Outside, the pale afternoon light filtered through tall, arched windows like ghostlight, painting the long oak floors in icy patterns. Lysander didn’t leave with the others. Professor Elara Hartwell stood at her desk, carefully placing leather-bound volumes into a black satchel. Her mourning-black dress clung to her like a secret, corseted tight at the waist and trailing down in folds of intricate lace. Shadows danced in her raven hair, gathered elegantly at the nape of her neck with a black silk ribbon. Her complexion was moon-pale, made starker by the crimson hue of her lips, and her eyes—sharp and storm-gray—belonged in another century. “Staying late, Mr. Voss?” she said without turning, her voice low and cool, like water touching hot stone. He walked down the steps slowly, the soles of his boots making the faintest tap, tap on the wood. No rush. The game had already begun. “You always say the best questions come after the bell,” he replied, his tone casual but his eyes fixed on her. She glanced at him then, eyes narrowing just slightly. “And yet you rarely ask them.” “Maybe I was waiting for the right moment.” He stopped in front of her desk, placing both hands lightly on the edge. “You’ve said yourself—context is everything.” Elara shut her satchel with a soft click, then finally faced him fully. Up close, she smelled faintly of ink, candlewax, and something floral but archaic—like dried violets pressed between the pages of a funeral sermon. Lysander tilted his head, watching her with a kind of amused cruelty. “You knew I wouldn’t leave.” “Yes,” she said plainly. “You never do when you think you have leverage.” He smiled—not the charming kind. The kind that implied he’d already found the flaw in your armor and was deciding when to press. “Then why haven’t you made me?” “Because I like watching you try.” That stopped him, for a breath. There it was—that flicker. A betrayal of her own intent. Her posture was still formal, chin high, spine straight, but something in the way she held his gaze cracked, just for an instant. A hitch of breath. The slightest shift of weight, almost imperceptible, as if her body were subconsciously trying to close the space between them. Lysander leaned in, just slightly—enough to pull the air tight between them. “You look at me longer than you should,” he said quietly. “Even when you think you’re not. Especially then.” She didn’t answer. Her hands folded in front of her, perfectly still. “And when I speak,” he continued, stepping to the side so he was now partially behind her desk, “you never interrupt. Even when I’m being deliberately insufferable. Why?” Her voice was steady, but cool with warning. “Because you’re one of the only students who says anything worth hearing.” Lysander’s gaze dropped for a moment, taking in the curve of her silhouette, the tension in her shoulders. But she was built of restraint, and he was born to test it. “You know what fascinates me?” he murmured, now barely a foot from her. “Your body doesn’t lie. It reacts before you speak. Your pupils dilate. Your breath stutters. Your hands—” Her hand snapped up between them, palm out—not touching, but close. A warding gesture. Her eyes pinned him with something sharp. “Careful, Mr. Voss.” Lysander didn’t retreat. His smile was slow, razor-thin. “Is that a threat?” “A boundary.” He let the silence bloom, thick and vibrating. “Then tell me,” he said finally, voice like velvet stretched over barbed wire, “where does the boundary end? The desk? The air between us? Your mouth, when you say my name like you’re afraid to?” Her throat worked, but she didn’t move. “You’re a student.” “And yet I’m the one you're trying not to imagine too clearly when you're alone.” The words were a blade—soft, precise, and utterly unforgiving. The silence was no longer still. It was trembling. Elara’s voice, when it came, was quiet. “You think this is power. It’s not.” He blinked slowly. “No. It’s a mirror. I’m just holding it up.” She stepped back then, just an inch, but it was enough.