Music leaked through the dorm walls like an impatient heartbeat while Amelia Hart finished the last sweep of lipstick. Her reflection glowed against the mirror—gold dress, soft curls, and a nervous sparkle in her eyes that she tried to laugh off.
Behind her, Clara was sprawled on the bed, scrolling through playlists. "If you look any more perfect, people will start taking pictures just to prove you're real."
Amelia rolled her eyes and grabbed her clutch. "Stop it. It's just a party."
Clara jumped up, grinning. "Exactly! The last big one before finals. Tonight you dance, you eat, and you forget that our design professor thinks sleep is optional."
Their laughter followed them down the hall. The stairwell smelled of cheap perfume and anticipation. The closer they came to the auditorium, the louder the music grew—bass vibrating in their ribs, laughter spilling into the corridor.
When the doors opened, light exploded around them. Strings of fairy bulbs hung from the ceiling; colored spotlights painted the crowd in swirls of violet and gold. Someone had gone all out with the decorations—paper stars, ribbons, even a rented fog machine.
The moment Amelia stepped in, conversations dipped for a beat. Heads turned. She froze for a second, startled by the attention, before Clara looped an arm through hers.
"Smile," Clara whispered. "You look like a goddess. Pretend it's normal."
They spotted familiar faces near the drinks table. Max waved both arms. "About time! We thought you two were fashionably ghosting us."
Clara snorted. "We had to make an entrance."
Amelia's nerves eased as they joined the group—Priya in a silver dress, Ethan already halfway through a soda, two juniors she recognized from design studio.
"Look at this crowd," Max said, motioning toward the dance floor. "If the dean saw this, half of us would be expelled for crimes against rhythm."
"Speak for yourself," Priya shot back. "I've been practicing."
Amelia laughed, sipping her drink. The conversation rolled easily—professors' quirks, impossible deadlines, who secretly liked whom. For once, everyone seemed young and weightless, suspended between exams and adulthood.
Then the lights dimmed, the DJ shouted something nobody heard, and a new beat thundered through the hall. Clara grabbed Amelia's wrist. "Dance floor. Now."
"I'll embarrass myself," Amelia protested, but she was already laughing as Clara dragged her into the crowd.
The music wrapped around them—fast, wild, happy. For a few minutes, there was nothing but rhythm, movement, the flash of lights. Amelia's heels clicked in time with the bass; she felt the weeks of stress melt away.
Between songs, she stepped aside to catch her breath, cheeks warm. That was when a tall guy she vaguely recognized from another department appeared beside her, grinning too easily.
"Hey," he said, raising his cup in salute. "Didn't know angels came to college parties."
Amelia gave a polite smile. "I think you've had enough punch."
He laughed and moved closer, voice dropping. "Come on, just one dance. Promise I won't bite."
"I'm good, thanks," she said, trying to keep it light.
He leaned in again, the grin fading into insistence. "Don't be shy—"
Before she could step back, a hand clamped around his wrist. The movement was quick, controlled, the grip unshakable.
"Enough," a voice said behind him—quiet but sharp as glass.
The guy twisted around, irritation flaring. "Who the hell are—" His words cut off when he met the man's eyes.
Alexander Carter stood there, crisp black suit stark against the shifting lights, expression carved from calm fury. His hand still held the boy's collar, forcing him half-turned toward the exit.
"You will let her be," Alexander said, voice low enough that only they heard.
The boy's face reddened. "Hey, you can't just—"
"I can," Alexander interrupted, tone colder. "And you'll stop now."
For a second it looked like the student might swing at him—his fist tightened, body leaning forward—but then recognition hit. A whisper rippled through the nearby crowd: Professor Carter.
The boy froze, the color draining from his face. "You're— I didn't realize—"
"Now you do." Alexander released him with a shove that was more dismissal than violence. The boy stumbled back, straightened his shirt, and muttered, "Sorry, sir," before melting into the crowd.
The music kept going, but the space around them seemed oddly still.
Amelia exhaled, realizing her hands were shaking slightly. "Thank you," she managed.
Alexander's gaze softened a fraction. "Are you hurt?"
"No," she said quickly. "Just startled."
He nodded once. "Good." For a moment, neither moved. Then his expression smoothed back into professional neutrality. "Enjoy your evening, Miss Hart."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shifting lights before she could find any words.
Clara appeared a moment later, breathless from dancing. "Hey—what happened? You look like you saw a ghost."
Amelia forced a smile, the thud of the music covering the tremor in her voice. "Something like that."
But even as the songs changed and laughter swelled again, her thoughts stayed locked on the tall figure in the dark suit—the professor whose calm voice had sliced through the noise like fate itself.