shout out to @nogoodnamesleft2-- congratulations on the birth of your child and for leaving that comment, it was the comment that made me realize i need to update

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After what felt like the longest minute of my entire life, someone cleared their throat (read: Darkwood coughed so aggressively, he practically hacked up a lung). 

The resulting effect was as if a director yelled "Scene!" Logan's hands shot up to unwind Sophia's arms from around his neck. Holding her by the wrists, he pushed her back, his expression more alarmed than exuberant.

"Sophia, what are you doing here?"

He asked the question with a hiss. Upon the words leaving his mouth, he turned his head abruptly. It wasn't until Logan's eyes locked onto mine did his shoulders relax, as if he'd been anticipating some national threat Sophia had dragged along with her.

God, I wish. Where's an assassin when you really need one?

Sophia's euphoria deflated at his tone. "Nathaniel said he'd be stationed in this town for the year and asked if I'd like to enroll. We used to talk about me transferring here all the time -- I thought you'd be happy."

Ah. So, this was the esteemed little sister of Nathaniel Morgan.

"I am happy, but--" Before Logan continued, he seemed to regain his sense of social awareness. Now his gaze crawled to the small crowd eavesdropping on his conversation, and his face flushed pink.

Mechanically, he stepped back and turned to face our group. "Everyone," he said, gesturing to the girl next to him, "this is my friend, Sophia Morgan."

Personally, I couldn't quite make out the family resemblance. While both blonde and blue-eyed, Nathaniel was glacier ice chiseled into human form whereas Sophia exuded sunshine, particularly in the way she smiled. Her round cheeks blushed a shade of rose that matched her lip gloss as Logan introduced her one by one to his friends.

"This is Josh and Mark." Logan nodded towards James. "And you remember Mayfield, my best friend."

"Excuse me?" Darkwood drew himself up to his full height." "I thought I was your best friend!"

James rounded on Darkwood. "Again," he snapped, "who the fuck are you?"

"Rivers Cor--" Darkwood broke off, his rage subsiding for a second as he failed to remember his fake name. Dear Lord, how difficult was it to remember three syllables? "I'm Rivers: Logan's best friend from boarding school."

"You've never mentioned this dude in your life and now he's your best friend?" James' nostrils flared.

"Why does it matter who's my best friend--" Logan tried to protest, but was immediately interrupted by twin gasps of deep-seated offense.

"And here I thought we were best friends," teased Sophia, nudging Logan with her arm. Funny. Why was it that I felt that touch like a punch to my gut?

Darkwood clutched his chest. "You best-friend-slut!"

"As I was saying," Logan continued, flaring his eyes at Darkwood, "this is Rivers Callahan, an old friend from boarding school."

Darkwood took that official title as a literal bullet to the heart. His knees buckled. He collapsed against me.

James clearly wanted to keep the focus on Darkwood, but Logan's hand motioned to me next. "And this is Alex. My, um, my girlfriend."

It was so slight, but I caught it -- a slight hesitation, a brief debate that had warred beneath his lashes before he shook his head and finished his sentence. What was he hesitating about? In the forty-three PowerPoints detailing escape protocols, rendezvous points, and intricate backstory details regarding his friendship with Rivers Callahan, not once did he bring up editing our own cover story.

Did he not want Sophia to know?

I glanced over at the girl and finally saw it then: the family resemblance.

Her wide eyes were now sharp, the warmth having been drained and hardened to crystal. As she straightened her shoulders and her gaze darted up and down the length of my body, I felt the same flare of defensiveness rise up in me that appeared any time Nathaniel was in my vicinity.

Then, she blinked and it was like I imagined it all. A disbelieving smile spread across her lips as a soft gasp escaped her. "Alex? As in the Alex Finch, the idiot--" She cut herself off with a bashful giggle, looking to Logan as if she was about to spill his darkest secret.

Logan was glowering.

"My reputation precedes me," I said with a wave.

"No, I mean, clearly he didn't mean anything he said if you guys are dating now." Her eyes still felt cold as she looked between us. "Sure, he was a little mean, but that's how boys are-- always hiding their feelings behind hate."

"In my defense," Logan cut in, "I didn't get a chance to rectify those words this summer."

