Chapter Text
New semesters always come with a sense of dread and excitement, swirling together in your stomach as you walk across the courtyard, disturbing the coffee sitting deep in your gut. Your shoulder bag digs into your shoulder, already laden with more textbooks than you would ever want to read, and the cause of a sizeable hole in your financial aid. So much for a tuition refund from the cashier’s office.
The morning air smells faintly of damp stone and overripe leaves, the kind of sharp sweetness that clings to early autumn. Students cluster in small groups on the lawn, laughter and nervous chatter floating around you like static, yet you feel oddly detached from it all. Every crunch of gravel beneath your sneakers only sharpens the awareness that you are walking into something new, your heavy bag swinging against your hip like an anchor.
Tardiness is something you abhor, or at least you used to. College courses at eight in the morning, however, are a reasonable deterrent to punctuality. You never would have taken Contemporary Criminology if your Criminal Justice minor didn’t require it, but it does, so you are.
The Criminal Justice building is a ten-minute walk from the parking lot where your beater is sitting, but the weather in Fontaine is relatively nice today. It can always change, because the weather often changes on a dime in this city. You’ve learned to carry an umbrella, stuffed in the bottom of your satchel. The air conditioning is a nice change from the slight humidity when you step into the crisp-smelling foyer of the outdated building. Students push past you with hurried strides, shoulders brushing yours, the collective energy of first-day nerves buzzing around you. The class, you confirm upon glancing at the note in your phone, is on the second floor. The tiles under your shoes squeak faintly, and the fluorescent lights above hum like a swarm of bees. The faint tang of cleaning solution mixes with the musty scent of old wood, and for a moment, the contrast between outside freedom and inside sterility makes your stomach flip, though you like the clean smell. It’s a large lecture hall, but with the number of students that attend the University of Fontaine at Lucine, it’s no larger than any other auditorium across campus. It’s three minutes after the hour, so the room is already mostly crowded with students, but your eyes catch an empty chair three rows from the door, and relatively close to the aisle. The professor’s voice reverberates against the slanted ceiling, booming in a cadence that reminds you of waves striking the shore. The low murmur of pens scratching and keyboards clacking fills the air, a constant undercurrent of activity that makes you feel late even though you’ve barely missed anything. You duck your head, trying not to disrupt the students listening to the professor’s booming voice, and quickly scurry to your seat. Drawing your satchel across your lap as you squeeze past three people to get to the empty seat, you exhale when you plop down into the vacant space.
“Late on the first day of class?” The whisper comes from next to you, and you lean away, casting your eyes toward the person speaking. You’re still clutching your satchel to your stomach when you note that the person—man—is meeting your eyes with steel blue ones. His voice is lowered, smooth enough to carry beneath the professor’s lecture but sharp enough to cut directly into your focus on trying to get caught up. He leans lazily against the armrest, posture loose, as though the crowded lecture hall doesn’t faze him at all. You, on the other hand, are suddenly hyperaware of the heat creeping up your neck.
“Who are you, the dean?” you ask mutter, sounding much less confident than the words would indicate and clutching your bag to your chest.
“Nah, just someone who is usually late picking on someone who doesn’t have that look about them,” he smirks, teasing, and you roll your eyes.
Your brows knit together. “And what ‘look’ is that supposed to be?”
He studies you for a second, taking a good look at you before answering, “Someone who has fallen victim to the monotony of college life after… 4.0 in high school? Extremely involved in clubs? Let me guess, student council president?”
You lean away, blinking furiously. “Yes, yes, and no. Vice president. Lost because of Margaret Roux, she was more popular than I was.”
“Damn, close though.” He leans back as well, mirroring you. “Hardworking, driven, aspiring. You want to do something with your life because you’ve felt let down by those around you.”
His tone isn’t mocking now—it’s observational, almost too sharp, like a scalpel peeling back layers you hadn’t invited him to touch. His gaze doesn’t flinch away from yours, and for a moment, it feels like he’s reading your pulse straight through your skin.
“So, what are you, an astrology catalogue?” you scoff, finally starting to retrieve your laptop and textbook from your bag, though you know it’s more for something to do rather than being productive. He’s scarily accurate, even if the terms are vague and resemble the results of a personality test, which is why you’ve never put much stake in such questionnaires.
