Chapter 26 – Waiting Girl
Girls' dorms on one side.
Boys' dorms on the other.
Rules in between.
No crossing into the opposite wing after curfew.
No guests in rooms.
No wandering the halls without a reason.
Lyra knew them all by heart.
She followed the rules.
Mostly.
She walked the line very carefully.
Not because she was a good girl.
Because a good girl was easier to hide behind.
***
On paper, Lyra was normal.
Quiet. Shy. The cobbler's younger daughter from the lower streets, with long red hair braided down her back and clear blue eyes that always looked a little too awake. The kind of commoner the Academy liked to point at when they talked about "merit" and "opportunity."
Her acceptance letter had said: admitted by examination and talent.
Some nobles heard only: charity case.
Neat braids. Neater handwriting. The sort of diligence tutors liked to praise, and neighbors' children liked to tease.
"Mouse," they'd called her when she was small, tugging her hair, laughing when she flinched.
She'd smiled.
Of course she had.
It was what Mother wanted.
"Endure," Mother would say, hands red from work. "Don't make trouble. People like us can't win if someone important decides you're noisy. Be composed. Be polite. Let them forget you exist."
So Lyra endured.
She folded her hands in her lap and chewed on the inside of her cheek instead of talking back. She let fingers pull her braids and imagined, very calmly, snapping them off one by one.
She didn't.
She smiled instead.
The first day at the Academy cracked that smile.
Not from the inside.
From the outside.
***
The entrance hall had been a storm of voices and colours.
New uniforms. New banners. New faces.
Noble crests on lapels. Merchant sons with rings. A few commoners trying not to look like they'd walked in through the wrong door.
Lyra tried to make herself small in the middle of it all.
Easy enough. She'd been practicing small her whole life.
Bag strap in one hand. Schedule in the other. Red hair parted neatly and braided tight, shoes polished until you couldn't tell they'd once belonged to her older brother.
Then a hand buried itself in that hair.
"What's this?" a bright, sharp voice had said, fingers winding into her braid. "Who let the mouse in?"
Lyra had gone rigid.
Pain crawled across her scalp as her head was yanked back.
"P-please—" she'd whispered, before she could strangle the word.
"Oh?" the girl behind her leaned closer, breath warm against Lyra's ear. "The mouse squeaks."
Tamara von Hailbrecht.
Duke's daughter. Blue hair. Red eyes. Wind like a pet around her shoulders.
People didn't touch a duke's child.
They watched her hurt other people and looked away.
Some of the watching students laughed.
Not many.
Enough.
Lyra's hand clenched around the strap until her knuckles went white. The familiar script started to scroll across her mind:
Don't cry. Don't pull away. If you make a scene, it becomes your fault. If Father hears, he'll say customers don't like families that stir trouble. If Mother hears, she'll sigh and say, "Lyra, we can't afford noble attention, you mustn't stand out—"
The tug on her hair sharpened.
Something finally snarled under all those layers of obedience.
She wanted to grab that wrist. Twist. Dig her nails in until she felt bones shift. Drag this perfectly dressed girl to the floor and make her eat the dust she'd walked on all her life.
The urge was bright and clean and very, very simple.
She swallowed it.
And then a boy's voice cut through the noise.
"Let go."
Calm. Flat. No raise in volume. The sound of someone who had already decided what would happen and was now just informing the world.
The fingers in her hair loosened.
Lyra stumbled forward a step, catching herself.
She turned.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Plain uniform. Wooden practice sword in hand.
He didn't wear a crest. No ring. No silk.
Just a face that wouldn't be memorable at all if not for the way his eyes met Tamara's like there wasn't an entire ladder of status between them.
Erynd didn't look like much at first.
Then he met Tamara's gaze.
"Who," Tamara had demanded, "do you think you're talking to?"
"Someone with her hand in another student's hair," Erynd had said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Let go."
No quiver.
No wary glance at her family crest.
No calculation about whether this was a smart fight to pick for someone with no House behind his name.
Just the clear line of: this is wrong.
He stepped once, angled his body so it sat between Lyra and Tamara, like a wall sliding into place.
The space around Lyra changed.
She felt it like a field settling.
When Tamara finally ripped her hand away with an annoyed sound and tossed her blue hair, Lyra's scalp still burned. Her throat still hurt. Her hands still shook.
But the inside of her had… shifted.
Something moved into the space where the hurt had cracked through.
He turned.
Frowned slightly.
