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“Oliver Twist,” I try and know it’s not the answer he’s looking for when the gaunt face scrunches into a scowl.

“We were discussing the duality of death in the novel, Mr. Astor. Hanging versus infanticide. Is there anything you’d like to add?”

“I prefer infanticide.”

I realize what I’ve just said when several people snigger and the professor’s eyebrows rise.

I lick my lips and continue. “Not in the sense of advocating for it. I just consider it preferable. To hanging. To hanging an actual, grown person. Unless it’s an issue of hanging an infant, in which case, I think there are less distressing ways of—”

“Thank you, Mr. Astor. That was… enlightening. Please, just pay more attention in the future.”

I nod and sink in my seat, deflated because I was too distracted to catch up on the fact that what the professor wanted to discuss was the symbolism of death, not moral choices.

I’m such an idiot.

The class is dismissed only a few short minutes later, and I gather my things, hoping I won’t have to meet the professor’s gaze again.

Could he maybe, possibly, forget my cringeworthy answer by next week?

“That was... something,” Jessica says out of the blue, resting her elbows on the desktop while standing in the lower row of seats. “Have you given up on straight As already or do you just hate Dickens so much?”

I purse my lips in distaste. “Dickens was a hack who buried a few golden nuggets in a pile of mud.” My opinion of his work might be a bit more nuanced, but I’ve learned absolutes work well when talking with the masses. And Jessica, with her love for shallow stories aspiring to depth by killing off main characters, is definitely not someone who could value every little thought I have.

She chuckles, taking out her phone as if we weren’t in the middle of conversation. “You’re such a killjoy.”

Annoyance rises deep inside me, but before I can come up with a snide comment she wouldn’t quite get, she grins and turns her screen toward me. “Oh, new post from our favorite local thirst trapper!”

Whatever I was feeling half a second ago transforms into a rush of heat as Vex stares at me from a photograph. He’s half-naked and standing by a pale wall. In his hand, he’s holding... my missing loafer!

Is this a message for me? Does he miss me?

Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.

He can’t miss me. At best, he misses my ass.

…Which is maybe a little flattering, I won’t lie.

She rolls her eyes. “The post just reads ‘Waiting.’ How dramatic is that? He could have at least come up with something pseudo-poignant like ‘Waiting is a devil’s game’, so we’re all thinking about how smart he is when he’s showing off his washboard abs.” But she’s glued to that phone anyway.

I lick my dry lips. “I’ll see you at the library?” I ask, because my mind is drifting off, and I need to have a moment to think through my next step.

She confirms, and I’m off, already pulling out my phone. I’m sure this post is a message for me, since it’s my shoe. It’s not like I’m willing to step back into the lusty madness from three days ago, but it’s only fair I let him know my thoughts on the matter. Maybe I could arrange picking up my loafer in a public setting.

Then, this whole adventure would be over.

I ignore the nagging feeling that it might be a mistake, because my brain knows better. So instead of working out the best way to suggest my interest or other such thing, I text Vex.

[Oh, so that’s where I lost my shoe! Can I pick it up today?]

I feel inadequate the moment I hit send, but then the message gets a check mark, and he starts typing, as if he’s been waiting for my move.

I lean against the windowsill as other students walk past me, but all I can think about is him sitting shirtless in some fancy wooden chair and thinking of me as he types.

What will it be? ‘Can we hook up tonight?’ ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about you?’

I would tell him off gently, of course, but it needs to be done.

I only messaged him to get the loafer back, and would keep it all business. Maybe business-casual.