"And whose fault is that?" She gently ribbed him, and for some reason, it really bothered me that he didn't move away. "You totally ghosted me. I would've stayed in the capital if you told me you were going to be stationed there."

"I was on duty the whole time, Soph."

She pouted, but the instant she met his eyes, she smiled, as if she couldn't help it. "That's never stopped you before."

It took a second, but his scowl softened into a smile too, as if he couldn't help it either.

It shouldn't bother me. The fact that he called someone else by a nickname, that he was familiar enough with someone to let them touch him -- none of it should bother me.

And yet, every smile they shared, every sparkle in his eyes when he glanced her, it all cultivated in this awful feeling I could only describe of as "dying inside."

Fortune, it seemed, favored those dying inside, and the final bell rang.

Four faces paled in unison. Immediately, Mark began screeching about how he wanted to know our class schedule, but he couldn't possibly be late for AP Chemistry -- so off he ran, giant "ALEX FINCH" banner wobbling over his head.

As James and Josh followed his lead, Sophia turned to Logan again and asked, "Logan, will you walk me to class?"

Logan cocked his head. "Didn't you attend orientation?"

There was that ridiculous pout again. "My flight got in late last night."

He hesitated in giving an answer, his eyes flickering to me, no doubt calculating just how much mileage he'd be covering if he were to escort both of us to class.

You see, St. Cross's lectures were held in designated wings, with your STEM-wannabes grouped in the west wing while humanities were hosted in the east. The north wing was usually a free-for-all, a mix between fine arts, social sciences, the gym (which included an Olympic-sized swimming pool reserved for the swim team), and whatever rescheduled lectures from other departments. The levels of courses were then separated by floors, with more senior or advanced courses relegated to the third and fourth corridors.

"I don't know," Logan began. Sophia followed his line of sight, her face morphing into some mixture of crestfallen and disbelief when she caught me listening in.

"What happened to that personal tour you promised me?" She covered up her disappointment with a weak giggle.

Logan, still looking unsure, sighed. "What's your first class?"

Was it the giggle that did him in?

Meanwhile, Sophia perked up. "French 3-4."

"Oh." Logan lifted the strap of his bag to ease up the tension on his shoulder. "Finch, you have Russian 5-6, right? I can walk you both then."

Sophia's smile was weak. As Logan began leading us into the Main Hall, she glanced over her shoulder at me, something profoundly Nathaniel-esque in her glare before looking back ahead.

"Do I have to walk to class with you?" Darkwood whispered, tapping my shoulder. "Because I'm all the way in the west wing."

Logan was too concentrated on plowing through the student body at the moment to notice anything, so I said, "Just don't hold anyone at gunpoint, yeah?"

Darkwood flipped me off before he split off from the group, his ridiculously platinum hair shining like a beacon as he bobbed through the mass of bodies. This left Logan, Sophia, and me stuck at the outer frays of the student crowd filtering into the Main Hall.  Once the hall split into three different sections, students took to the flights of stairs with a sense of urgency, and the crowd quickly thinned out.

Yet, despite the extra breathing room, Sophia remained close to Logan.

"So, tell me--" I heard her say as she looped her arm through Logan's, causing me to trail behind them like some unwanted third wheel-- "what made you guys go from enemies to lovers?"

Logan didn't shake her off. I wrinkled my nose. How could you possibly protect me with your arms occupied?

"It just kind of happened," answered Logan.

"How does going from hating someone to dating them just 'kind of' happen?" she scoffed. "Spill. How long has this been going on?"

"May."

"Who confessed?"

"It wasn't like that." Logan shook his head. "It was more like . . . we came to an agreement about our feelings."

"Does your father know?"

There was something in Sophia's voice that made the question sound more loaded than it should've been. From where I stood, I saw how stiff her shoulders suddenly got, and she was no longer looking up at Logan but down at her loafers. At this point, Logan pulled his arm from Sophia's.

"French 3-4 is on the third floor," Logan instructed, nodding his head in the room's direction. 

Her head shot back up. "You're not walking me all the way?"

"If I walk both of you, Ill be late to my own class." Logan rolled his eyes, missing the way Sophia's face fell. "I'll see you later, Soph."

