Three months prior.
———-
"Claaara! My Love! Wait up!"
The voice carried across the sunlit quad — much too loud, too eager.
Clara froze mid-step. Her usual soft features in a grimace.
Emily, walking beside her looked over her shoulder at the boy darting to them. She smiled, amused. "Your golden retriever boyfriend is coming."
Clara exhaled sharply through her nose. "He's not my boyfriend, and please tell me he's not running."
Emily half horrified, snorted. "He's running. And waving… enthusiastically."
Clara pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled.
Marcus reached them, panting slightly, chest heaving with effort and nerves. "Clara! You didn't text me back last night. I thought maybe—"
Clara raised a perfectly arched brow. "Maybe what?"
"Maybe you didn't get home okay after the party?" He smiled too wide, his voice trembling under hope.
Clara tilted her head, lashes lowering. "I didn't go to the party, Marcus."
"Oh. I… thought you said that's why you couldn't hang out with me..." His face fell. "I guess you got busy?"
"Something like that." The corner of Clara's mouth twitched, trying for a polite smile, but it gave up halfway.
"I… I was…"
"Marcus," she interrupted with ingenuine sweetness, "this—", she wagged her finger between the two of them, "— whatever it was, has run its course."
Marcus blinked, not catching on. "Wait, so… you're breaking up with me?"
"Marcus." Clara said, her voice velvet and venom, "We were never together."
A few students slowed their walk to listen, pretending not to.
Marcus fumbled for something, anything to say. "Oh. I see."
His head hung low. "Can… can I at least get a kiss goodbye?"
Emily's eyes went wide from the sidelines as they darted from Marcus to Clara. "Oh, Marcus…" she whispered under her breath, wincing with second hand embarrassment.
Clara's patience was wearing thin.
Her lips parted. "No," she said softly, then smiled.
"But if you want my spit so bad you can have you can have my gum."
For a second he thought she was joking. But she reached up, plucked the gum from between her teeth, and pressed it gently into his open mouth before turning on her heel.
"Goodbye Marcus." She said over her shoulder with an unenthusiastic wave.
Clara linked arms with Emily and gave the smallest tug forward, wanting the moment gone already. "Come on, before he tries to thank me."
"You're going to die alone, you know that?"
Clara was almost dragging Emily now. "Not if I have you," she said, her tone light, teasing.
Emily picked up her pace to match Clara's, her curly brown ponytail bouncing with her stride until she was at her side again.
"I'm starting to think you like terrifying men."
Clara's smirk deepened. "Of course I do. They're boring otherwise."
Emily rolled her eyes but smiled. "One day Cupid is going to put you in your place."
Clara scoffed. "Unlikely."
They crossed the quad together, the warm breeze swirling around them.
Clara's sundress fluttered, revealing hints of her perfectly lean silhouette. Emily, beside her, looked like she'd walked straight out of a magazine. Together they looked untouchable—two sides of the same impossible coin.
At the steps of the lecture hall, Emily squeezed Clara's hand. "Okay, this is the 'No Dumb Kids Allowed' zone and as far as I go." She let Clara's arm drop. "Try not to fall asleep this time."
Clara's mouth twitched. "I couldn't if I wanted to. My partner is still sick so I have to put in double the work."
"That sucks. Well good luck with that. See you after class, nerd," Emily said, walking away.
Clara lingered outside the building for a moment, letting the sunlight spill over her face. The air was crisp. She closed her eyes, tilting her head back—content.
Then the air changed.
It was subtle—a shift in pressure, a coolness beneath the warmth.
Clara's lashes fluttered open.
Someone had just walked past.
She caught only a glimpse of the tall stranger— a head of black hair brushed his neck and the sheen of a leather jacket. The faint smell of something expensive yet earthy. It reminded Clara of fresh cut cedar and maple leaves after a night of rain.
He didn't look back. Didn't even notice her. But something about the way he moved—unhurried, as if the world simply stepped aside for him—made her pulse stutter.
She turned to watch, but he was gone, swallowed by the crowd. Emily's voice echoed in her head: One day Cupid is going to put you in your place. Clara shook the thought away.
The classroom she entered hummed with quiet focus —monitors glowed, the air smelled faintly of coffee and ozone from overworked machines.
Clara slid into her seat, cheek propped lazily on her hand as her notebook lay open —color-coded tabs peeking from the pages like trophies. The professor was still at his desk. Clara let her gaze drift, half daydreaming.
Then, the door opened.
A hush rippled through the room—not silence, exactly, but awareness.
The dark haired stranger from the quad stepped in.
Up close, he was even more striking. Tall. Sharp. Black hair falling across unreadable onyx eyes. Every inch of him precise, immaculate, too composed to belong here. He wore all black, save for his shoes—white, spotless, and deliberate.
He went straight to the professor's desk without acknowledging a single stare.
"— late enrollment," Clara heard him say, voice low and accented, not quite British, something older and smooth enough to cut through air.
Curiosity flared. She grabbed a pencil and sauntered to the desk, pretending to sharpen it.
"Unfortunately," the professor said, squinting, "our coding pairs are already assigned."
The boy's reply came calm, detached. "Then I'll work alone."
"Impossible," the professor scoffed. "You'll need a partner."
Clara's hand froze mid-motion. Her lips curved into a slow smile. Jackpot.
She turned slightly. "Professor," she said sweetly, "My partner's been out all week with mono. I could fill in —for now."
The professor barely looked up. "Fine, fine. Partner up, then." He waved them off like gnats.
Clara turned toward her conquest, extending her hand. "Clara Lovesteen," she said, stepping close enough for the air between them to hum.
He looked down at her hand, then up at her face, unwavered by her invasion of space. His gaze was steady, unreadable. The kind that could flatline a person without touching them, and they would probably die smiling.
"Cyra," he said simply.
"That's a weird name. She laughed softly, putting a hand to her hair —practiced and with purpose. "Cyyy-rah", she teased flirtedly.
He leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear. "And yours," he murmured, "… is basic. Just like you."
The world stopped for half a second.
Clara blinked, taken aback.
No one had ever spoken to her like that. Her mouth opened, a retort half-formed, but he was already walking away, sliding into the seat beside hers like nothing had happened.
She stood there for a moment before finally sitting down stiffly, cheeks burning and her eyebrows furrowed.
He glanced at her once, eyes amused. "I didn't mean to offend. You just don't seem like my type."
Clara turned to him, incredulous. "Your type?"
He smirked faintly. "You know—good girl. Straight A's. Color-coded notes. Parents who adore you. You've never broken a rule in your life. That type."
Her pulse thudded in her ears. "You think you know me?"
"I do," he said easily. "You're exactly what you look like."
She clenched her jaw. The confidence that made men crumble did nothing here.
He wasn't swayed by her pretty face, her wit, not even her charming banter. He looked right through her—and for the first time in a long time, Clara Lovesteen was speechless.
He leaned back, voice low, velvet over steel like a decorative sheath to a sword. "Prove me wrong."
Her head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"
"Go on a date with me," he said, his tone casual, but his eyes where dark and glinted with something unreadable.
"Show me you're not a wet blanket."
And then, with a ghost of a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes—he whispered…
"I dare you."