Chapter 3 #2
Aster stood beside her, poised and effortlessly elegant, a glass of something clear balanced between her fingers.
Her light brown hair fell straight and smooth, parted perfectly down the middle.
In her cream ribbed turtleneck and tailored black trousers, she looked as though she had stepped out of a black-and-white film that hadn’t quite learned how to fade.
They were opposites. Gwen, all warmth and chaos; Aster, composed precision. Fire and still water.
“Look at you,” Gwen said, pulling me into a quick hug. “The emerald queen rises.”
Aster’s gaze swept over my outfit, unimpressed but fond. “You wore satin. That’s emotional instability disguised as confidence.”
“I’m always emotionally unstable,” I said, sliding into the booth. “This outfit’s just honest about it.”
Aster pushed a lavender gin toward me, the glass fogging faintly in the light. “Drink. Then talk.”
I didn’t answer immediately. I traced the condensation on the glass, watching it gather at the rim before falling away. “She spilled coffee on him,” Aster said pleasantly to Gwen, clearly abandoning the idea of patience.
I shot her a look. “You told her?”
“In her defense,” Gwen said, raising her hands in mock surrender, “I demanded gossip.”
“You always demand gossip.”
“I’m consistent,” she said, sipping.
Aster smirked. “You should’ve seen her face when she realized who he was.”
“I bet it was romantic,” Gwen teased.
“It was catastrophic,” I said, deadpan. “And then he stared at me as though I’d misused a metaphor in his favorite essay.”
“His loss,” Gwen replied with dramatic finality. “You’re a semi-colon at worst.”
A small laugh slipped from me, quiet and reluctant.
Aster tilted her head, her tone softening. “How was it? Seeing him again? In class?”
I hesitated, my fingers tracing the condensation along my glass, the cool moisture grounding me in a world that still felt slightly off-balance.
“It felt as though I was standing too close to lightning,” I said finally, my voice quiet but steady.
“You know it’s going to strike. You know it’ll hurt.
And still, you can’t make yourself move. ”
Silence unfolded between us, gentler this time, understanding, familiar, the kind that didn’t demand words to be filled. I rested the stem of the glass against my lips, not drinking, only thinking. Then, almost against my own will, I murmured, “I saw him again. After class.”
Aster’s head lifted instantly. Gwen blinked once, her expression caught between curiosity and disbelief. “What do you mean?”
“In the library,” I said, keeping my gaze on the table. “I went there to clear my head, to breathe, but he found me.”
“Found you?” Aster echoed, the edge of her tone uncertain, caught between worry and intrigue.
“I don’t think he planned it,” I continued. “Or maybe he did. I’m not sure. He just appeared, quiet, as if the silence itself had taken shape and stepped toward me.”
Gwen leaned in, elbows pressing to the table. “And what did he say?”
I traced the rim of my glass with my fingertip, gathering the words slowly, aware of how fragile they sounded when spoken aloud. “Not much. He called me Miss Carter. Asked if I had writer’s block.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. The pause that followed wasn’t empty, it was thick, weighted with the kind of attention that felt almost invasive.
“And how did that make you feel?” Gwen asked softly.
I exhaled, a sound that trembled more than I wanted it to. “As if he saw straight through me. And then walked away.”
“Cold?” Gwen guessed.
“Not cold,” I said, shaking my head. “Worse. Detached. He measured the moment, decided it meant nothing, and left.”
Aster tilted her head, her tone gentler, but her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Did you want him to stay?”
I frowned, caught off guard. “Of course not,” I said quickly, too quickly. “He’s my professor, for one. And older. At least ten years, maybe more.”
Gwen let out a low whistle, the corner of her mouth curling into a knowing smirk. “Older, huh?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “So what? That’s not exactly a dealbreaker. If anything, that’s a perk.”
Aster’s laugh was soft, but wicked. “She’s right. You know what they say, older men don’t rush. They… take their time.”
I groaned. “Oh my God. Stop.”
Gwen only grinned wider. “What? It’s true. They know what they’re doing, Edie. Experience and patience, that’s a dangerous combination.”
Aster nodded solemnly, her lips twitching. “Academic precision extends to more than grading essays, apparently.”
I covered my face with my hands, trying not to laugh. “You two are disgusting.”
“Realistic,” Gwen countered. “Besides, the way you’re blushing tells me we’re not entirely wrong.”
I dropped my hands and glared half-heartedly. “You’re both insufferable.”
“Admit it,” Aster teased, raising her glass. “If he weren’t your professor, you’d at least think about it.”
I shot her a look, but the protest that rose to my lips faltered before it found air. Gwen saw it, and grinned like she’d won something.
“Thought so,” she said, smug. “The quiet ones always have the dirtiest imaginations.”
I shook my head, but laughter spilled out anyway, quiet and unwilling. “I hate you both.”
“Lies,” Aster said sweetly, clinking her glass against mine. “You adore us. Now drink, before you start overthinking again.”
Her words struck something raw, the truth of them echoing louder than the music. I swallowed hard. Aster nudged my arm then, her smirk breaking the heaviness.
I blinked, caught between disbelief and a reluctant laugh. “What?”
“You heard her,” Gwen said, already on her feet with the grace of someone born to mischief. “Melancholy’s fatal. Dance or perish.”
“You’re both impossible,” I muttered, but Aster was already tugging me toward the open space where the bar bled into the dance floor.