It took her a beat before she ultimately forced an 'oh-how-silly-of-me' type of laugh in response to his comment. But as she spun on her feet to head down the corridor, I caught a very real hurt lingering on her face.

"I can walk a few hundred feet by myself, you know," I said as Logan and I headed up the final flight of stairs.

"Can you now?" He quirked a brow. "With your luck, I'd be amazed if you could make it twenty feet."

"At least I know where my class is." Something about Sophia's expression stuck with me. It's not real, a part of me wanted to explain. But then just thinking those words put the other part of me in the same misery I experienced watching the two of them smile at each other like a pair of idiots. I jutted my head at the floor below. "With how big this place is, she'll be lost and late."

"It's the academy, Finch, not the Louvre," he parroted. "And she isn't the one at risk of assassination."

"No one is. Not here." I paused, the curiosity too strong to hold back. "Is that how you treat an old girlfriend?"

Logan jerked his head so hard I thought I heard his bones snap. "No, we're not -- we never--"

"Best friend?"

Logan still shook his head.

"Then just old friends?"

"Y-yeah, I guess that's what we are," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Very close old friends."

Logan's cheeks did tint at that comment, but he was mum on any further details, shoving his hands into his pockets instead. Regretting my question severely (because why was he blushing every time someone brought her up?), I didn't push any further, and so the walk to my class was short and silent. Already professors were performing roll calls. At the sound of someone saying 'here,' Logan cursed under his breath.

"Just go, Cross -- my class is literally a hundred feet away," I said with a roll of my eyes.

As usual, I was ignored, as he insisted on accompanying me right up to the door. "A lot can happen in a hundred feet."

"Ah, yes, look at how much danger surrounds me."

At this point, we were the only two left in the hallway. Logan was definitively late.

Still, he lingered. "We passed three windows. Someone could've shot at you."

"From what vantage point? We're the only building for miles."

"There could be an assassin in the classroom."

"Not much you can do there since you really should be hurrying off to class. They're probably already going over the syllabus."

Goading him proved less effective this time around. "Then I'll just walk you to your seat."

Logan's hand reached for the door handle. My own hand shot out and slammed the wood panel back into its frame. "Absolutely not." I've had enough social embarrassment for one day, thank you very much. "I can make it to my seat in one piece, Cross."

"Can you? You have a habit of disappearing on me."

"Fine. I vow to not skip any classes today and follow Protocol A dutifully. Passionately. Religiously"

"Which includes?"

"Texting you every time I make it to the next period. Regrouping at the base of the steps after final period. Using Emergency Route A if someone does try to take my life today and meeting you by the dining hall so we can evacuate through the kitchen."

"And?"

And? Shit, I fell asleep through the PowerPoint -- oh, right. "Waiting for you at lunch."

Finally, his nod was one of contentment. "Good girl."

Logan flicked his wrist to check the time before saluting me goodbye and hurrying back down the corridor. Despite his rush, he did stop at the top of the stairs to check if I'd gone into the room yet, and it was only when I pulled the door open did I see his figure descend the steps.

But tragically, I was never going to see through Protocol A. Because someone would make an attempt on my life: me. By second period, I was hitting send on an email to my family's lawyers with an edited version of my will to make sure that everyone knew to blame the St. Cross student body for me launching myself out the window in ten seconds.

Oh, and to make sure Jasper received the first-edition copies of my The Lord of the Rings collection.

See, the school forum on the first day was typically inundated with the usual set of questions: where's Lecture Hall A? Is the dining hall food any good or can we Uber Eats? How late is the library open?

But today, the forum was on a mission. St. Cross rarely received transfer students, particularly for the senior class, and certainly not the kind that was on close terms with the nobility, thus making Sophia Morgan the number one hot topic.

Within the hour, it was revealed that she was the daughter of Lieutenant Graham Morgan, a military officer-turned-investment-banker (talk about a career change). Her mother was Patricia Morgan, a well-known socialite in Cimerian high society, and lady-in-waiting for Princess Giselle Sparrow.

Amazing that I'd never met this Patricia a day in my life.

Sophia herself hailed from St. Roseway's Academy for Girls in Cimeria, where she made a name for herself as an up-and-coming musician, having performed cello solos worldwide. Her family was wealthy, though several threads waspishly emphasized that the money in their vaults was freshly printed.

