One week had passed.

  I sat in the library at a table far from the others, positioned near a window that overlooked the grey grounds. A short distance away, a group of my classmates clustered around a single table, their voices a low hum over a scattered array of open books.

  I was occupied with the mathematics problems assigned by Sterling. Mathematics was the only thing that truly soothed my mind; it was a sanctuary for my pride. However, one final problem eluded me. I had already discarded eight pages of failed derivations. Suddenly, I felt a presence standing from the crowded table. I sensed, with a prickle of irritation, that they were heading toward me.

  "Markwood! You’re solving that problem too. Would you mind sparing a moment to explain the procedure?"

  It was Vane, the mud-haired lad. He stood far too close; I could smell the dusty scent of his cologne. I slowly raised my gaze to meet his. My stare was cold enough to send a rush of satisfaction through my veins as I watched his confusion grow.

  "I am in the midst of it," I said gravelly, my grey eyes returning to the papers. "I will provide the answer sheet once I have finished."

  "A-alright," Vane stammered, retreating.

  A few moments later, the solution clicked. I removed my spectacles and leaned back, placing them on the table with a quiet click of finality. The group across the room had clearly been watching my demeanor; as soon as I relaxed, Vane returned.

  "You’ve solved it? May I borrow it for a moment?"

  I silently slid the parchment toward him, leaned back, and closed my eyes. Vane scurried back to his table.

  For a moment, there was peace. Then, a voice cut through the silence like a blade:

  “It is incorrect. This entire derivation is flawed.”

  My eyes snapped open. I turned my gaze sharply toward the table. There stood Graves. She dropped my answer sheet onto the wood with a look of devastating certainty. I replaced my spectacles, stood, and walked toward her. I maintained a respectful distance, yet I made sure my figure towered over her.

  "Yes, Ms. Graves?" I asked, my voice icy and dispassionate.

  She looked up at me with a remote gaze before pointing to the page with a slender index finger. "Equation three. You assumed the variable was constant. It wasn't."

  A silence stretched between us.

  "The problem was genuinely difficult," she added politely, though her movements radiated boredom. "Errors in the first few attempts are not uncommon."

  My blood ran hot beneath my skin, even as my stare grew colder. I looked down and saw the mistake—a glaring, fundamental oversight. When I looked back, Graves was already watching me. Her whiskey-brown eyes were dull, but on her lips, I caught the ghost of a mocking smile. It vanished before it could be fully realized—instinctive rather than deliberate.

  Had I let slip a trace of my self-control, I might have slapped her. Instead, I remained motionless. I reclaimed the paper, my expression relaxing into a sharp smirk.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "A good catch," I said, my gaze piercing. "For an uncertain lover of beauty and pleasure." From this proximity, I noticed another tiny mole on the very peak of her nose.

  She turned her back on me as if I hadn't spoken. For a split second, I actually wondered if she had heard me at all. By the time the realization struck, she had already swept out of the library.

  The resulting silence was suffocating. I wanted to go behind her and strangle her until her resistance snapped, or dissect the failures of her lineage until she was left trembling and pleading for silence.

  “I—I think I understand the problem now. Thank you, Markwood,” Vane stammered.

  I forced my jaw to unclench, gathered my things, and walked out with measured steps. In the hallway, I saw her figure retreating into the distance. The urge to shatter her surfaced again, violent and hot, but I forced it down.

  “I am a gentleman,” I muttered to myself. A quiet, dark smile surfaced—amused by the fragile beauty of her small victory.

  Night.

  It was 12:36 AM when I left my room. I avoided the manicured front lawns, seeking instead the isolated grounds at the rear of the university. I walked slowly, the cold wind cutting through to my soul.

  Moonlight spilled over beds of orchids and tulips. After forty minutes, I discerned a dark, shapeless mass nestled among the flowers. Unintentionally, my feet carried me toward it. As I drew near, I realized it was a human body lying on its side, unmoving against the damp earth.

  I rushed forward, dropping to my knees. Frantic, I gripped the figure's shoulder to pull them toward me—and was met instantly by the wide, unblinking stare of whiskey-colored eyes.

  A sharp cry tore from her throat. I recoiled violently, scrambling backward on my hands, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

  “What are you doing here?!” I demanded, my voice cracking with the shock.

  “What are you doing here?!” she retorted, her voice shrill.

  “I came for a walk,” I snapped, trying to regain my dignity.

  “In the Female Hostel garden?” she asked, sitting up and knitting her brows.

  I noticed a faint speck of pigment in the sclera of her left eye—a detail visible only when her eyes were wide with surprise. The realization of where I was hit me like a physical blow.

  “I wasn't... aware of the distinction,” I replied.

  “And you were lying there like a corpse,” I added, rising to my feet and dusting the soil from my attire. “Any rational person would have checked for a pulse.”

  “And any rational person would not have shaken me like a ragdoll,” she replied, standing to face me with vexed eyes.

  “As I said, I thought you were a corpse.”

  “So treating a corpse like that is acceptable to you?”

  I remained annoyingly silent.

  “I was observing the stars,” she said. “You ruined the view.”

  “I improved the view. I am leaving.” I turned to depart.

  “Good. Leave,” she called after me.

  That made me stop. I pivoted slowly. “Actually... I am not finished with my walk.”

  “I will call the guards.”

  My eyes went dark at her fearless expression. “By all means, Ms. Graves,” I said, taking a deliberate step toward her. “Have I unsettled you? You have a unique habit of first ignoring my words and then arguing for the sake of heaven knows what logic.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “I am sorry,” she said, her voice calm and calculated. “Regarding the library—I was in a foul mood and did not wish to cause a scene. I followed my instincts. I apologize if I acted rashly.”

  “I did not ask for your apology,” I replied, my gaze turning to stone.

  “What then?”

  “Perhaps you should temper your demeanor regarding these ‘heavenly gifted’ emotions and moods,” I said, my voice as icy as the wind. “Or you may find that the consequences of such actions yield razor-edged results.”

  “I wasn’t aware,” she said, her voice dripping with irony, “that a gentleman of steel could be set ablaze by a mere ghost of a smile from a peer.”

  So, she acknowledged it. The smile she had hidden in the library.

  “I am still in anguish, Ms. Graves,” I said, taking another step. I noticed one more tiny mole on the left of her forehead, nearly lost in her hairline. “Why is it that you get so furious with me? And why do you strive so diligently to incite that same fury in me? Tell me... do you truly wish to find beauty in these 'challenging rigors?”

  “It is tempting to assume that quarreling with you is a priority of mine,” she replied with a poisonously sweet tone, her eyes shining with courage under the moonlight. “Why don't you finish your stroll and return to your warm bed?”

  “Mind yourself, Graves,” I growled. “You are on very thin ice.”

  “Have a good night, Sir Markwood,” she replied with a final, mocking smile before turning to leave.

  Again.