Page 28

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QUINN

Monday feels ... normal. Good, even. Like everything is back to business as usual. I’m chatting with Professor Lang before class, casually leaning against the desk while she thumbs through her notes.

“You ready for this round of eager young minds? Or are you planning to fake your own death by mid-semester?”

I grin. “I think I can hold off until fall break.”

Lang’s sharp sense of humor always makes me laugh. She’s strict but fair, the kind of professor who demands a lot without making her students miserable in the process. She’s been in my corner since I joined her class as a freshman—pushing me, challenging me, even encouraging me to apply for journal submissions and writing contests.

She suggested The Silverleaf Emerging Voices Prize, the national debut fiction contest I applied for freshman year. I don’t blame her for what I did to cover the three-hundred-dollar submission fee, obviously. But it still lingers.

I gambled everything for it. Didn’t even win the damn thing, either. Just torched my relationship and wrecked myself over something that didn’t even pan out.

I wasn’t good enough. Not for Silverleaf, not for Warren.

“Today should be good,” she says, glancing toward the door as a few students start filing in. “It’s one of my favorite topics.”

“Symbolism?”

Lang’s lips curve, dry and knowing. “Close.”

I glance at the door again as more students filter in. Warren’s near the back, shoulder brushing the edge of the doorway like he’s not sure whether to come in or turn around.

He’s in dark jeans and a black shirt, hair still damp from his post-practice shower. His gaze scans the room—casual but searching—and then it lands on me. Just for a second. His eyes flicker, like he’s debating something, like maybe he’s waiting for me to acknowledge him.

I don’t. I immediately look away, chest tight. Focus on Lang—on her voice, her smile, her casual stance against the podium like nothing’s out of place.

Because nothing is out of place. It’s the second week of classes, and Warren’s been here since day one. Yet, every cell in my body feels like it’s on high alert.

Deep breath. Relax. Don’t overthink it.

I flip open my notebook, scanning the lines I’ve already memorized just to give myself something to do. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Warren heading for his usual spot. Second row from the back.

He drops down and pulls out his laptop. There’s an unmistakable scowl on his face, and I’m not even sure if it’s meant for me. At this point, that might just be a permanent feature. I hope it is.

I keep my gaze glued to the page in front of me, nodding along as Lang keeps talking.

I don’t look at him again.

I’m not supposed to. A TA hooking up with one of her students? That’s the kind of thing that gets you fired. Not that I’d ever let our relationship—past or present—impact my job. I wouldn’t.

Still, rules are rules for a reason. And if anyone found out, it wouldn’t matter what explanation I gave. I’d be out of a job, and everything I’ve worked for would unravel in seconds.

The room fills steadily, students chatting as they settle in. Someone bumps my elbow on the way past, and I flinch. I’m too jumpy, too aware of the way Warren’s presence is pulling my focus.

Lang clears her throat, and the room quiets.

“Alright,” she starts, “Today, we’re talking about the role of memory and perspective in fiction.”

I remember this lesson from my own freshman seminar—how captivated I was by the idea that memory could be more narrative than fact. That truth wasn’t always a fixed thing but something pliable. Slippery.

“Memory,” Lang continues, “is never perfect. It’s distorted by perspective, by emotion, by what we want to believe is true. In literature, that’s what makes memory such a powerful tool—because two people can remember the same event completely differently, and neither one is necessarily wrong.”

I jot down a few notes, not really reading them. My gaze flickers up—just for a second—and lands on Warren, slouched and unreadable. He’s not looking at me. Just staring down at his laptop screen like he’s trying not to be here at all.

“A lot of authors play with this idea,” Lang continues. “Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day , for example, tells the story of a butler who convinces himself that his entire life—his choices, his sacrifices—were noble and right. And only later, looking back, does he realize how much he missed, how many moments slipped past him because he was so convinced he was doing what was best.”

Something sharp twists in my chest.

You thought it’d be easier if I hated you.

Warren’s words flash through my mind, clear as anything, and suddenly, it feels like my lungs are full of static. Like I’m breathing, but nothing’s landing. Because that’s exactly what I did. Told myself what I needed to hear—what I could live with—so I wouldn’t have to face what I’d done.

That I didn’t deserve forgiveness.

I glance to the back of the room, and this time, Warren’s looking right at me. His jaw’s tight, his eyes sharp. And yeah, he’s pissed. I can see it clear as day.

I drop my gaze and refocus on Lang’s voice.

“The thing about memory,” she says, “is that it’s rarely about the facts. It’s about the feeling. The version of the story you tell yourself to make it make sense.”

The rest of class drags, each minute stretching longer than the last. Lang keeps talking, touching on narrative distance and how unreliable memory creates unreliable narrators. I try to focus, scribbling notes I barely register. But the whole time, my mind keeps circling back to Warren.

He’s still stiff in his seat, shoulders tight, foot bouncing like he’s counting down the seconds until he can leave. Every so often, I catch his hand flexing against the notebook on his desk, gripping his pen so hard I half expect it to snap in two.

Finally, Lang wraps up, dismissing the class with a wave of her notebook. Chairs scrape against the floor, bags zip shut, and students start filing toward the door in loose clusters.

Warren’s up in a blink, shoving his notebook into his bag and charging out the door before I can even register it.

My head jerks up.

“What the hell?” I mutter under my breath.

Lang turns toward me, expecting our usual post-class debrief.

