A corner of his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves again, and this time his hand stays at the small of my back. Steady pressure. Assumption instead of asking. I allow it. Quiet answers, for now.
—
Hot glue, paper, ambition. The design studio smells like effort. My station waits. Muslin spreads under my hands, familiar weight grounding me. The earlier edge still hums beneath my skin, but here it should be irrelevant. Work is supposed to equalize. Or it was.
A voice cuts through the low hum. “Moretti? Seriously, Zoë?” Chloe, two tables down. Envy and disbelief carefully mixed. “I heard her assistant doesn’t even return calls.”
The pin slides clean through fabric. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Right,” she draws out. “Because you’re just that good.” The implication thickens the air. That I’m not. That someone else made the call.
Liam leans over from his station. “Don’t act blind, Chloe. You saw the pictures.” His smirk aims my way. “Rossi’s got connections. Turns out his girl does too.”
My fingers still on the pin. His girl. The phrase hits like a stone dropped into water, warping everything. This stopped being about my work last night. It’s proximity now. Alignment. Who I stand next to.
Professor Davies passes, eyes scanning. They pause at my table, at the clean lines of my pattern. Instead of her usual critique, her expression softens. “Interesting technique on that dart, Zoë,” she says, lighter than all semester. “Very forward. Confident.” Not praise. Pardon. She’s seeing a story, not skill. Borrowed confidence. Placed.
I straighten, forcing tension from my shoulders. “It’s a structural choice,” I say. “Nothing more.” She’s already moving on, the moment logged as data unrelated to fabric or form. Everything feels different. Glances shift from competition to confirmation. Peer no longer fits. Variable does. A known quantity placed by an outside force. Worst of all—he didn’t need to be here for it to happen. His shadow reaches far enough on its own.
The studio door clicks behind me, cutting off speculation. Less than ten feet into the hall, he appears. Waiting by the door. Occupying the opposite wall like a bracket holding the building upright. His attention isn’t on me. It sweeps the hallway, predatory and lazy, clocking every look. Presence confirmed. Watch fully engaged.
I stop, portfolio suddenly heavy. He pushes off the wall and closes the distance in one contained motion. The air thickens with unspoken fallout.
“Heard your class is full of fans,” he says low, a dry rumble through the floor.
“They’re observant,” I reply, stripped of inflection.
Close now. Heat. Intent. Instead of my back, his fingers brush my wrist as he takes the portfolio from my grasp. Electric. Deliberate. No request. Just action.
“I can carry my own things.”
“I know.” The case stays with him. He stands there holding my work. A piece of my future resting in his grip. His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction before meeting mine again.
“They’re talking about you.”
“They’re talking about you,” I counter. “I’m just the nearest object.”
A slow smile touches his lips, stops short of his eyes. “You’re a target, Zoë.” A shift. His shoulder brushes mine as he angles us toward the exit. “They can aim at you. Difference matters.” That hand returns to my lower back, firm, possessive, guiding. No questions. No permission. Just the assumption—and the wait to see if I’ll revoke it.
I don’t. The quiet stretches, thick with choice. Allowing this answers plenty. All-day resistance loosens. Less shield now. More of a cage. Running isn’t an option. Not from this. Not from him. Not from the opportunity forced into my hands. Surrender would be stepping away before the fight starts. Tomorrow, I walk into that interview. I own the room. Fallout with him comes later. On my terms. Neither the institution nor he gets to set the price of my future.
We cross the quad, afternoon light bleeding into heavy gold-gray. The path is crowded, yet space opens around us, cleared by his shoulders and the set of his face. He doesn’t angle toward the main gates. Keeps pace, cutting a straight line back to the residence halls. Weight hangs between us, packed with everything unsaid. The portfolio remains heavy in his hand. No offer to return it. No release.
Dorms loom ahead, brick catching the last light. This should be the end of the transaction. I stop at the steps and turn. Cooling air. Burning space between us.
“My portfolio.” Hand out. Boundary set.
He looks down at the case, then up at me. Dark eyes unreadable, studying my face like he’s memorizing this angle. The case transfers. Fingers linger a beat after the weight shifts. Gravity shifts.
“Go inside,” he says. Not a suggestion.
“I can manage the walk.”
“I know.” He doesn’t move. Instead, he leans against the oak ten feet away. Arms crossed. Casual stance. Razor attention. That gaze tracks me, weight pressing against skin.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure you get there.”
