Chapter 1 #2
I left the café with my pulse still thrumming, the freezing air slicing across my face sharper than before.
The city churned on around me, taxis blaring, commuters muttering into scarves, vendors huddling behind their carts, but it all seemed distant, as though I were moving through glass.
I told myself it didn’t matter. So, I’d spilled coffee on a stranger.
So, he’d been an unmitigated asshole about it.
So what? It wasn’t as though I was ever going to see him again.
Pulling my coat tighter, I navigated the slick sidewalks toward campus, nearly losing my footing once on a patch of invisible ice.
The familiar outline of the university emerged ahead, its red-brick buildings rising into the pale morning like old sentinels, solemn and timeworn beneath the January light.
Inside, warmth greeted me in a faint rush. The English Department smelled of lemon polish and aging paper, the scent as familiar as breath. I shook the snow from my scarf and started toward the lecture hall when my phone buzzed.
Group chat: The Ink-Stained Souls
Aster:
Please tell me you didn’t die in a caffeine-related accident.
Gwen:
Or set the café on fire again.
Aster:
Again? Gwen, that was one candle and a highly flammable napkin.
Gwen:
Sure, sure, “highly flammable napkin.” Classic defense.
Aster:
So? Did you survive?
Me:
Barely. Stranger was an ass, though.
Gwen:
Asshole stranger???
Aster:
Pics or it didn’t happen.
Gwen:
Yeah, preferably shirtless. For… research purposes.
A small laugh escaped me before I could stop it, light and unsteady but real. I was still smiling when I rounded the corner and nearly collided with Aster herself.
“There you are!” she said, looping her arm through mine as if she’d been waiting all morning.
Her dark hair was piled in a loose bun, curls escaping everywhere, and her oversized knit scarf nearly swallowed her whole.
Behind her trailed Gwen, coffee in hand, coat hanging open despite the cold, eyeliner sharp enough to count as weaponry.
“You’re alive!” Gwen declared dramatically.
“Barely,” I groaned. “You two are never going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” Aster said sweetly, squeezing my arm. “We live for your public humiliation.”
“Hey, speak for yourself,” Gwen said, grinning. “I just want to know if the guy was hot.”
I hesitated, remembering the sharp line of his jaw, the chill in his voice, those dark eyes that had looked at me and seen right through. Heat crept up my neck.
“Objectively,” I said at last.
Gwen whooped loud enough to make two students glance over. “Knew it. She always spills on the emotionally unavailable ones.”
“I’m cursed,” I muttered.
“No,” Aster said solemnly, “you’re just manifesting chaos again.”
I rolled my eyes. “Remind me why I’m friends with either of you.”
“Because we have dirt on you,” Gwen said without hesitation.
“And snacks,” Aster added helpfully.
I laughed, the tension that had coiled in my chest finally loosening. Together, we moved through the corridor toward Room 214, passing students hunched over coffee cups and notebooks, the air alive with that restless energy that only came with the start of a new term.
Maybe, I thought, today could still be salvaged.
When we reached Room 214, Gwen peeled away, pausing only long enough to lean in and press a quick kiss to Aster’s cheek and then mine.
“I’ll leave you nerds to your literary adventures,” she said with a grin that carried the kind of mischief only Gwen could manage. “See you at lunch.”
And then she was gone, her boots clicking in rhythmic confidence down the corridor until the sound faded beneath the steady murmur of other students.
Aster and I slipped into the classroom, choosing seats halfway up the tiered rows.
I unpacked my notebook with hands that still trembled faintly, my pulse finally beginning to even out.
Maybe they were right. Maybe today could still be salvaged. Forget it, I told myself. Focus.
Today marked the first lecture of Contemporary Literary Criticism, one of the core classes for third-year students.
Normally, it was taught by Dr. Rowe, a sharp, brilliant woman who could make Derrida sound almost comforting, but she had announced an early maternity leave just before the term began.
Rumors about her replacement had filled the department all week, whispers of a new guest lecturer, someone young yet already accomplished, a name that appeared in journals and conference programs with effortless regularity.
He was said to be brilliant, the sort of scholar whose reputation arrived before he did, and if the gossip in the hallways was to be believed, more than a little intimidating.
New term. New professors. A clean start.
I exhaled slowly, willing myself to believe that. The door clicked shut behind the last of the stragglers, and the room fell into a hush broken only by the faint rustle of notebooks. Footsteps crossed the front of the hall, unhurried.
Aster nudged me with her elbow, her whisper soft and amused. “Here we go. Let’s meet our genius replacement.”
I smiled faintly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, and lifted my gaze toward the lectern —
And froze.
The man standing at the front of the room was him.
He stood with effortless authority, the faint light from the tall windows tracing the edge of his jaw.
His black shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his movements precise, restrained, as though even the air adjusted itself around him.
His hair was slightly disheveled, an artful mess that did nothing to soften the intensity of his expression.
Familiar. Unmistakable. Coffee-shop asshole.
Gone was the dripping coat and the scowl.
In its place was composure, cold, focused, and utterly controlled.
Those same dark onyx eyes cut across the room with surgical precision, missing nothing, daring interruption.
There was something about him that unsettled the air itself, that demanded stillness in the people around him.
My breath caught.
Beside me, Aster noticed my sudden stillness. “Hey,” she whispered, frowning. “You okay?”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t look away.
His gaze moved across the rows, and for one unbearable moment, it brushed over me.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice even and controlled, its smoothness carrying a dangerous edge beneath. “My name is Professor Hayden Stone. I’ll be your instructor for Contemporary Literary Criticism this term.”
The room seemed to tilt, sound falling away until only his voice remained.
“And before we begin,” he continued, “a few ground rules.”
He paused, scanning the room again, his expression inscrutable.
“I have no patience for laziness. If you’re late, don’t bother coming in. If you hand in subpar work, expect it back bleeding with corrections. And if you think you can coast through this course because you’re seniors, you’re already wasting my time and your own.”
A ripple of discomfort passed through the class. Someone near the back muttered a quiet “Jesus” under their breath.
Professor Stone’s mouth curved faintly at the sound, but there was no warmth in it, only the ghost of amusement at their unease.
“I don’t care if you like me,” he said. “I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to make sure you leave this program with a brain worth using.”
Aster’s frown deepened as she turned toward me. My fingers were white against the pen I hadn’t realized I was gripping so tightly.
“Edwina?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head slowly. Nothing. Everything.
“I’m doomed,” I whispered back.
Every nerve in my body thrummed as I stared at the man behind the lectern, wondering how the universe could possibly despise me this much.
Not only had I spilled coffee on my new professor less than an hour ago, but I’d also managed to insult him before knowing who he was.
And judging by the look in his eyes, the cool flicker of recognition that passed over his face when his gaze met mine, I knew he hadn’t forgotten either.
I dropped my forehead gently against the desk, wishing the floor would swallow me.