Oh, and I forgot to mention--

"She's best friends with the Princess of Cimeria -- oh, what's her name? Park Sparrow!" the girl behind me whispered.

Where were the moderators on the forum? Not an ounce of fact checking was being done today.  Oh, I can't post about how Logan Cross is a fan of Love is Blind but other people can just get online and lie straight through their teeth, huh?

"Of course she would be. She must've grown up around the nobility. Did you see how close she was with Logan this morning?" her friend said back. "He doesn't even hug his own girlfriend like that."

The first girl snickered. "Don't you think they look so good together? She's practically a princess in the making. Logan would be so much better off with someone in his circle."

There was one mystery the student forum had yet to solve: why did all of this bother me so much?

Shit talking right behind me? Nature must be healing.

Wrinkled noses, dirty onceovers, the shifting away in their seats if I sat near them -- I used to pay these details the same amount of attention one would pay to the passing of clouds.

And yet, my hand kept itching all day to smack my ear every time the name 'Sophia' buzzed around the air like a relentless mosquito.

The bell rang. I shut my textbook, and even I flinched from the sheer force exerted.

What is wrong with me today?

"Plus," one of the girls continued on, "I heard that her family might be granted title soon."

"What do you guys think noble titles are?" I couldn't help but snap, getting out of my seat. The girls behind me smirked, and the logical corner of my brain (which appeared to be shrinking minute by minute) doth protested ("'tis a trap, Park!"), but I kept going. "You can't just be granted title like you're some regional manager of an Apple store. You're either born into it, or you have to commit an act of supreme loyalty to the crown, such as personally saving the queen's life."

And even that might just get you only a medal of honor.

The girl on the left with wispy hazelnut hair popped her gum. "And how do you know so much about Cimeria?"

"I had to make sure if Logan ever had a chance to climb the ranks. What kind of gold digger would I be if I didn't do my research?"

As I stalked out the door, a new thread was trending on the forum: Finch admits to dating Logan for his money!

God, I wanted to kick something. Where's Darkwood?

With such a dramatic entrance, I had no choice but to head to the dining hall by myself. Still, based on the timing, I figured I'd meet Logan halfway there. Surely he'd be somewhat forgiving of this derailment of Protocol A if I cut down his commute.

On my way down to the main floor, there was a renewed number of eyes on me. Whatever goodwill (or guilt) Mark had garnered for me via his unsponsored reputation rehabilitation attempt had vanished in the short hours of the morning. Back were the insults dropped just within earshot as I passed by, with many an upper lip curling upon meeting my eyes.

This is good, I chanted. This is normal. This is what I wanted. I practically begged Priscilla Nakamura to tell me my eyeliner sucked this morning.

And just as I predicated, upon reaching the Main Hall, I caught sight of Logan walking my way. But he didn't see me. Sophia was walking with him, the two of them sharing a residual laugh from a joke unheard. There was a crowd hanging around them, with people chipping into the conversation, quips that had the whole group howling with laughter. Then, as the crowd turned into the dining hall, Logan went with them.

The next step I took, I spun on my feet. I wasn't much of a dining hall girl in the first place.

I couldn't go to the courtyard -- it was too crowded, especially during the first week of school. The fields leading up to the stadium were also a no-go during the warmer weeks of the year.

I could try the vegetable gardens on the west side of campus. It was the territory of the Harvesters of Mabon (i.e., the pretentiously named gardening club), who guarded their crops so viciously that people were too afraid to go near it for fear of accidentally treading on a pumpkin sprout and getting their head bitten off by the club president.

Except for today, apparently. Rounding the corner to the archways, I found myself walking smack dab into a ferocious argument between said club president (or Farmer Grace, as she liked to be called) and a rather brave freshman who insisted that since clubs hadn't officially started, the Harvesters of Mabon had no rights over the territory yet.

Fine. Whatever. I could do . . .  the abandoned garden on the east side, whose soil had been so badly fucked from the Harvesters' first ever attempt at growing flowers that anything planted thereinafter withered and died.

And yet -- there were people there too. Students were brushing residual dirt and dust off the tops of stone benches before plopping themselves down, textbooks flipped open on their laps. Picnic blankets had been spread overtop barren soil so that people could hunch over their lunches and first assignments of the day.