“Nah, just someone who likes to read people. It creeps them out when I guess something personal and accurate,” his eyes shine in sync with his mischievous grin when you look over at him again. “Wriothesley, by the way.”
Your eyebrows raise, “What kind of a name is that?”
“The best kind. You can get out of a lot of legal trouble if they spell your name wrong. Claim that they have the wrong person and all.”
“Okay… that’s actually kind of smart, I concede,” you admit.
Your attention is drawn away from him as a brief moment of silence is cut by the voice of your professor, Monsieur Neuvillette. He’s the reason you got into the minor in the first place. An elective in CRJ-1301 turned into an interest in the minds of those who would break the law for personal, psychotic gain. Reputation preceding him, Monsieur Neuvillette is simply a genius, able to catch the attention of even the most flippant students, and compared to the rumors of how he was at the beginning of his teaching career a few years ago, he’s humanized a lot, removing the distance and coldness that had alienated his students.
“Marcel Durand, Vacher Kuznetsov, the same man, but different in many ways. If anyone from the review board were to ask, I never spoke of this case in this room. However, the most famous serial killer in Fontaine is not only relevant, but also local. I personally tried this case when I was still the Iudex, and despite confidentiality, I think this can be a valuable conversation. Can anyone tell me who Vacher Kuznetsov was?”
No hands raise, no voices answer, and when he scans the room, looking for anyone not paying attention to bring them back to the conversation, his eyes catch yours. Calling your name, you jolt in your seat, throat dry. You know the case of Vacher well, but of the hundred or so students in the auditorium, you’re not expecting your name to be called. The sudden sound of your name cuts through you like a knife. Heat blooms in your face, the sensation of a hundred eyes shifting toward you pressing down like a weight on your chest. Your palms go clammy against the leather of your satchel, and for a split second you consider pretending you don’t know—but that isn’t you. Not when you actually do know what answer he’s looking for.
“Vacher was an adventurer from Snezhnaya who lost his lover Vigniere to cancer. He was so grief-stricken that he targeted women with illnesses and resembled his wife, trying to bring her back by piecing together body parts from his victims and disposing of the rest of their bodies. Essentially, it’s a modern-day Frankenstein story. He killed himself in prison before his execution because he believed that his dead wife was speaking to him, telling him to do so,” you respond, voice quivering slightly in the large, silent room. Hushed whispers start around you, speaking as to how crazy the case is.
Monsieur Neuvillette nods thoughtfully, “You are correct, with a very technical answer. However, can anyone tell me if these crimes happened because of his environment, or because of genetic influence?”
You can feel the confusion piercing the air. Your own is heavy in your throat. The silence stretches, thick and oppressive, like fog filling the room.
“It’s both, in his case,” Wriothesley speaks up, voice carrying across the dozens of heads in the rows in front of you. He sounds so confident, as if he’s performing for the class. And it works, because your peers are already listening to him more easily than they did to you.
“Ah, Wriothesley. Explain for the room, please. I detect confusion on the faces of your peers.” A small smile lifts the corners of the professor’s mouth, his hands clasped behind his back, and he paces back and forth slowly behind the lectern.
“We know that his parents carried genes that could allude to more aggressive behavior, as both of them were career criminals, albeit at a significantly smaller capacity than our friend, Vacher. They did some drugs, some thievery, stuff like that. However, what Vacher was experiencing was a gene-environment correlation of the passive variety. They were criminals and exposed Vacher to that behavior, and with that correlation, he was more likely to break one day, given a large enough stressor, such as his wife dying. He likely always would have been a criminal; he even had small instances of such activities when he was a teenager, though he did not exhibit any of the markers we associate with serial murder. I believe that the death of his wife pushed him over the edge, in a manner of speaking,” Wriothesley explains, confident in an assessment that relies so heavily on psychology that you’re left with more questions than answers, but Monsieur Neuvillette seems very satisfied with his answer.
“Very good. Does anyone have anything to add, or any questions about your peer’s assessment?”
You have about a million, as psychology has never really clicked with you. You understand the basics, of course, you’re not a psychopath, but this seems so complicated. The parental influence, especially, but maybe that’s because you never really knew yours. What if he just wanted to kill those women to feel closer to his wife? What does genetics have to do with it at all? But you don’t ask, because no one else does.
