The sky above the university turned a bruised grey by midday. The soft clatter of boots echoed through the narrow cloisters as students shuffled between lecture halls. Candles glowed faintly in the windows, flickering like uncertain thoughts, and the scent of damp stone clung to the air.
Andrew had arrived at the reading room before Emma. After the class they'd skipped the day before — an act of rebellion that had felt oddly holy — they were slowly returning to routine. Their table in the corner had already begun to wear the marks of ownership: ink stains, the etching of a pressed flower's ghost, a shared joke carved into the underside in a moment of adolescent defiance.
He laid two coffees down — hers sweet, with too much cream, his black and quiet. The warmth curled faintly through his fingers. He didn't mind waiting.
Fifteen minutes later, the door creaked and she entered, cheeks flushed from the wind, hair tousled. She was breathless, smiling distractedly, shrugging off her coat.
"Sorry I'm late," she murmured, dropping into the chair across from him.
Andrew smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You avoiding lectures again, or just me this time?"
Emma laughed. "Never you. Got caught up. There's a new guy in town — he transferred from some academy in the South. A few girls in my class were practically levitating."
Andrew lifted a brow, intrigued but not invested. "Anyone we know?"
"No one knows him yet. But they will." Her eyes twinkled with curiosity, not fondness — not yet. "You ever meet someone and just… feel like they don't walk so much as arrive?"
That pulled a thread in him he didn't like. He studied her expression — the color in her cheeks, the aliveness in her voice. He knew that spark. It wasn't for philosophy.
He shrugged gently. "I've met a few like that. Usually ends with disappointment."
Emma chuckled. "You're such a romantic."
"No," he said, smiling without humor, "I just know the difference between people who look like magic and people who stay."
She didn't reply. Her eyes went back to her notes, but her mind had wandered. He could feel it, like cold air leaking through a door not quite shut.
When their session ended, she hugged her coat to her frame and asked, "Mind if we take the long way to the dorms?"
Andrew nodded, falling into step beside her. Their feet tapped in rhythm on cobblestone, the buildings rising like watchful stone sentinels on either side.
The wind tousled Emma's scarf. She looked softer in the fading light, blurred by motion and thought. They didn't speak for a long while. It was a silence only they could keep — not strained, but brimming.
They reached the courtyard — old stone arches opening into shadow. Just as they neared the stairwell, a figure stood ahead, arms crossed, head tilted in mild amusement as if he'd been waiting without waiting.
Andrew saw him first.
The boy was tall, lean in the kind of effortless way that didn't require awareness to be striking. His coat was unbuttoned despite the chill, and a silver chain glinted at his throat. Cigarette smoke curled lazily around him, though he didn't seem to inhale deeply. He simply held the flame and let the world notice.
"Emma, right?" he asked.
She blinked. "Yes. From Professor Hart's class."
He smiled slowly. "I figured I'd find you here."
Andrew remained still. He didn't speak.
"I'm Jason," the boy said, offering his hand like it was optional.
Emma took it. "You're new."
"Technically," he said, eyes flicking toward Andrew with something like calculation. "And you're…?"
"Andrew," he replied, voice calm but weighted.
Jason nodded, as if the name had been filed under unimportant details.
"I heard you've got a wicked playlist," Jason said to Emma, his grin curling at the edges. "Someone said you mix Chopin with synth-pop. That's bold."
Emma laughed, a little shy now. "It's eclectic."
"I like that." He let the silence stretch, just enough to tilt the moment his way.
Andrew's jaw tensed imperceptibly. He wasn't sure why, not exactly. Maybe it was the way Jason's eyes hovered too long. Or the way Emma smiled like she didn't know he was a storm.
Jason stepped back. "Well. I'll let you both get on. See you around, Emma."
And just like that, he was gone — the scent of smoke and rain lingering after him.
They stood there for a moment, Emma and Andrew, both wrapped in a stillness that had changed texture.
"I didn't think he'd remember me," she said quietly.
Andrew didn't answer.
Emma turned, a crease between her brows. "Are you alright?"
He nodded. "Fine."
"You don't like him."
"I don't know him."
"But you don't like him."
Andrew shrugged. "He seems like someone who arrives loud, leaves quietly."
Emma tilted her head. "Why do you always do that?"
"Do what?"
"Warn me before anything even happens."
His eyes met hers. "Because I know how it feels to realize too late."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Whatever response had formed, it vanished into the dusk.
They climbed the stairs in silence.
That night, Andrew stayed up late, sketching in his notebook. He didn't draw people often. But he found himself tracing the curve of a girl's smile. Not the one she wore in public. The one she only gave him, when no one else was watching.
By the time he closed the book, dawn was already on its way.