Dorcas is impossible to read, and somehow she knows it, revels in it. You’re sitting across from her in the common room, knees nearly touching, the low thrum of a record playing from someone’s charmed player nearby. The song is messy and sharp and loud in a way that makes your head buzz and you feel like its yelled lyrics are aimed directly at the space between you and Dorcas.

She’s laughing at something Marlene says, head tipped back, all easy confidence and careless charm. Five minutes ago, she was leaning close to you, voice low, fingers tracing idle shapes on your sleeve like it meant something. Now she’s distant again, like that moment never existed. You don’t know what you are to her, and it’s driving you mad.

Later, you find her by the window, the party noise softened behind you. Moonlight catches the sharp line of her cheekbone. She doesn’t look surprised to see you.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Dorcas says, glancing over, eyes sharp.

You cross your arms. “Am I supposed to guess what you want? Because I’m really failing.”

For a moment, the confidence slips. Just a crack.

“I don’t do this on purpose,” she admits. “I just feel things fast. And then I get scared I’ve made it obvious.”

You step closer. “You have made it obvious. Just not in a way that makes sense.”

Dorcas laughs softly, more fond than amused. “Yeah. That tracks.”