The sun was too bright. It cut through the thin curtains of the bedroom, stinging my eyes. I reached out for Vance, my hand brushing across the sheets, but they were already cold. He was gone.
I sat up, feeling a dull ache in my hips and a soreness between my thighs. I looked down at my skin, seeing the faint, dark marks his fingers had left behind. I touched one of them, a small smile pulling at my lips. He had used me until I was empty, and then he had simply moved on with his day.
I heard the heavy thud of his boots in the hallway, and then he appeared in the doorway. He was already dressed in a clean work shirt and jeans, his keys jingling in his hand. He didn't look like the man who had been groaning in my ear a few hours ago. He looked like the owner of a bar with a lot of errands to run.
"Get up, Blythe," he said. His voice was calm, totally stoic. "I've got things to do. You need to get to class. I ran your uniform through the dryer."
He didn't come over to kiss me. He didn't even say goodbye. He just checked his watch and walked toward the stairs. "Lock the door on your way out."
I didn't mind. The coldness made the night feel more like a secret. I got dressed in my rumpled school uniform, pulling my socks up high and tying my hair up as neatly as I could. I looked like a "good girl" again, even if I didn't feel like one.
By the time I reached the university, the halls were buzzing. Everyone was talking about the new Literature professor. I didn't care. I just wanted to sit in the back and be a ghost again.
I slipped into the lecture hall and took a seat in the very last row. I leaned my head on my hand, feeling the weight of the morning pressing down on me. I felt isolated, like I was living in a different world than the students laughing around me.
Then, the front door swung open.
A man walked in, and it felt like the room suddenly got brighter. He was young, maybe in his early thirties, with a handsome grin that seemed to come naturally to him. He was wearing a light blue sweater with the sleeves pushed up, showing off lean, ink-stained arms. He wasn't big and heavy like Vance, he was light and quick.
He set a stack of books on the desk and turned to the chalkboard, writing his name in large, loopy letters: Callum Finch.
"Morning, everyone," he said, his voice cheerful and warm. He didn't look toward the back of the room. He didn't notice the quiet girl in the last row watching his every move. He was too busy smiling at the students in the front, passing out syllabuses with a kind word for everyone.
I sat very still, my eyes locked on the back of his neck. He looked so sweet. So easy to break. I watched the way he laughed at someone's joke, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. He was the opposite of the dark room I had just left.
I almost wished he smiled at me like this. Look at me like that.
I didn't know his voice yet, but I already wanted to be the reason it cracked. I wanted to see if his kindness could survive someone like me. I leaned forward, my heart starting that familiar, needy thumping in my chest.
Callum Finch didn't know I existed yet. But as I watched him roll a piece of chalk between his fingers, I knew I wouldn't let that last for long.