“Well, for those who are too scared to speak up in my class, Wriothesley has created the perfect segue into my next topic, which is the textbook and learning objectives in this class. Our “textbook” is actually a novel, written by a researcher who has a vast amount of experience in biological influences on criminality, and I believe it will be an easier, more interesting read than a textbook, and much cheaper as well.” The novel sits in your bag, and you do admit that the confusion you felt when purchasing it from the bookstore is now resolved. As an English major, you would much rather read a novel than a textbook.
“As far as learning objectives go, we will “identify and discuss potential causes of crime as explored by modern criminological theories, such as social control, critical criminology, and neurocriminology. We will identify and discuss how cultural changes and technological advances have affected the development of criminological theory in the 20th and 21st Centuries. We will develop and refine both inductive and deductive reasoning and critical thinking as it relates to the application of theory to explain a wide variety of criminal behaviors, and we will identify and discuss how recent criminology advances have shaped criminal justice programs, policy, and practice”. This is all directly from my syllabus, which I expect all students to be familiar with. There aren’t many grades in this class, so be familiar with the content, attend lectures, and submit your quizzes, exams, and two papers on time. I truly recommend getting into a study group in this course, as many of you are either Criminal Justice or Psychology majors, and the content in this course relies heavily on both topics. I’m aware that class has been going on for only twenty minutes at this point, but given it’s the first day, I will release you early to socialize with your peers, speak with me regarding any questions, or simply leave and go on with your day. Thank you.”
With that, class is adjourned (pun very much intended), and you gather your untouched laptop and notebook, stuffing your pen in a side pocket of your satchel. “So, you have any friends in here?” Wriothesley asks, leaning back with no indication of getting up yet. He stretches leisurely, arms draping over the back of his chair like he owns the space, as if the dozens of students filing out aren’t brushing past his knees. His voice has that lazy drawl again, the one that seems custom-built to poke at you until you react.
“No, most of my friends are English majors, Poly Sci, or have already taken this class,” you reply, shoving your laptop and notebook into the gaping hole in your bag, snugly fitting next to three other textbooks and the book for this class.
“You’re an English major, I’d assume.”
“You assume correctly,” you say, still a little uncomfortable with how invasive he is.
“Makes sense why you’re confused on module one topics. Anyone who’s a CRJ or Psych major would know about rGE,” he snickers, and you feel the unbridled urge to punch him in the face.
“Not everyone is a nerd,” you retort.
“Okay, Miss English Major. You read books and write for fun. I don’t want to hear anything about nerd shit from you,” he shakes his head, and your cheeks flame a little. It’s true, but it’s still not something you’d advertise about yourself. Then again, you did start it.
“Shut up,” you grumble, but there’s no heat behind it.
“No. Anyway, wanna be study partners? None of these people seem very… intelligent,” Wriothesley looks around, waving at a student who’s glaring at him because of his insult.
“I guess if you’re offering. Not my first choice, but at least you know what you’re talking about,” you concede, wondering if you should be saying yes. He’s a handful, that much you can tell by sitting next to him for thirty minutes. But he does know about more of this stuff than you do, particularly when it comes to the biological application of genetics in criminal behavior.
“Aw, thanks,” sarcasm drips from his voice, but it’s quelled by the smile on his face, small and restrained, but still there.
“You’re very welcome, I know finding people to put up with you is rare,” you respond, smiling back.
“You have no idea.”
—
Wriothesley makes fun of you when he learns that you work at the bigger of the two campus libraries while trying to determine a study schedule for the week. You exchanged numbers after class that day and have been texting back and forth to decide the best time to meet up for an hour or two. The banter in text feels strangely natural, as if you’ve known each other longer than a day. His messages come fast, teasing, and your fingers hover over the keyboard too long sometimes as you debate whether to sound witty or just blunt. It bothers you how often he makes you smile when you’re supposed to be shelving dusty books.
Wriothesley [12:29 pm]
Of course you work in the library, bookworm.
You [12:31 pm]
Yes, I work at the library, where I am working right now. I’m trying to concentrate here.
Wriothesley [12:31 pm]
What are you doing, processing book returns?
And that’s exactly what you’re doing.
You [12:32 pm]
No…
Wriothesley [12:32 pm]
You are. You really are the English major.