His hand lifted almost before he realised he was doing it. He carefully untangled a stray knot where Tamara's grip had twisted too tight into Lyra's red hair..
"Are you alright?" he'd asked.
Lyra stared at him.
At his hand.
At his face.
At the absolutely ordinary uniform on someone who'd just told a duke's daughter no.
"Yes," she whispered.
Her voice lied.
Her heart screamed.
You saw me. You stopped her. You stood between.
No one had ever done that.
The nobles in the street never saw her at all.
Customers only saw the shoes.
Neighbors saw the quiet girl who never shouted back.
No one looked at fingers in her hair and said, Let go.
No one until him.
Something anchored itself quietly and absolutely in that moment.
From then on, Lyra's world had an axis.
Not a god.
Not a banner.
Not a House.
Erynd.
***
She didn't change on the surface.
She stayed the "normal" girl.
Back-half seats in class, where the nobles forgot to look. Neat notes. Never the first to speak, never the last to leave. "Yes, professor," and "Thank you," and "Sorry."
The kind of student staff pointed to when they said, "See? Commoners can behave."
But everything underneath reoriented.
Her eyes found him first, no matter where she sat.
In lectures, she watched his expression when teachers drew something on the board, waiting for that blink, that tiny tightening at the corners of his blue eyes that meant he'd noticed a flaw or a missing piece.
In the dining hall, she knew without trying which table he'd pick—away from the loudest clusters of crests and colours, always with a clear view of the room.
In the training yard, she sat on the benches with other "not Sword campus" students and pretended to watch all of them.
In reality, she watched him.
He did not swing like the others.
They hacked.
He carved.
Small motions. Efficient lines. His blade didn't try to impress anyone. It simply went where it needed to, no more, no less.
She liked that.
It felt… honest.
The way a good pair of boots was honest: solid, reliable, built for walking, not showing off.
Of course, she never told him that.
She didn't tell him that seeing his steady back between her and Tamara had changed the way the world felt.
That for the first time, when someone stronger reached for her, a different image appeared in her mind: him, stepping in.
She just watched.
Waited.
And once, that waiting hurt enough to make her want to break something again.
***
It had been a normal afternoon.
Classes over.
Sun sinking.
The academy settling into that between-time hum.
Lyra had slipped toward the overflow training yard, the one most people forgot existed.
She knew Erynd used it.
She'd never asked.
She'd simply… discovered it. By accident. While definitely not following him at a distance. More than once.
A commoner girl shadowing an imperial pick around the grounds would have been a joke if anyone noticed.
So she made sure no one did.
She rounded the stone corner, ready to see him alone with his sword and thoughts.
Instead, she saw her.
Tamara.
Sweating. Breathing hard. Uniform jacket off, sleeves rolled. Blue hair damp at the temples. Both hands gripping a wooden sword.
Erynd stood beside her.
Closer than anyone had been allowed to stand near Lyra without her wanting to flinch.
"No," he said, nudging Tamara's boot with his own. "Lead foot first."
He touched her waist.
Just a light tap. Just a correction.
Tamara stiffened, the tips of her blue hair clinging to her neck, ears going pink.
Lyra stopped dead.
Her mind went blank for a heartbeat.
Then it filled, all at once, too much at once.
Why is she here.
Why is he helping her.
Why is he touching her.
Tamara swung.
The cut was better than it had any right to be. Wind clung to the wood, sharper than before.
He's improving her, Lyra thought numbly.
Her.
The duke's daughter who'd grabbed her hair and treated her like a toy in front of everyone on the very first day.
He's giving her time.
Her nails dug crescents into her palms.
She'd been the one saved.
She'd been the one with his back in front of her, the one he'd shielded, the one he'd asked, Are you alright?
And yet when it came time to correct stances and touch waists and adjust footing, Tamara had simply walked onto his training ground and taken that place.
Of course she had.
She had a crest.
Lyra had calluses.
She doesn't even care, Lyra thought. She doesn't care about his ideas. She just wants his attention.
She remembered Tamara in class, doodling on her mana theory notes, sighing about how boring it all was, red eyes wandering to the window instead of the board.
Lyra cared.
Lyra had sat up straighter when the lecturer drew that wave, because she'd seen the way Erynd's blue eyes had sharpened.
Tamara swung again.
Erynd corrected again.
Lyra's throat burned.
You're loud, she thought at Tamara, from behind the wall. You drag him into your orbit and complain about being bored the whole time. You don't deserve to have his voice that close.
