I put her here.
And now?
She’s mine to handle.
Sarin nods. “Good. Mr. King, you’re opposing counsel. Rebuttal?”
I glance up slowly. And there it is.
The flicker.
Recognition. That reflexive, involuntary second where her breath catches before she forces it smooth again.
Then her armor returns.
Her eyes sharpen.
I take my time setting down my pen.
Then I speak calmly, coolly.
“Constructive eviction requires proof of substantial interference with use and enjoyment. But if Ms. Whitmore’s tenant failed to notify the landlord or continued to reside on the premises, she’s lost that claim. You don’t get to stay in the burning building and complain about smoke inhalation after the fact.”
A few students chuckle.
Her jaw ticks.
Sarin smirks. “Concise and brutal. As always.”
I don’t look away.
She does.
And that’s the win.
The next thirty minutes pass in the usual cadence. Lecture, analysis, academic warfare with footnotes for bullets. I answer when I’m called on. I argue when required. But most of my attention is on the girl next to me and the quiet ways she keeps unraveling.
Every time I shift in my chair, she straightens.
Every time I breathe louder than necessary, she taps her pen harder.
This isn’t just about watching her fall apart.
It’s about knowing she’s doing it with me watching.
Class ends in a controlled scramble, with students grabbing laptops and papers, mumbling pleasantries, and bolting toward their next obligation.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
She’s pretending to scroll something on her screen.
She’s not reading.
She’s thinking.
Maybe daring me.