You [12:35 pm]
Are you not in class? Focus on you, stop making fun of me!
Wriothesley [12:35 pm]
Nah, the professor in this class is so damn boring. I’d rather mock the nerd who tried to mock the noble Criminal Justice and Psychology majors.
You [12:36 pm]
I already apologized. You’re so insufferable, Wri.
Wriothesley [12:36 pm]
Yes.
You don’t respond to him after that because your boss comes up behind you and chastizes you for texting your boyfriend (of which you emphatically deny, because there’s no way you would date him), so you quickly return to work. The word boyfriend leaves an aftertaste in your mind you can’t quite scrub away, though you try to distract yourself with the endless pile of returns.
Things continue this way for another two hours, you scan in the books, and then return them to the cart before you take the full cart to reshelve the books. You listen to music while you work, humming because today all you have to do is reshelve, not man the desk. The repetitive rhythm soothes you, the muted thud of hardcover books sliding into place almost meditative. You lose yourself in the neatness of the rows, the silent language of titles and authors, until the rest of the world seems distant.
Two hours into this entire process, you feel a tap on your shoulder and almost shriek, dropping the book you’re holding and slapping your hand over your mouth so you don’t get fired for screaming in the library. Ripping an earbud out of your ear and spinning around, you’re face-to-face with Wriothesley, who is grinning ear to fucking ear. His grin is infuriatingly boyish, framed by the fluorescent library lighting that makes the sharp lines of his face look even sharper. You can practically hear his laughter vibrating in his chest before he lets it out. You thump him on the chest, voice dropping to a whisper.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” you seethe, heart pounding in your chest. “I almost had a heart attack!”
“You stopped responding,” he shrugs, and your eyes widen like saucers, bewilderment covering your face.
“Yes, perhaps because I am at work. I’m doing my job, I can’t be on my phone.” You breathe in deep, trying to calm your pounding heart and he still has the absolute nerve to look amused with you and himself. The smirk tugging at his mouth is infuriating, as though he thinks your exasperation is just another part of the game he’s playing.
“We never finished our conversation about when you’ll be available,” he says as if that excuses anything and everything he’s done in the last three minutes.
You pick up the book you dropped on the floor and stick it in its place more gently than you want to; the book did nothing to you, but Wriothesley… you shove the spine into the slot with controlled force, biting down on your irritation. He stands there leaning against the shelf like he belongs in this quiet space, like he hasn’t just disrupted your carefully maintained calm. “We’ll talk about it later,” you say.
“I have work later,” he complains, as if you don’t have the same issue right now. You level him with a look. “My work involves mixing drinks, yours involves putting books on the shelf with earbuds in.”
“Look, I’ll talk to you while I work, but this is the one and only time you can bother me at work. You’re going to get me fired, Wriothesley.”
“Maybe if that happens, you’ll get a cooler job, at least,” he huffs out a small laugh.
“I hate you.” Your voice is flat, but the corners of your mouth twitch against your will.
But you still talk to him, first about how much he thinks that you don’t hate him, and then about the potential meeting times for studying together. You settle on Monday and Wednesday during free period at noon, and then he starts trying to pry more into your life. Every question is carefully placed, his eyes bright with curiosity, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s been trained to interrogate in one of his classes. The way he looks at you makes it hard to lie, harder still to deflect.
The questions he asks are eerily tailored to you, and again, you wonder if he can read your mind. Maybe he can. Maybe he’s lucky. Perhaps he’s a stalker. Who really knows? You pick and choose what to answer, but are assertive in denying to respond to questions that impose on your private life. When you do shut him down, he doesn’t push—just leans back with an easy shrug, as if respecting your silence is part of the conversation too. He knows now that your family is a no-no subject, as is the reason you chose to become an English major. He still pokes fun at your major as a whole, but you’ve found that it doesn’t really bother you. Somehow, his teasing leaves you lighter instead of weighed down, each jab breaking through the stone wall you usually keep around yourself regarding the topic. You figure that he does it to make you smile, and you appreciate that. You wonder if he’s noticed that you are relatively stoic in your everyday life. Either way, he doesn’t do it to be mean; you can absolutely tell.