Well, fuck.

I tried everywhere. There were people still peppered throughout the halls, the alcoves, and on the steps. And if a room was, for once, free of students, it wasn't free of faculty. Each room I peeked into, there was always someone there. Usually a janitor, meticulously wiping away at the smudge-free windows.

Hold on.

I did a double-take as I walked into my seventh classroom and saw yet another janitor wiping a dry rag against an already sparkling window. This is a different classroom, right? I rubbed my eyes. I haven't been walking into the same lecture hall over and over again?

The man paused upon hearing me enter then turned around stiffly. Neither of us spoke. 

Finally, I turned to leave, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him pull out a walkie from his cargo pocket.

"The eagle is leaving Room 3-5."

Oh, ew -- a pesky little Blackwell agent.

My heart dropped. Between the ever-watchful student body, reporting my every move through lunchtime gossip, and now the team of undercover agents riddled throughout the premises, I was under total surveillance.

I absolutely had to get away. The thought of Abigail and Nathaniel discussing my daily campus activity over a cup of tea was spiking my blood levels with unhealthy doses of anger. Leaving campus was out of the question, but there had to be somewhere here where the guarantee of human presence was zero. 

Shit.

There was the fourth floor in the north wing. There wasn't a complete guarantee I'd be left alone, but the possibility was higher there than elsewhere. But I'd been hoping to avoid it if I could.

I didn't like that floor. No one did. No classes were permanently stationed in this corridor, with lectures scheduled only for rare makeup days. It housed a long stretch of unused lockers and faded posters. Though far from decaying, it simply lacked the same luster and grandeur as the rest of the academy. The temperature was inconsistent, with cold spots up and down the halls that made it an uncomfortable place to lounge.

Plus, there was that persistent rumor that a student had died in these very halls.

My loafers left the very top step, and in the silence, a whimpering could be heard, soft and muffled. As I gravitated towards one of the large windows down the center of the hall, where sunlight struggled to pierce through the grime-covered paneling, the whimpering crescendoed to a wail.

"You're such a dick!"

This is exactly why I didn't want to come here.

Emerging round one of the corners was a girl with her cinnamon-colored strands pulled into pigtail braids. Her face was swollen, tears creating cracks in her blush and foundation. As soon as she saw me, she let out another howl of despair before her shoes stomped down the steps.

James Mayfield then appeared shortly after, only to stop in his tracks at the sight of me.

He frowned. "Where's Logan?"

He looked around my figure as if Logan was crouching behind me, waiting to jump out and yell 'boo!'

"I don't know; I'm not his keeper."

"Could've fooled me. He's practically glued to your side, almost as if you're one of his cl--" James paused, squinting his eyes at me before deciding against finishing his sentence. He did one final survey and after determining that Logan was not, indeed, hiding behind my figure, James leaned a shoulder against the row of lockers beside him.

"I guess the real question is: why are you here all by your lonesome?"

"Avoiding the first-day crowd."

He smirked. "Avoiding a certain blonde, you mean?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

I crossed my arms. "I actually think rather highly of Logan's best friend Rivers Callahan--"

"Come on, Finch. You've witnessed how many girls I've broken up with here--"

"--why do you bring them up here anyway--"

"--so I know very well what heartbreak looks like. And you have it written all over your face."

"Stared at the sun a little too long in Greece, did you?"

James waved his hand to brush aside my words. "You know you have nothing to worry about, right?"

I did, in fact, have nothing to worry about because I was not allowed to worry about this situation whatsoever. I had no stakes in this at all. What could Sophia and Logan's relationship possibly have to do with me?

Still, a girl couldn't help but ask, "What do you mean by that?"

James smirked. I shouldn't have asked. "Well, you've probably witnessed firsthand just how much Logan worships his father. He's not allowed to date and an order from that man to Logan is like a decree from God. And yet--"James gestured at my figure. "Clearly he likes you enough to defy his family. Shouldn't that mean something?"

Except it didn't. Not when this whole relationship was a pretense.

I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the hollow sensation creeping across my ribs. "And here I thought you'd be leading the charge on swapping out his girlfriends. Is Sophia that much worse of a gold digger than me?"

