Reluctantly, I make my way to the second row and slip into one of them, setting my bag beside me.
I take out my notebook and pen, placing them on the desk before pulling out the smoothie and taking a slow sip.
Finally, I retrieve the book I have been reading and open it to the page where I left off.
The classroom hums with conversation around me, but I barely notice.
My official course of study is Strategic Security and Military Economics, a field my father chose for me the moment I entered St. Monarché Academy.
General Jonathan Ashthorne doesn’t believe in useless degrees.
Even if I will probably never follow in his footsteps—not in the military, nor in the business side of things—my father still expects me to have the degree.
At one point, which now feels like a lifetime ago, I was beyond grateful I only had one final year left before I could leave this academy behind for good.
Now, after everything, after the way my life changed, I find myself wanting to stay.
Forever, perhaps, irrational as that sounds.
Because as tedious as these classes may be, they still mean freedom.
I don’t even notice when the conversations around the room quieten, too lost in my own head.
But suddenly, the hairs along the back of my neck rise.
Someone walks past my desk, and the air changes with them, that scent hits me so suddenly it feels like being dragged straight back into that night.
Slowly, so, so slowly, I lift my eyes from the page.
They land on the man standing at the front of the classroom, dressed in a crisp shirt and dark trousers, his chocolate brown hair styled to perfection while a few days’ worth of stubble shadows the hard line of his jaw.
And then I meet his eyes.
Those same eyes that had me losing myself only a few nights ago are fixed entirely on me now.
My breath catches.
For a moment, my body refuses to respond, as if the weight of his stare has pinned me in place.
The way he watches me sends a shiver down my spine.
Memories from that night flood my mind, and I swallow hard.
No.
This was not supposed to happen.
What is he doing here?
He shouldn’t be here.
Hecan’tbe here.
And all the while I am internally spiralling, he doesn’t break eye contact.
Not even for a second.
One corner of his mouth lifts into a slow, knowing smile, a single dimple appears in his cheek, and absurdly, the sight of it makes my pulse stumble.