“When do you get out of here?” he asks after making a joke about you ending up becoming a teacher one day because it’s the only job you’ll be able to get. Your stomach hurts because you’ve been giggling so much, assault after assault on your major, all of which would grind your gears from anyone else. From him, though, it feels different. The laughter spills out of you unguarded, strange and unfamiliar in its frequency, like a muscle you haven’t stretched in a long time.
You check the watch wrapped around your wrist, “Actually, in fifteen minutes. Why?”
“I was wondering if you wanted to get tea from the coffee shop here on campus.” There are faint crinkles around his eyes from the mutual laughter you’ve shared.
You consider it for a moment, before remembering: “I’m so sorry, I have plans after I get off. I’m meeting up with some friends. I would love to go another time, though. Maybe tomorrow after my last class? I don’t work on Tuesdays.”
“I can do that. Tomorrow at three?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. You think he may sound eager, but you have no evidence to prove your claim.
“Absolutely. I’m really looking forward to it,” you say honestly and smile, sliding the last two books into their places on the shelf, twin copies fitting into the empty slot.
When he takes his leave, you watch him go. You don’t usually make friends this easily (is he even your friend?), but the two of you click easily. Maybe too easily. This is what you take to your friends when you meet with them.
“So what you’re telling us is that you met an extremely gorgeous man who has literally gone out of his way to talk to you at work, and he invited you on a date… and you haven’t offered him sex?” Navia asks, true to form. Her voice carries over the hum of the tea shop, light and teasing, drawing a few glances from nearby tables because Navia has never once even tried to master the art of subtlety.
She’s the group’s Poly Sci major and the president of the Spina di Rosula, the campus’s main political justice club. She’s one of the most popular women on campus, and pretty much everyone who passes by her waves and offers a greeting. It’s like watching gravity bend around her—people lean in, faces light up, shoulders turn to follow her with that effortless magnetism. It’s not quite your cup of tea, but you adore how active she is on the campus, fighting for students’ rights and political education. She’s your best friend alongside her girlfriend, Clorinde, who is a Pre-Law major. She’s the entire reason why you took Intro to Criminal Justice in the first place with Monsieur Neuvillette. Clorinde is the president of the D&D club, and despite her numerous attempts to get you involved, it’s not quite your cup of tea either. You picture late nights in her apartment with maps, dice, and lore sprawled across the table, Clorinde at the head of it all with that quiet, commanding presence. And she’s good at it, from what you’ve experienced. It can be fun, but you’d rather curl up on your chair in your apartment and read a good romance novel.
You sigh, already regretting that you’ve mentioned Wriothesley. “No, Navia, I have not offered him sex. Are you crazy? I don’t even know the guy. And the tea invitation is likely meant for us to get more familiar with each other so that study sessions aren’t as awkward. I promise, there’s no intent for any entanglements, romantic or sexual. When have I ever gone out of my way to try to have sex with someone?” The words tumble out quicker than you intend, half defense, half exasperation. You stir your tea just to have something to do with your hands, watching the ripples blur your reflection in the dark liquid.
“Maybe that needs to change, partner. Don’t you agree, Clo?” Navia turns her attention to Clorinde, who looks up from her notebook where she keeps notes for D&D-related things, though what they are alludes you. Her expression is unreadable, brows faintly drawn, pen still poised above the page as if even her interruptions are carefully measured. She looks shamelessly uninterested in this person you’ve mentioned.
“After the last relationship you had, maybe two years is long enough to start looking for someone new,” she offers. Her tone is matter-of-fact, not unkind but clipped in that way Clorinde always speaks—like a closing argument in a trial she already knows will land. You roll your eyes, ignoring the tugging in your stomach at old wounds.
“Exactly!” Navia exclaims, dragging the tip of her finger around the rim of her teacup. “Listen, I know he messed you up, but this could be good for you!”
She’s avoiding your eyes, staring down into the brown liquid steaming in her cup. The silence between the three of you stretches, weighted with unspoken memories, until it feels like the whole café has leaned in to listen. They’re not, no one really cares what your conversation is about, but you feel self-conscious anyway. Navia and Clorinde are well aware of the broken pieces that you’d had to collect of yourself after the breakup. Pieces that they helped you glue back together, slowly. When the blonde finally does look up after a pregnant silence, your eyes are narrowed on her blue ones.
“I’m not looking for a relationship, Navia. He’s just a guy… a guy who knows more about Contemporary Criminology than I do. That’s all,” you insist.
