"Thad. My fiancé. He—" She stops again, and there's something in her expression that makes my blood run cold. "He's concerned about how much time I'm spending with you."
"Concerned." I fight to say it calmly. "What exactly is he concerned about?"
"He thinks—" She's choosing her words carefully now. "He thinks you might have the wrong impression. Aboutour friendship. He wants to make sure there are appropriate boundaries. And he doesn’t want us spending time just the two of us any longer."
I lean back in my chair, studying her—the way she won't quite meet my eyes, the tension in her shoulders. The careful, measured way she's speaking.
"And what do you think?" I ask.
"I think—" She finally looks at me, and I see her eyes are a little bloodshot, like she’s been crying or not sleeping well. Just the thought makes my hands curl into fists with rage, my nails biting into my palms. "I think he's right."
The rejection should make me angry. It should trigger that cold, calculating part of me that doesn't accept no for an answer. But instead, all I feel is that unfamiliar panic again. The sense that I'm losing something I can't afford to lose.
And I don’t believe her. I don’t think this is what she really wants.
"Savannah—"
"I should go." She stands abruptly, leaving the coffee I bought her mostly untouched. "Thank you for the coffee. I'll email you about the project. We can divide up the work."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me sitting alone with two coffee cups and the growing certainty that Thaddeus Whitmore is a bigger problem than I thought.
—
I findher again that afternoon at the library, on the third floor, in her usual study carrel tucked away in the corner near the ancient history section. She doesn't see me at first. She's absorbed in her reading, making notes in the margins of a photocopy, her hair falling forward to hide her face.
I watch her for a moment from behind the stacks, and that warmth spreads through my chest again. That dangerous, unfamiliar feeling that Luca called love.
When I approach, she looks up, and I see the flash of something in her eyes—pleasure, quickly suppressed and replaced by wariness.
"Romeo. What are you doing here?"
"Studying." I gesture to the books in my arms. "Same as you."
She presses her lips together. "This is my spot."
"The library is for everyone." I pull out the chair across from her. "Do you mind?"
She does mind. I can see it in the way her jaw tightens, the way her hands clench around her pen. But she's too polite to say so. "It's a free country," she says instead.
We sit in silence for several minutes. She tries to focus on her reading, but I can tell she's aware of me. Every time I shift in my chair, every time I turn a page, she tenses slightly. Finally, she looks up. "Why are you doing this?"
I try to look innocent. "Doing what?"
"This.” She gestures at me, and then more broadly. “Following me. Showing up wherever I am. Buying me coffee. Walking me home. All of it."
I could lie. I could tell her it's a coincidence, that I'm just being friendly, that she's reading too much into innocent gestures. But that won’t help.
"Because I care about you," I say simply. "I see what he's doing to you, and I can't stand by and watch it happen."
She pretends to look confused. "What who's doing to me?"
Fine. We can play this game if that’s what she wants. "Whitmore. Your fiancé. The way he controls you, dismisses your work, treats you like property?—"
"You don't know anything about my relationship with Thad."
"I know enough. I know he makes you unhappy. I know you feel trapped. I know?—"
"Stop." Her voice is sharp now, cutting. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to decide what's best for me, or tell me how I feel, or—" She stops, taking a breath. "I'm engaged. I'm going to marry him. And whatever you think you see, whatever you think is happening between us—it needs to stop."
