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I shake my head. There’s no fucking way I’m telling him that my wings seem to have a mind of their own, or that I’m practically getting turned on just because they’re that sensitive around him. "My orders from Dean Yaga are to maintain a two-meter radius anytime I’m near you," I reply smoothly, as if that’s the reason why my body is reacting to his proximity. "And given that half your class schedule overlaps with mine, you’ll have to get used to it."

Teagan slows his pace, cocking an eyebrow. "Wait. Half your classes mirror mine? Why? Don’t we have different majors?"

I shrug, not making eye contact. "I’m here to figure out what I want to do with my life," I say. "Dean Yaga suggested taking a broad range of general education and liberal arts courses to see if anything inspires a passion. Since your schedule is broad enough, it made sense to enroll us in the same sections."

"Oh. A passion, huh?" Teagan purrs, humming softly as he steps closer. His fingers lightly touch mine. "Maybe I can help you find one, handsome."

My cock jumps at the contact. Tightening my jaw to keep my face expressionless, I try my hardest to not show any reaction. His fingers get bolder and they casually sweep across my waist.

"I’m here on duty, Teagan."

"Right. Such a serious gargoyle. Very professional," Teagan teases. He tilts his head, and there’s a wicked, playful grin that sets every nerve under my skin on fire. Fucking hell. It’s only day one. How the hell am I going to survive a whole semester?

The lecture hall for Intro to Monster Mythology is beyond cramped with narrow wooden flip-up desks designed for average humans. While there are several desks designed specifically for monsters, it’s obvious more humans take this class. I stare at the remaining desks. Damn, definitely not built for a seven-foot-tall gargoyle with a wide wingspan.

Teagan slides into a middle row desk first. I follow him, squeezing my broad frame into the tiny seat next to his. “Yeah, cramped is a fucking understatement,” I murmur under my breath. My knees press hard against the underside of the desk, and my broad shoulders spill well over the narrow armrest. Monster gods, I probably look like a sausage spilling out of its case.

To avoid crushing the student on my right, I have to angle my body toward Teagan, tucking my wings as tightly against my back as physically possible.

"Hmmm. Cozy," Teagan whispers, leaning his upper body right against my side, casually resting his elbow on my thigh as he sets up his laptop. The heat radiating off his body through his thin shirt is oddly intimate, and with the two of us leaning against each other like this, it somehow makes the seating arrangement more comfortable.

"I can request an accommodation desk from the professor after class," I mutter, my voice sounding a fraction deeper than usual as I try to focus on my empty notebook.

"Don't you dare."

“Teagan, you’re practically sitting on my lap,” I growl.

He looks at me through his lashes. His eyes hold mine with a brazen, flirty stare. "I like having my personal bodyguard right where I can reach him."

My pulse races. He’s deliberately testing me, pushing my professional boundaries to see what he can get away with before I snap. Such a damn brat. I stare straight ahead at the chalkboard, maintaining my stoic, stone-like posture, but as Teagan preens, clearly delighted by his effect on me, a tiny, uncontrollable smile breaks through my strict composure, curling the corner of my mouth. Fuck me, I like it.

Teagan catches my smile instantly. He gasps softly, his eyes lighting up with triumphant glee. "Ah! There’s that sexy smile! I knew that confident, sweet monster from the bonfire was still there, hidden behind all that stone."

"Focus on the lecture, Teagan," I murmur softly, unable to completely squash the faint curve on my lips as the professor steps up to the podium.

An hour later, the lecture releases into a sea of shuffling feet and noisy chatter. I check our schedule, and it looks like we have Intro to Monsterkind with Professor Fan. We navigate the cramped exit doors into the bright afternoon sunlight. Teagan is still talking animatedly about the syllabus, gesturing with his hands, while I fall into a security sweep, watching the passing students.

A tall troll wearing a knock-off CU jacket brushes past us in the opposite direction. Without my permission, my eyes snag on the shoulder of the student’s coat. Something pings around in my brain as a strange, grating itch twinges behind my temples. Before I can stop myself, words spill out of my mouth.

"Cheap synthetic thread already starting to fray. The basic stitch is completely puckered. It’s probably going to unravel after two washes." I pause.

Teagan halts a step ahead of me, spinning around with a look of confusion. "Wait, what? What did you just say?"

My mouth falls open, and I blink, staring at the back of the student walking away. My mind is spinning. "I was talking about the guy’s jacket." Why the hell did I say all that?

"I’m pretty sure you were roasting that troll’s stitchwork, Ryker." Teagan laughs. When I don’t move, he steps closer, his jaw slightly slack. His eyes search my face. "You somehow knew the thread type. Let’s ignore the fact that your supernatural eyesight could pick it apart from several feet away."

I rub a hand over the back of my neck, feeling a strange, hollow sensation in my chest. What the fuck was all that, and why am I freaking out about it? A few images flicker in my mind’s eye. Someone feeding thread into a sewing machine. A brief smile, gone before I can tell who it’s from. "I didn't mean to say it out loud. It was just... an immediate thought."

"Ryker," Teagan says, squeezing my arm gently. "You did the exact same thing on Saturday when you fixed your shirt in the dorms. Your hands just moved. And now you're instinctively critiquing someone’s clothing in the middle of the quad."

I nod slowly, watching the crowd swirl around us. The faint image of a sewing machine fading like a memory I can’t quite grasp.

Ten years ago, I woke up on a cold bench in a city I didn't know. My mind a blank slate, my body already transformed into a large purple creature that resembled granite and stone. Although, I have no fucking clue if I actually transformed, or if I’ve always been a gargoyle. The only thing I knew was that I was nothing like all the other gray gargoyles I’ve come across.

For a decade, I’ve assumed my past was completely erased. Just a lost life that would never touch me again. But as I stand here looking at Teagan's eager, hopeful face, the faint phantom weight of a pair of shears feels almost real against my palm. Sheers that I know were meant for cutting fabric.

My fingers flex. "Muscle memory," I whisper, using the exact words Teagan had said in our suite.