“Well, that’s okay. Just let me know if you do end up sleeping with him,” Navia doesn’t allow anything to deter her on most days. A grin spreads across her face again, sharp enough to cut through the tension you tried to build. She bounces back even from your ire faster than anyone else, save Clorinde, who never seems to be truly bothered by anything. “Why don’t you bring him by to hang out with us sometime? How about the Spina di Rosula banquet? Maybe it’ll be a way to become friends with him?”
“The problem is, I don’t even know if I want to be friends with him. I just met him today.” The admission comes softer, more vulnerable than you’d like, but you don’t retract it. You would like to be friends with him, but you also don’t want it to open the door to misconceptions about the potential of something more.
Navia taps her finger against her chin, “Maybe you just ask him? If he doesn’t want to come, then that’s fine, and if you don’t want to invite him again, that’s okay, too.” Her voice has that calculating lilt, the same tone she uses when planning rallies or debates, except now she’s strategizing you.
Navia is like a rock. She’s unmovable and exceptionally stubborn. “Okay, I’ll invite him for one hangout. But, if our meeting tomorrow goes badly, I’m not inviting him at all.”
“Sounds good to me, partner!” Navia beams, and it nearly blinds you. Her smile is so wide, so relentless, it feels like standing in direct sunlight with no shade.
“Yeah, yeah…” you grumble, draining the last of your tea. The liquid has gone lukewarm, bitter on your tongue, but you swallow it anyway just to have something else to focus on.
You’re stupid. You’re so dumb, it really is crazy. You told Navia it’s not a date, yet here you are, trying to find an outfit. Clothes are strewn across your bed, a chaos of fabric that mirrors the storm in your chest. You hold up one shirt, then another, only to toss them aside, every choice feeling like an admission you’re not ready to make: you actually want to look nice. This is prime date preparation; you’re smart enough to realize that. You settle on a pair of jeans that accentuates your curves (you’d wear these anyway, you lie to yourself) and a modest sleeveless top that you can admit is too nice for you to casually wear to class, paired with sneakers that you actually do wear to class.
You stare at the clock in your two p.m. class, tapping your fingers on your leg in a display that makes you uncomfortable with how anxious you seem. The lecture blurs into background noise, the professor’s droning voice drowned beneath the pounding in your ears and the ticking of the second hand as it crawls forward. It’s been a long time since you’ve spent casual time with a guy outside of Alhaitham, a fellow English major, but that was more of a review for an exam over dinner. Besides, he’s gay as all hell, and you aren’t detecting any of those vibes from Wriothesley.
When the professor lets you out three minutes late, you’re tempted to jog over to the campus coffee shop. Your bag digs into your shoulder as you weave through the crowd, pulse quickening with each step. You tell yourself you’re not rushing, but your body betrays you.
When you arrive, he’s sitting at a table in the corner of the seating area, staring at something on his phone. The low hum of conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine fade for a second as your eyes lock on him. He looks so at ease, one arm stretched across the back of his chair, like he owns the corner he’s claimed. You walk over to him, a little out of breath from making your strides faster than you normally would, despite not wanting to jog and embarrass yourself. He glances up, taking in the slight flush on your face and your outfit.
“I’m so sorry I’m late, my professor was late letting us out, and I didn’t want to waste your time, so I kind of sped-walked over here. Let me just catch my breath real quick,” you exhale all on one breath, and you’re sure he thinks you’re annoying because he keeps looking at you for a moment without saying anything, and when he does, you hope the ground opens up and swallows you whole.
“Did you dress up for tea?”
You sputter, your face flaming up more as you slide onto the chair directly across from his, “No! I‘m meeting with some friends after this for dinner,” you lie.
If he picks up on your dishonesty, he doesn’t directly call it out. His blue eyes feel like they’re picking you apart, tearing through your layers of defenses and peering deep inside of you. It’s too much—his gaze is heavy, steady, like it’s pinning you in place. “You spend a hell of a lot of time with your friends,” he notes.
“Ah, yes, well, what else is there to do besides work and class?” You force out a laugh.
Wriothesley seems placated by this response and nods thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s true. I wouldn’t know, I don’t have that many friends, not that I really go out of my way to meet people.”