Ugly thoughts flickered up, dark and quick.
Trip and fall, she imagined. In front of everyone.
Let your blue hair get caught in a training dummy. Let the sword slip and cut off a handful of those perfect strands.
Let something small and humiliating happen to you, just once, so you know what it feels like.
Her fingers flexed.
She did nothing.
She sat in her hiding place.
Like always.
Waited.
Like always.
Waited until Tamara left the field, laughing at something he'd said, sword over her shoulder like they shared some secret.
Waited until Erynd was alone again.
Then she slipped away without even saying hello.
Waiting girl.
Even her jealousy waited.
***
A few days later, the resonance lecture happened.
Lyra hated the lecturer's voice.
She loved Erynd's face when the man drew the curve.
He'd gone still in that specific way he did when his mind left the room. Not bored still. Focused still. The world narrowed down to chalk and possibility.
He's interested, she thought.
About this.
Not about parties.
Not about who sat where.
About… mana patterns. Fields. How things really work.
She watched his eyes during the rest of the lecture.
They didn't glaze once.
Something small and sharp inside her loosened a notch.
Fine.
Tamara could have his time in the dirt, swinging blades.
Lyra would get this.
His ideas. His thinking.
She wrote the lecture title neatly.
Then, underneath, a very small note.
Find books: mana + metal.
Her heartbeat sped up.
The library was something she could do.
Nobles could buy swords and favors.
Commoners like her learned where the good books were.
***
The library near closing time was the opposite of the entrance hall.
Silent.
Cool.
Controlled.
Lyra slipped between shelves like a ghost, fingers brushing spines, eyes scanning labels.
"Foundations of Enchantment."
"Basic Mana Theory for Commoners."
"Rote Patterns for Temple Novices."
Too simple. Too shallow.
He already knows this. He needs something they stopped teaching because nobody understood it properly.
She reached the older section in the back.
The air there was thicker, dustier. The lamps dimmer. The silence deeper.
"Students are not encouraged to browse this area unsupervised," the head librarian had told her once.
Encouraged was not forbidden.
Her fingers paused on a thin, cracked spine.
"On the Behaviour of Mana in Proximity to Metallic Conduits."
She slid it out.
Old leather. Rough edges. The pages inside were cramped with diagrams: rods with lines curving around them, rings with arrows pointing in circles, notes about "induced flows" and "field patterns."
She didn't understand all of it.
That didn't matter.
He would.
She could already see it: his blue eyes tightening in focus the way they had in class, thumb absently tapping the margin as his brain spun.
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.
This one.
This is for him.
"Library's closing soon," the librarian's voice drifted down the aisle. "Finish your reading, please."
Lyra's body moved without her permission.
The book pressed flat against her front, under her uniform jacket, held tight by crossed arms.
Another, harmless textbook went into her hands in its place.
She stepped into view.
The librarian glanced up, saw her.
"Borrowing that one?" he asked.
She held out the decoy.
He nodded, made a note, waved her toward the exit.
Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if he could see it through her ribs.
She walked, calmly, through the doors.
Only when they shut behind her did she sag against the stone wall, breathing out.
The hidden book was cool against her stomach.
Her cheeks burned.
Commoners didn't steal from the Academy.
Commoners didn't risk the only path out of the lower streets for a boy's possible interest.
Good girls didn't enjoy this feeling in their chest, like she'd tugged at the edge of the world and gotten away with it.
She walked toward the dorms anyway, one arm clamped tight over her jacket.
***
She couldn't give it to him that night.
Girls' wing. Boys' wing. Locked doors. Ward spells.
She knew the rules.
She didn't want to be thrown out of the Academy for trying to cross a boundary just because her fingers itched to tug his sleeve and say, "Look what I found."
So she lay in bed with the book under her pillow, staring at the dark.
Everyone else slept.
She wasn't sure if she did.
Waiting girl.
Wait until morning.
Wait until the right moment.
Wait while Tamara had another training session, somewhere in the back of her mind.
Wait and hold tighter to the thought: I found something for him, not for anyone else.
***
She finally caught him the next day.
Not in some dramatic, private corner—she'd planned for that, mapped three separate routes, timed the gaps between classes—but the opportunity came earlier than expected.
A corridor outside a lecture hall, between classes, where students flowed like a river.
Her heart counted footsteps.
One flow of students out.
Another flow in.
