I glance up, meeting his eyes for a half-second before looking away. “That’s not what’s happening,” I say. It sounds pathetic, even to me.
Dylan shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me. Just letting you know, people are watching. I’m watching.”
He lingers, letting the words sink in. Then he stands, gives Andie a nod, and walks away—leaving the scent of chlorine, sweat, and threat in his wake.
Andie’s eyes are huge. “What the actual fuck was that? Why did he come back a second time?”
I try to steady my hands. “I don’t know. I guess some people are just crazy.”
She leans in, voice low and urgent. “Simone. Tell me what’s going on.”
I want to tell her everything, but I can’t—because it’s not just my secret, and because the room suddenly feels like a stage with all the spotlights aimed right at us. Instead, I pretend to check my phone.
“I need to find a book for my paper,” I say, standing too fast. “I’ll be right back.”
She doesn’t believe me, but she lets me go.
I textLiam before I even leave the reading room: DYLAN JUST APPROACHED ME AGAIN. HE SAID PEOPLE ARE WATCHING.
The reply is immediate. Where are you?
I tell him: Library. Back stacks.
Don’t leave. I’ll find you.
A minute later, a message: Go to the private study room on the third floor. 3F. It’s usually open. I’m on my way.
I weave through the book maze, ducking between shelves, paranoia lighting up my skin with every squeak of a shoe or scrape of a chair. At the far end of the third floor, past the rows of government documents nobody’s touched since the Bush administration, there’s a small study room. I slide in, close the door, and lower the blind.
For sixty seconds, all I can hear is my own heartbeat, thumping in my throat.
Then the door opens, and he’s there.
Liam in a gray tweed jacket, collared shirt, hair just rumpled enough that he looks like he’s been dragging his hands through it all day. He moves fast, checks the hallway, then shuts the door behind him with a click.
He looks at me, and I almost lose it—because the concern on his face is the exact opposite of everything I just got from Dylan. It’s real.
“What happened?” he says, voice raw.
“He cornered me. Twice! He knows, Liam, he knows! He said people are watching. He said I could do better.” My breath stutters on the last word.
Liam’s mouth is a grim, hard line. “Did he touch you?”
I shake my head, but the anger behind his eyes makes me wish I could say yes, just to see what he’d do.
“He’s just…he’s everywhere. I don’t know how to get away from him.”
Liam crosses to me, all the self-control gone from his posture. He grabs my hands, holds them between his palms, the heat ofhim grounding me. “I’ll handle it,” he says, low and fierce. “You don’t have to talk to him again.”
I nod, but the shaking won’t stop.
He pulls me into his arms, and for the first time in hours, I feel safe. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling the coffee and cedar and the faintest ghost of my own perfume, still lingering from the last time I was pressed against him like this.
For a second, I forget the world outside.
Then there’s a noise in the hallway—a laugh, a cough, the rattle of a cart. We both freeze.
He breaks the hug, but doesn’t let go of my hands. “We need to be more careful,” he says. “No more meeting on campus. Not until after finals. Not until?—”
