only one who ever could.
"Romeo?" Her voice is soft, uncertain. "Are you okay?"
I realize I've been staring at her for too long. The intensity of my thoughts must be showing on my face.
I force myself to lean back and smile.
"I'm fine. Just thinking about the paper structure."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go. She turns back to her laptop, and I see her hands are shaking slightly.
She felt it too. That moment. That pull.
We work for another hour, and I'm hyperaware of every movement she makes—tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning forward when she’s particularly excited, her hands moving as she speaks. I'm also aware of the way she's careful not to touch me again. The way she maintains a careful distance, like she's afraid of what might happen if we make contact.
Smart girl.
By the time we finish, we have a solid draft of the religious iconography section. "This is really good," Savannah says, scrolling through the document. "Dr. Kouris is going to be impressed."
"We make a good team." I’ve said it before, and I know I probably shouldn’t say it again, but I can’t help myself. It’s the truth, and I want her to hear it.
She glances at me, and there's something in her eyes—awareness, and a hint of wariness. Like she's starting to understand that when I say "we," I mean something more than just academic partnership.
"We should meet again on Wednesday," she says. "To work on the architectural analysis section."
"Wednesday works."
"Same time?"
"Same time."
She's gathering her things, and I know I should let her go. I should maintain the pretense that this is just a class project, just two students working together. But I can't.
"Savannah." She looks up at me, and I see her swallow. "Let me walk you home."
She licks her lips, and God help me, I’m fucking hard again in an instant. "You don't have to?—"
"I want to."
The words hang between us, weighted with meaning. I want to. Not "I should" but "I want to." An admission of desire.
If only she knew how much deeper my desires run.
She should say no. She should tell me she's fine on her own, that she doesn't need an escort, that this is inappropriate. But she doesn't.
"Okay," she says quietly.
We walk through Washington Square Park, and the September afternoon is warm and clear. Students are scattered across the lawn, studying, or playing frisbee or just enjoying the weather. I keep my hands in my pockets because I don't trust myself not to reach for her.
"Tell me about your family," I ask, curious to find out more about this family that has such longstanding bad blood with mine. "Your father—he's in Charleston?"
"Yes. He's in business. Lots of different things, I think… He doesn’t share with me. Very successful, very respected." There's something in her voice—not quite bitterness, but close. "He has very specific ideas about what my life should look like."