The music swelled, dark synth and bass that pulsed like a second heartbeat beneath my skin. The lights dimmed to amber and violet, soft enough to blur the edges of everything. The air thickened with movement, perfume, and rhythm.
Aster disappeared first, melting into the crowd as though it parted for her.
She laughed, hips swaying in effortless sync with the music, catching the gaze of a man whose entire posture said trouble.
Gwen followed, elegant and composed, her movements fluid, the gleam of her rings scattering gold under the shifting lights.
And for the first time that day, the noise in my head began to fade, not because it quieted, but because the world around me finally grew louder.
And me?
For a moment, I simply stood there—awkward, uncertain—feeling the bass vibrate through the floor until it found its way beneath my skin, a pulse answering another pulse.
Then I closed my eyes, just for a breath.
The rhythm settled low in my chest, the gin loosening the tightness that had lived there all day.
And then, I began to move.
Not in Gwen’s wild, effortless way, nor in Aster’s graceful precision.
My movements were deliberate, careful at first, then looser, a rhythm unfolding through the slow roll of my hips and the faint turn of my shoulders.
My fingers brushed the edge of my blouse, tracing the silk as though it held a language only I could read.
The music surrounded me, murmuring through the air, an intimate whisper shared between pulse and motion.
It didn’t take long before someone entered my orbit.
A man, tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing the kind of charm that had probably never been tested, stepped close enough for his breath to touch the curve of my neck. “You don’t seem as though you belong here,” he said, voice dipped in amusement and something just shy of arrogance.
I turned toward him, my gaze steady. “And how exactly do I seem?”
His grin widened, slow and self-assured. “Like trouble that knows she’s trouble. The kind that doesn’t warn anyone before she burns them.”
I let a faint smile rise, more dismissal than invitation. “Then it’s best you keep your distance.”
The words landed cleanly, and his confidence wavered just enough to satisfy me. I turned away, letting the rhythm reclaim what he had interrupted, the crowd closing over him as though he had never been there.
Another one came soon after, a blond with dimples and a smile too polished to be sincere. His voice brushed against the music, smooth and sure. “You’re far too beautiful to be here on your own.”
“I’m not on my own,” I said, my tone cool as glass, glancing toward Gwen and Aster without missing a step.
He ignored the signal, leaning closer, the scent of his cologne crowding the air. Before I could move, Aster slid in beside me, her presence effortless but unmistakably protective. Her arm looped through mine as she smiled up at him, the kind of smile that promised trouble if he pressed further.
“She’s taken,” she said softly, her tone honeyed yet edged with steel.
He hesitated, muttered something beneath his breath, and disappeared back into the blur of bodies and sound.
Aster leaned in, her words brushing against the music. “Men never understand boundaries when they think persistence is endearing.”
I laughed quietly, tension easing from my shoulders. “And you never fail to terrify me. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of her mouth.
When the music slowed, we made our way back to the booth, breath unsteady, cheeks flushed. My skin felt warm, the kind of warmth that lingered long after movement stopped. The gin still hummed faintly in my veins, softening the sharp edges of thought.
Sunlight cut through the room, sharp and merciless, slicing through the thin curtains and forcing its way across the bed.
I groaned, dragging the blanket over my head, wishing for five more minutes of silence, of nothing.
But the light kept coming, relentless, insistent, a cruel reminder that the world hadn’t paused just because I wanted it to.
My skull throbbed with the dull ache of regret, each pulse a reminder of every lavender gin, every careless laugh, every turn on the dance floor that had seemed like a good idea last night.
Then I reached for my phone.
8:47 a.m.
My heart stopped. Then it kicked back to life with brutal force.
“Shit. No, no, no—fuck—”
The words came out in a rush as I threw the blanket aside and stumbled to my feet. My first class was at nine. His class.
What followed barely counted as movement, it was survival.
I tripped over my boots, pulled my cardigan on inside out, and nearly collided with the kitchen counter before making it to the bathroom.
My reflection looked as wrecked as I felt: smudged eyeliner, sleep-heavy eyes, and hair that could be classified as a small-scale disaster.
There wasn’t time to fix anything, only to disguise the damage. Cold water. Concealer. A quick drag of a brush through tangled strands before twisting them into something that could pass for a bun. Black trousers, gray knit sweater.
The mirror offered no comfort, only proof of the chaos I was trying to contain.
By the time I made it outside, the air bit through my coat, cruel and clean. The walk to campus blurred into breathless urgency, the kind that steals thought and replaces it with motion.
When I pushed open the lecture hall door, the silence was immediate and total. Dozens of faces turned. And then his.
Professor Hayden Stone.
He stood at the front of the room, every inch of him composed, unshaken, and immaculately precise. The board behind him was already covered in half a lecture’s worth of notes, order where my morning had been nothing but ruin.
His gaze found mine. A single look, and the air in the room shifted. I shut the door softly, but the click still seemed to echo.
“Miss Carter,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet with surgical precision. “How gracious of you to join us.”
“I—” My throat caught. “I’m sorry, I—”
“Take a seat,” he interrupted smoothly, already turning back to the board. “And do try not to disrupt the rest of the hour. I’m sure whatever delayed you was worth being nearly fifteen minutes late to a class that began at nine precisely.”
A few students snickered. The sound burned. Shame settled low in my stomach, heavy and hollow. I walked to an empty seat at the back, keeping my eyes down. My pulse was still racing, my thoughts still tangled, and my hands refused to stop shaking. I didn’t look up. Not at them. Not at him.
Especially not at him.