Then—
There.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Shoulder bag. Wooden practice sword at his hip.
Her fingers tightened on the book.
She pushed off the wall and walked—no, she was walking too fast, she slowed deliberately, made herself breathe—and when she was close enough that he'd hear her over the noise, she said his name.
"Erynd."
He turned.
"Lyra," he said, surprised. "Hey. Did you need—"
Her hand shot out and caught his sleeve.
Not a gentle touch. Her fingers closed around the fabric with enough force that he felt the pull.
"Come here," she said, and tugged him sideways, out of the main flow, into the small alcove near the lecture hall door.
"Lyra—"
"Just—just for a second."
The alcove was barely big enough for two people. The crowd noise dimmed. The space felt suddenly smaller, warmer.
She stood close.
Too close.
Close enough that he could see the way her blue eyes had gone very bright, very focused, like she'd forgotten there was anyone else in the building.
"I found something," she said, and her voice came out lower than normal, almost breathless. "For you."
She thrust the book at him with both hands.
Not just handing it over. Pressing it against his chest like an offering.
"From the library," she continued, words spilling faster now. "It's about mana and metal and I thought—I knew—you'd need this. After the lecture. I saw your face during the lecture, you were thinking about it, I could tell, so I went looking and—"
"Lyra," he said carefully, taking the book so she'd step back.
She didn't step back.
Her hands stayed where they were for a heartbeat too long, fingers brushing his as he took the book, lingering on the transfer.
He looked down at the cover.
"On the Behaviour of Mana in Proximity to Metallic Conduits."
His eyes sharpened—he couldn't help it, this was exactly what he needed—but when he looked back up at her, something in her expression made him pause.
She was staring at him.
Not looking. Staring.
Like she was memorizing the exact angle of his face in this light, the exact moment his eyes changed, the exact breath he took before speaking.
"This is..." he started.
"I knew you'd like it," she said, and smiled.
The smile was too wide.
It reached her mouth but her eyes stayed sharp, stayed locked on him with an intensity that felt—
He didn't have a word for it.
Eager? No.
Hungry.
"I went to the old section," she continued, still not stepping back, still standing in the small space like she'd built a wall around them both. "Second row from the bottom, back right. The librarian said students aren't encouraged to go there but I knew you'd need something they don't teach anymore, something deeper, so I—"
"Thank you," he said, because he wasn't sure what else to say when someone was looking at him like that.
Her breath caught.
"You mean it?"
"Yes. Really. This helps."
For a second he thought she might cry.
Instead her smile went even wider, and her hand reached out again—he tensed slightly—but she just brushed invisible dust off his shoulder, fingers trailing down his sleeve.
"Good," she whispered. "I'd find anything you needed. Anything. You just have to ask. Or—" her laugh was too light, too bright, "—you don't even have to ask. I'll know."
A student shoved past the alcove, breaking the moment.
Erynd took the opportunity to step back.
"I should get to class," he said, hefting the book. "But really, Lyra, thank you. This is—"
"Exactly what you needed," she finished. "I know."
He nodded slowly.
Turned to go.
Her voice followed him.
"Erynd?"
He glanced back.
She was still standing in the alcove, backlit by the corridor lamps, hands clasped in front of her like a prayer.
"Be careful with it," she said softly. "Don't let anyone else borrow it. It's... it's for you."
Something about the way she said "for you" made his skin prickle.
"Right," he said. "Thanks again."
He walked toward the lecture hall, faster than he'd intended.
Behind him, Lyra stayed in the alcove, watching his back until he disappeared through the door.
Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
He'd taken it.
He'd looked at her.
He'd said thank you with that voice, the one he used when he was genuinely surprised by something good.
She pressed her back to the wall and let herself shake for just a moment.
Her hands remembered the warmth of his sleeve, the brief brush of his fingers taking the book.
Next time, she thought, I'll find something even better.
Next time I'll make sure he looks at me even longer.
***
It happened three days later.
Lyra had taken her usual position—the gap between the equipment shed and the back wall, where the shadows pooled thick and the angle gave her a perfect view of the overflow training yard.
She'd discovered this spot two weeks after term started.
Pure accident, she told herself.
Though she'd been "accidentally" finding him five days out of seven since then.
Today he was alone.
Finally.
No Tamara. No nobles. No one standing too close or taking his time.
Just Erynd and his sword and the late afternoon sun turning his blond hair gold.
She watched him move through forms.
Smooth. Efficient. No wasted motion.