This sentence is one you cling to. You wonder why he’s making an effort to get closer to you if he doesn’t really go out of his way to meet people. The thought sits heavy in your chest, sparking both unease and something far warmer. Is it because he feels bad for you for being so out of your depth in Contemporary? You want to ask, but you don’t want to be as invasive as he seems to naturally be.
You don’t respond to him, just take in his features, getting the first good look at him because he’s facing you head-on instead of beside you or towering over you. He’s breathtakingly handsome, you realize. The kind of handsome that demands attention, the kind you’d usually scoff at in romance novels for being unrealistic. His hair is a messy black and gray-streaked mop, but you think it may be intentional. There’s a scar under his eye, curving along the eye socket, and black studs inserted in his pierced ears. He’s dressed like a biker, you think, or at least the way you imagine a biker would be dressed. His leather jacket is slung over the back of his chair, and his black tank top is fitted to his frame, showing off more of his muscles than you think should be legal. A long scar creeps up the center of his throat, and you wonder how far down his chest it goes, as it disappears under the neckline of his tank top. A scrap of leather is tied around his throat, covering part of the scar, and god forbid, his nails are painted black. He’s completely different from your ex, but it works so damn well for him. Not that that means anything. You tear your eyes away, pulse racing, terrified he might catch you staring too long.
“So, tell me about what you know about genetics,” he continues after a moment of studying you while you study him, and you’re embarrassed that you’ve been staring.
The following conversation is guided by tea, soothing a lot of the nerves that you’ve let cause you extreme anxiety all day. He laughs when you admit that you didn’t pay too much attention in your Intro to Biology class because the man who taught it was as dull as a butter knife, and science was something you could never get into. He expresses his own interest in the forensics side of Criminal Justice, which relies on a basic understanding of biological processes.
He pulls out a notebook for you to look at, and you feel dizzy by the end of three pages of biological terms that mean absolutely nothing to you. The words blur together, Latin roots tangling into nonsense, and you feel your brain physically rebel against the overload. This gives him much more ammunition for poking fun at you, and you pretend to be upset before a smile cracks across your face. Laughter is plentiful in Wriothesley’s company; he always has something to say that is so absurd that you can’t help but cover your mouth to hide a giggle.
Somehow, you fall into a conversation about his and your favorite tea flavors when both of you rise to order another cup, finding that you’re easily engaged in this discussion. Talking to him is simple. There’s no deciphering hidden meanings, there’s no sign of malicious intent, just two people sharing a cup of tea and talking. The hours slip by unnoticed, the world outside the café shrinking until it’s just the two of you in your corner, voices overlapping with warmth and ease.
Your last cup of tea punctuates the meeting in a very nice way, and you remember what Navia told you yesterday. “Oh! I nearly forgot. Would you like to join my friends and me this weekend for a Spina di Rosula banquet?”
Wriothesley tilts his head to the side as he considers the offer. The motion is slow, deliberate, the kind of pause that stretches seconds into minutes while he gauges you carefully. “The Spina di Rosula isn’t exactly my group of people,” he says.
“Oh, me neither, trust me. But my best friend is the president of the club, and she’s insisting I bring someone else as a plus one, so I thought… You don’t have to, of course, my friends would just like to meet you,” you explain, the defensiveness curling in your words. You don’t know how to navigate this situation; it’s been two years since the last time you even asked someone something like this. It’s not a date, you remind yourself, it’s just between friends.
“If you wanted a date that badly, you could have just told me,” he replies, a smirk settling on his face as he leans back in the uncomfortable plastic chair.
“It’s not a date. It’s a dinner between a few friends,” you insist, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from shaking with nervousness.
“So we’re friends?” he asks, and you swear that he takes pleasure in your discomfort.
“I-I assumed as much. Forgive me–” he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. Your jaw closes, fingernails digging into your palms.
“I’m just messing with you. Sure, I’ll go. And yes, I’d consider us friends. Just text me the time and address, and I’ll make sure I’m there,” Wriothesley states. The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, pulling the rug out from under the teasing banter. The relief that washes over you has you slumping down in your seat with a deep sigh.
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll see you there,” you say, using your closer proximity to the floor to grab your bag.
He watches as you leave, and you give him a small wave that he returns. Wriothesley is a whirlwind, one that has made your life a little more interesting. You wonder what else this friendship may bring.