“Maybe both.”
I smile before I can stop myself, and he sees it.
Of course he does. I am so far gone.
My fingers rest lightly on his forearm for one second when I hand him back his pen.
Not because I planned it.
Because it feels natural now.
That should have scared me.
Instead, it feels good.
Like we’ve crossed some invisible line into belonging.
He doesn’t pull away.
That matters.
More than it should.
More than I want it to.
I’m leaning in to show him something on my laptop when the room changes.
It happens so fast I almost dismiss it.
A shift in the air.
A pause in his body.
A tiny stilling under my hand.
I look up.
And there she is.
Stella Cortez.
Across the room.
Books in her arms.
Cream sweater. Black leggings. Hair pulled high. Every inch of her controlled in that way women like her get when they’re trying very hard not to let emotion touch the edges of anything visible.
For a second—just a second—I don’t panic.
Because I’ve seen her around before.
On campus.
In the athletic complex.
At a distance.
And I’ve told myself the same story every time.
