“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asked.
The question sounded casual.
But something deeper pulsed beneath it.
Need.
Hope.
And that realization made my heart squeeze painfully.
I turned toward him slowly, fingers tightening around the doorknob.
It was too soon to feel like this.
Way too soon.
But the idea of not seeing him tomorrow already felt wrong.
“What’s your first class?” he asked, stepping closer.
His hand settled gently against my hip.
Possessive enough to make me shiver.
Careful enough to make me melt.
“Oh,” I muttered weakly, trying to remember how language worked, “Care of Magical Nocturnal Creatures with Professor Wright at eight.”
His expression shifted instantly to sympathy.
“Not a fan of grunglewogs, gardennips, or womblybats?”
I groaned dramatically.
“No. Especially not the grunglewogs. Those little psychopaths tear things apart while they’re screaming bloody murder.”
“Well, they’re efficient.”
“They’re horrifying.”
“They’re misunderstood.”
“They eat interns, Sten.”
He barked out a laugh.
Gods.
I was addicted to that sound already.
The deep, rough warmth of it slid through me like expensive whiskey.
And then my brain betrayed me completely.
Because suddenly all I could think about was kissing him.
Again.