James dropped his smirk; shifting his feet, his expression was a mix between apologetic and distraught, as if he wanted to throw up.

"Look, I am -- I'm sorry about those comments," he muttered.

Oh, this was just what I needed.

I cupped my ear and leaned forward. "What was that?"

"Fuck off, Finch." James was turning red. "Can you blame me? You two used to be at each other's throats and then all of a sudden, he's trailing you like some lost puppy."

"Is this how the rich apologize?"

His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath to steady himself. "It's just -- I couldn't understand it before, but at the gas station, you didn't even hesitate to tell us to run before headbutting one of the robbers."

"And you thought, 'Sacre bleu! Finch couldn't possibly be a gold digger! Look at her having the morals to put my life before hers!'"

"You know, I wouldn't put it past you to be that committed to the bit." James shot me a sneer, but it was quickly dropped as he looked away, looking once again like he wanted to throw up. "But I saw the way Logan was with you. After crashing his car into a gas station and taking down robbers with a gun he's not supposed to use when he's off-duty, he was supposed to be having a complete meltdown, rocking in some corner and muttering about his father. But there he was, bickering with you."

I blinked. "Is that what you consider to be the height of romance?"

"He's my best friend, Finch. I want what's best for him. I used to think he could do better than little Miss Too-Good-to-Study. But now I think that girl puts him at ease, which I've never seen anyone be able to do. I don't want to take that away from him."

"Sp--Finch!" a voice shouted down the hall.

Oh, yeah, Logan looked totally at ease.

Out of breath and slightly sweaty, his collar unbuttoned and tie loosened, Logan stood at the top of the stairs. "I told you to wait for -- Mayfield? What are you doing here?"

"Giving her relationship advice."

Logan sighed. "Mayfield, for the fiftieth time, I am of sound mind and--"

"I wasn't actually trying to break you two up," interrupted James with an affronted sniff. He pushed himself off the lockers, flicking a visible patch of dust off the fabric of his blazer. As Logan drew closer, James started heading away but not before he nudged me with his arm. "Hang in there."

The second James  was out of earshot, Logan was hovering before me, his eyes narrow. "Was he bothering you? Was he trying to bribe you to break up with me?" Then, it dawned on him just exactly where we were. "Oh, he broke up with Amelie? Poor girl."

"Why is this his breakup spot anyway?"

"Apparently, it's too creepy here for the girls to stick around and fight." Logan shivered. I grinned.

"Afraid of ghosts?"

"Ghosts aren't real," he shot back, though the nervous glance he spared around said otherwise.

"You know, there was a student here who was shoved into a locker and died. They say he haunts these halls now, searching for his bullies."

Logan flattened his gaze, albeit still pale. "No one has ever died here. I know you made that up and spread those rumors yourself."

"You have no proof."

As Logan slipped off his backpack, he silently mocked my words before pulling out two boxes of food. I froze.

"You got me lunch?"

"Elijah mentioned he forgot to pack you some leftovers and I know how much you hate the dining hall, so I figured I'd duck in and get you something to eat." Logan shook his head. "Should've known you'd sneak off before I got to you."

Suddenly, I felt so incredibly silly for assuming something else entirely. More than silly -- I felt a weird rush of relief.

Meanwhile, Logan made himself comfortable on the floor, his back against the lockers. He opened up his to-go box, revealing rows of fresh nigiri, and split apart a pair of wooden chopsticks. He motioned for me to sit next to him, and I did my best to squash this unorthodox burst of glee. Still, I couldn't completely block out the sensation of our shoulders touching, and the petty satisfaction knowing his arm wasn't brushing up some other girl's.

The cuisine of the week must've been Japanese, for my own to-go box housed pork katsu curry with rice and vegetables. Unable to resist, I stole a piece of sushi from Logan's platter, to which he was oblivious since he was too preoccupied scrolling vigorously through his phone.

"Hah!"

His grin was triumphant as he flashed his phone at me. The screen was open to a thread on the school forum, dated three years ago and titled "Student Died on Fourth Floor." The post went on to describe in great detail about the supposed death and documented haunts: a lonely specter drifting up and down the corridors, banging from within closed lockers, and distinct feelings of asphyxiation.

The user who wrote all this up? Some named LoganCrossisaDick.