Her chest ached with something too big to name.
Then footsteps.
Blue hair caught the light first.
Tamara, uniform jacket off, practice sword in hand, walking onto his training ground like she owned it.
Like she had a right.
Lyra's fingers dug into the stone wall.
"Erynd!" Tamara's voice was bright, loud, wrong. "You're still here. Good. I need you to check my stance again, that wind integration keeps—"
Lyra's vision went white at the edges.
She stepped out of the shadows.
Not thinking.
Not planning.
Just moving.
"Lyra?"
Erynd's voice cut through the red haze.
Both he and Tamara turned to stare.
Lyra stood at the edge of the training yard, breathing harder than the walk should've warranted.
"I didn't know you trained here," Erynd said, frowning slightly. "Do you need the yard? We can—"
"No." Her voice came out flat. "I was just... walking."
"Walking?" Tamara's red eyes narrowed. "Here? Behind the equipment shed?"
"I like walking," Lyra said, still staring at Erynd. Only at Erynd. "I walk a lot. I know all the paths. The schedules. When places are empty."
Something in her tone made Erynd's frown deepen.
"How did you know I'd be here?" he asked slowly.
Lyra's mouth opened.
Closed.
Her brain scrambled for an excuse, but her mouth was still moving.
"You're always here," she said. "After advanced theory. Around fourth bell. You stay for an hour unless it rains, then you go to the indoor hall on the east side, second floor, the one with the broken window latch."
Silence.
Tamara looked at Erynd.
Erynd looked at Lyra.
"How do you know about the broken window latch?" he asked quietly.
"I—" Lyra's face went hot. "I noticed. I notice things. About the Academy. It's—it's normal to notice things."
"That's not noticing things about the Academy," Tamara said, hand moving to her hip. "That's noticing things about him."
Lyra's eyes finally snapped to Tamara.
The look in them made the duke's daughter take half a step back.
"You don't even care about his training," Lyra said, voice dropping low. "You complain about theory. You doodle on your notes. You only come here because—"
"Lyra." Erynd's voice was careful. Cautious. Like he was talking to something that might bolt. "Are you... is everything alright?"
She dragged her eyes back to him.
Forced her hands to unclench.
Forced her face to smooth into something like the normal girl she was supposed to be.
"I'm fine," she said. "I just... you seemed busy. I'll go."
"Wait—"
But she was already walking away, fast, before her mouth could betray her again.
Behind her, she heard Tamara mutter something.
Heard Erynd's reply, too low to make out words.
Heard her own heartbeat screaming in her ears.
Stupid stupid stupid—
She'd shown too much.
Said too much.
Let the mask slip and now he was looking at her with that careful expression, the one people used when they thought you might be broken.
She pressed her palms against her hot cheeks as she rounded the corner.
No.
No, she could fix this.
She just had to be more careful.
Wait better.
Hide better.
She'd bring him another book. Something even more perfect. Something so useful he'd forget the strange girl who knew his schedule by heart.
Waiting girl, she reminded herself savagely.
Wait in the shadows where he can't see how you watch.
Don't step into the light.
Don't let him see.
Even if it killed her.
Even if Tamara's hand on his shoulder made her want to scream.
Wait.
She was good at waiting.
She'd wait forever if that's what it took.
***
Lyra sat in the library until closing, the same seat as always, three rows back, left side, where she could see both the entrance and the back stairwell.
She'd chosen it the first week.
It gave her good sightlines.
She wasn't thinking about this afternoon.
She wasn't replaying the way Erynd's eyes had changed when she'd listed his schedule.
She absolutely wasn't imagining what Tamara might be saying to him right now.
The library lamps dimmed.
"Closing in five minutes," the head librarian called.
Lyra gathered her things.
Stepped into the corridor.
And froze.
Erynd stood twenty feet away, hand raised like he'd been about to knock on the library door.
Their eyes met.
"I was looking for you," he said.
Her heart stopped.
Started again too fast.
"Why?" The word came out smaller than she'd intended.
He walked closer.
Stopped at a normal, conversational distance—not the too-close of the alcove, not the careful distance of the training yard. Normal.
But his expression wasn't normal.
It was serious. Concerned.
"This afternoon," he said. "At the training yard. You knew... a lot. About where I go. When."
Lyra's hands clenched around her bag strap.
"I explained that."
"You said you notice things." He paused. "Lyra, do you... are you following me?"
"No."
The lie came instantly.
Too instantly.
