I force my attention back to the index.
"Hey—sorry, are you in Dr. Okafor's section?"
I look up. The guy is maybe twenty-three, sandy-haired, wearing a worn university hoodie with the logo cracked at the edges. He's holding the same journal, open to the title page. His smile is so easy, and uncomplicated that I can’t help but return it.
"Yeah," I say. "Second edition?"
"That's what I'm trying to figure out." He tilts his head at the shelf. "The syllabus says second but the bookstore website listed the third and I've been standing here for like ten minutes."
"Second. The third changed chapter four and Okafor still uses the old format. I emailed the department."
He laughs—genuine, a little relieved. "You're a lifesaver. I'm Marcus, by the way."
"Jana."
He shifts closer to look at the edition markings on the spine I'm holding, and his shoulder nearly touches mine. It's nothing. The casual, thoughtless proximity of two people sharing a narrow aisle in a crowded store.
Behind me, the warmth moves.
It's subtle—a change in the air at my back, like the pressure has increased by a degree. Rafail hasn't touched me. He's made no sound. But every hair on the back of my neck rises responding to a storm that hasn’t arrived.
I keep my eyes on Marcus.
"Here—" He reaches past me, his arm brushing my sleeve, fingers closing on a copy from the upper shelf.
The stillness behind me deepens. It isn't tension exactly—it's theabsenceof movement where movement had been. I don't turn around. I don't have to.
Marcus is still talking. Something about the class schedule, about the section times. I hear the words but they've gone slightly distant because I'm caught between two presences—Marcus in front, and the wall of coiled quiet behind me that is louder than anything else in the room.
My pulse is unsteady. I should end this. Say, "Nice to meet you, good luck with finals”, and step away.
I don't.
Something petty, frustrated, and a little reckless keeps me right where I am. Marcus asks if I know whether there are separate study guides, and I answer.
You left me aching and walked away like it was nothing.The thought moves through me, quiet and vicious.Let's see how you like nothing.
Marcus touches my arm—light, brief, just a thank-you gesture as he says he'll grab the second edition—
A hand closes around my elbow from behind.
The contact hits me before I process it. Fingers wrapping with a quiet, absolute certainty—not rough, not aggressive, just firm. My breath catches. My body stills on pure instinct, and for one disorienting second every nerve ending in my arm is tuned entirely to the pressure of his grip, the warmth of his palm, the specific weight of those fingers.
Those hands.I know those hands. I know how they feel pressed into my hips, how they feel dragging up the inside of my thigh. My stomach drops.
"We're done here," Rafail says. His voice is even. Calm. Directed at me, not Marcus.
Marcus blinks. Steps back. Takes in Rafail with one quick, instinctive read of the situation and makes the smart choice. "Right—yeah. Thanks again, Jana."
He's gone before I can respond.
Rafail's hand drops from my elbow. The absence of it is immediate and specific—a cold patch where warmth was.
He steps around me, takes the manual, and walks toward the register. I stand there for exactly three seconds, hand pressed over my elbow.
Then I follow.
The ride back is silent. Not the comfortable kind. The kind with edges. He drives with one hand on the wheel. The other rests on his thigh, fingers loose, utterly relaxed—and I stareat those fingers and think about the elbow grab, the precise, unhurried authority of it, and I make myself look out the window.