“Sorry, I need to catch one of my lit seminar professors,” I say, voice rushed but steady. “There was a mix-up with a deadline, and she said she could talk if I caught her after class.”

Lang raises a brow but nods. “Go ahead. We can touch base tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say, already halfway out the door.

Warren’s almost at the end of the hall, moving like he’s got blinders on.

“Warren!” I whisper-shout, weaving through the slow walkers.

He doesn’t slow.

“Warren, wait!”

He stops just before the exit, one hand braced against the door like he’s still debating whether or not to keep going. His head turns just enough for me to catch the sharp angle of his jaw.

“What is it, Quinn?”

I frown. “Why are you running from me?”

He lets out a humorless snort. “I’m busy. Places to be.”

“You’re . . . busy?”

It takes a beat, but then it clicks. The clipped tone, the look on his face.

That’s my line.

“You’re mad at me because I said I was busy yesterday?”

“Not mad.”

“Warren.”

He turns fully, his face hard. “I mean, what was that? An auto-response? Seriously? After Saturday, that’s all I get?”

“So, we slept together,” I say, folding my arms tight across my chest, “and I’m just supposed to drop everything the second you text me?”

He shakes his head, incredulous. “That’s not what I want. I just . . . I wanted to see you.” His voice drops on the last part, like saying it out loud costs him something. “And I’m not gonna be treated like an afterthought.”

“I wanted to see you, too,” I say quietly. “But I was busy.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at me like he’s still trying to decide if he believes me.

“I was at the boxing gym,” I tell him. “The new one by my apartment. I knew it would be empty because of the game, so I wanted to take advantage of it. I was gonna stay for a while, then go home and work on my assignments.”

His eyebrows draw together. “You’re boxing now?”

“Yeah,” I say, and when he just stares at me, I add, “I’ve been going a few times a week. There’s this trainer—or almost trainer, whatever—who’s been helping me out.”

“You’ve got a trainer?”

“Kind of. He’s not official or anything, but he knows his stuff.”

Warren scrubs a hand down his face, and when he looks at me again, there’s something sheepish in his expression.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up,” he mutters. “I’m just . . . on edge.”

I tilt my head. “I put you on edge?”

“You know you do.”

“Mmm,” I say, smiling a little. “And I happen to like when you’re on edge .”

He laughs under his breath, but it’s short and stilted. “ Fuck. You really mess with my head, Quinn.”

“And your dick,” I say sweetly.

That gets a full, rough chuckle out of him. The tension in his shoulders eases, and when he looks at me again, it’s softer somehow. Less guarded. We linger there for a while, neither of us quite moving, like we’re both waiting for the other to say something more.

“I’ll text you later,” he says finally, voice quieter now.

“Promise?”

He smirks. “Yeah, promise.”

Instead of letting him walk away, I grab his arm, tugging him back into the quiet stretch of hallway behind me. It’s empty here, quietly tucked away from the steady flow of students still lingering near the exit.

No one can see us or hear us. No one can catch the way my fingers tighten around his sleeve or the way he looks at me like he’s still trying to convince himself I’m not running.

“What—?” he starts, but I’m already closing the gap between us, fingers curling under the cool metal chain at his neck.

His eyes flicker, something sharp and heated sparking there, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets me guide him closer, lets me fist the chain in my hand and tilt his face down to mine.

“You’re wearing it again?”

His gaze drops to my hand—my fingers looped through the silver links—and he swallows hard. “Yeah,” he says roughly.

I don’t know what to say next, so I don’t say anything at all. I just tug the chain a little harder, drawing him down, and then I kiss him. Slow and deep and just this side of desperate.

Warren groans low in his throat, and then his hand is at my waist, fingers flexing like he’s trying not to drag me closer but can’t help himself. He leans in, pressing me back against the wall.

His mouth moves with a sharp, hungry edge, like he’s still angry, still strung tight—but now he’s turning all of that into something else. Something that makes my skin burn and my pulse race wildly in my throat.

His tongue flicks against mine, his hand sliding under my shirt, warm and rough and insistent. I gasp, fingers curling tighter around the chain, and Warren groans again—deeper this time, like I’ve knocked the breath from his lungs.

“God,” he mutters, breaking away just long enough to press his mouth to my jaw, my neck, my collarbone. “This is what I needed.”

His kiss turns messier, more desperate, like he’s losing whatever grip he had on control. His fingers dig into my waist, his knee presses between my legs, and I can’t help it—my body arches, chasing the friction.

Finally, finally, he pulls back—just barely—and swipes his thumb across my bottom lip. His pupils are blown wide, chest rising and falling fast like he’s just run a mile in the Carolina heat.

“What was that for?”

“You’re sexy when you’re worked up,” I murmur. “Plus, you’re wearing my chain.”

He exhales hard, shakes his head, and mutters, “Jesus Christ, Quinny.”

“I know.”

He steps back slowly, dragging his thumb down the curve of my hip like he’s not quite ready to let go. Then he turns to leave, and I watch him go—still catching my breath, feeling warm and reckless and entirely too pleased with myself.

Just before he pushes the door open, I call after him. “Hey!”

He glances back, eyebrows raised.

“I won’t auto-respond to you again,” I say. “Even though I was busy, and it’s way more convenient.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you know how I feel about being left in the dark. Not a good habit, Rose.”

I give him a mock salute, then, “Consider me reformed.”