His eyes said he didn't believe her.
"If something's wrong," he said carefully, "if you need help, or if someone's bothering you, you can tell me. But I need you to be honest. Have you been watching me?"
Yes, her brain screamed. Every day. Every chance. I know which lectures make you lean forward and which ones make you tap your fingers. I know you skip breakfast on Tuesdays and that you sharpen your practice sword on Seventhday mornings and that you look at the moon when you think no one's paying attention—
"I see you around campus sometimes," she said instead, voice careful and flat. "Same as everyone. We go to the same school."
"It's more than that."
"Is it?" Her voice hardened. "Or is Tamara just upset someone interrupted her time with you?"
His jaw tightened.
"This isn't about Tamara."
"Isn't it?" Lyra took a step forward. Then another. Until the normal distance became slightly less than normal. "She gets your afternoons. Your corrections. Your attention. And the second someone else shows up, suddenly it's a problem?"
"Lyra—"
"You thanked me for the book," she said, and her voice dropped into something raw. "You said it was exactly what you needed. Did you mean it? Or was that just being polite to the charity case?"
"Of course I meant it."
"Then why does it matter if I knew where you'd be?" Her eyes locked onto his, too intense, burning. "I helped you. I found what you needed. I pay attention because I care about the same things you do. Is that wrong?"
"No, but—"
"But what?" She stepped closer again.
He didn't step back, but his weight shifted slightly. Defensive.
"But knowing someone's schedule that well is..." he stopped, clearly trying to find words that wouldn't hurt.
"Obsessive?" Lyra supplied. Her smile was brittle. "Strange? Is that what you were about to say?"
"I was going to say concerning."
"Because girls like me aren't supposed to pay attention to people like you?"
"That's not—" He stopped. Breathed. "I stood up for you because it was the right thing to do. Not because I wanted you to feel like you owed me something."
The words hit like a slap.
Lyra went very still.
"Is that what you think?" she said softly. "That I'm following you out of debt?"
"I don't know," Erynd said honestly. "I don't know what to think. But Lyra, this afternoon... the way you looked at Tamara... the things you knew... it worried me."
"I see."
She stepped back.
Then again.
Her face smoothed into something blank and polite.
The good girl mask sliding back into place.
"I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable," she said, tone perfectly level. "It won't happen again."
"Lyra, I'm not trying to—"
"The library's closing," she said. "You should go."
She turned and walked away before he could respond.
Smooth steps. Calm posture.
Like nothing was breaking apart inside her ribs.
Like she couldn't feel his eyes on her back.
Like she wasn't screaming internally that she'd ruined it, shown too much, scared him with the weight of everything she felt—
She made it around two corners before she had to stop.
Had to lean against the wall.
Had to press her hand over her mouth so no sound would escape.
He thought she was broken.
Concerning.
The careful word people used when they were worried you might do something drastic.
Her other hand clenched into a fist.
Fine.
Fine.
If he wanted normal, she'd give him normal.
She'd go back to the shadows where she belonged.
She'd wait better, hide better, be the quiet harmless girl who never stepped too close.
She'd learn from this.
No more revealing what she knew.
No more stepping out when Tamara appeared.
No more letting him see the parts of her that burned too hot.
She could do this.
She'd been pretending to be someone else her whole life.
What was one more mask?
Even if this one felt like it was suffocating her.
Even if watching him from the shadows while keeping her distance felt like dying.
She pushed off the wall.
Walked toward the dorms with steady steps.
Behind her eyes, plans were already forming.
She'd give him space.
A week, maybe two.
Let him forget this afternoon.
Then she'd find another book.
Something so perfect, so exactly right, that he'd come looking for her instead.
And this time, she'd smile like a normal girl.
Say normal things.
Stand at normal distances.
She could do this.
She had to.
Because the alternative—losing his attention entirely, becoming just another face in the crowd he'd once defended and then forgot—
That wasn't an option.
That had never been an option.
Waiting girl.
She'd wait however long it took.
She'd be however patient he needed.
She'd sand down every sharp edge until he felt safe around her again.
And then...
Then she'd find a way back to the place where he looked at her and said thank you.
Where his fingers brushed hers taking a book.
Where for one perfect moment in an alcove, she was the only person in his world.
She'd find her way back.
No matter what it took.
No matter how long she had to wait.
He saved me first, she thought, climbing the stairs to the girls' dorms.
That means he's mine.
Even if he doesn't know it yet.