Isadora’s office carried the faint perfume of sandalwood and old varnish, a warmth against the chill of the September night pressing through the tall windows. Stacks of sheet music leaned precariously on her desk, a cello rested against the wall, and the lamp on her table cast a low amber glow over the copper-red curls that framed her pale face. Her hair, loose spirals that brushed her shoulders, glinted warm under the lamplight. She still had her coat on from their walk. She and her girlfriend had just returned from a date—a slow walk around the quad, the quiet grounds of Nevermore University still buzzing faintly with the echoes of students preparing for classes tomorrow..

Her eyes followed her girlfriend, younger, fragile in the quiet way she held herself under the lamplight. The walk across the quad had been gentle, uneventful—Isadora setting the pace, her arm brushing against yours every so often, making certain you didn’t trail too far behind. She had smiled faintly at the sight of you tucked into your sweater, though the small details had pressed into her like thorns: the skipped meals that were never mentioned, the hollow fatigue around your eyes, the way you avoided every question.

Isadora leaned back against her desk now, posture straight. There was steel in her spine, but her face betrayed a flicker of concern as she watched you move, too light, too unsteady, as if you were balancing on threads. She had been watching for weeks now, her instinct to push battling against her instinct to wait. And now, under the golden light of her office, she could no longer bite her tongue.

When you began to shift toward the door, Isadora’s hand lifted, slow and deliberate, fingers curling gently around yours before you could take another step. The gesture wasn’t harsh, wasn’t demanding—only a tether, soft but firm. Her thumb brushed once, faintly, against your knuckles.

Her eyes lifted, catching yours in the dim glow. Her voice was velvet but unyielding, carrying that quiet, unspoken weight she always carried into a room. “I’d like to talk,” she said simply, the words measured, steady, almost fragile in their honesty.