I batted my lashes at him. "You have no proof."

But my smile dropped as his phone screen changed to the contact photo of the individual calling him. A picture of him and Sophia standing side-by-side filled the screen, the two of them gangly-legged and smiling wide-toothed for the camera.

Logan hung up the call and put his phone face down on the floor.

It buzzed again with Sophia's second attempt to reach him.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to the dining hall?"

I prayed that I sounded normal. Nonchalant. Unconcerned.

"Do you?" Logan asked, his brows shooting up.

I  thought of all those stares I got on my way here, not to mention the Blackwell agents scurrying about, disguised as incompetent members of faculty.

"Sure," I choked anyway. "It's the first day. Wouldn't it be nice to--"

"To what, eat lunch?" Logan rolled his eyes. "You need to stop treating me like some sheltered kid who's been raised by wolves his whole life. I've experienced lunch on the first day of school. Now let me eat here in this haunted hallway with you, princess."

I don't know what possessed me (probably the ghost of the kid who allegedly died here), but I blurted out, "You  haven't experienced lunch on the first day with an old friend."

Logan was already mid-bite on a piece of sake. He finished his chew in utter silence, his gaze fixed to his shoes. So much for unconcerned, I bemoaned internally, fighting the temptation to smack the back of my  head against these lockers.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have--"

"We didn't leave things on a good note."

Logan propped his arms atop his knees and relaxed his shoulders. As his head lolled back to rest against the metal paneling, a heavy sigh left him.

"I met Sophia when I was thirteen and taking extra training lessons from Nathaniel when he transferred to the Blackwell Guard. Her parents are rarely home, but Nathaniel never liked leaving her with the nanny and tutors so often, so he started bringing her along."

His right his moved up to rub the back of his neck. "In between training sessions, she and I started getting to know each other. Then she started bringing me lunch, and we'd spend hours just talking about our lives -- all she wanted to hear was me talking about my assignments. I picked her brain for her takes on classical music. And, well--"

Logan started tripping over his words, unable to string together the only conclusion there possibly could be from his premise.

"The two of you developed feelings."

He nodded.

"And then. . .?"

"She confessed. I shot her down." Logan shrugged. "We stopped talking as much since."

Without needing to ask him, I pieced together the reason why he turned her down by recalling the snippets of both Sophia and James's line of questioning throughout the day. But while that question was answered, there was still another I couldn't stop from slipping off my tongue.

"Do you still like her?"

Logan finally looked over at me. I half-expected him to look abashed, as though I'd caught him in some secret. But his expression was incredulous, and he stared at me for a good minute before a dry laugh escaped him.

"No," he answered. "I haven't really thought about her much since then."

That was it. That was all I was supposed to know, and I should've been satisfied. Once upon a time, there was something between them that never got the chance to blossom into anything. A simple summertime crush; the inklings of teenage affection never realized. The end.

Yet, his history lesson opened up a floodgate of thoughts in my mind that I so desperately wanted to ask but feared any answer to.

Are you lying?

Why are you telling me this?

Why did you stop thinking of her?

Was it because of me?

Do you like me?

Why do I care?

At least this time I was able to keep my mouth shut.

Ignoring the third round of buzzes from his phone, Logan pulled out a class assignment probably due six weeks from now, chopsticks in one hand, pen in another.  He looked just like every other student I passed on my way here, but there was something particularly endearing about the way his head was slightly bent over his textbook.

It was right then, right as I allowed myself to remember the taste of sugar on my lips from that summer night, did another buzz cut off my thoughts. This time, the  haptic vibrations came from my own phone, stuffed into the pocket of my skirt.

It was a rather innocuous text. How's your day going?

But it was from Vincent.

All at once, everything came crashing down. Simultaneously, those same walls built themselves right back up. For a glimmer of a second, I thought of just how much I wanted to stay here with Logan. I don't want you to smile like that at anyone else, I begged before I shoved the thought away. I want to be the one to make you laugh. I want you to get nervous when you think of me. I want you to think only of me.

As soon as I thought it, I stuffed it away into the depths of my mind, smothering it with a metaphorical piece of paper that looked suspiciously like that termination contract my grandmother gave me.

The process repeated. It was tumultuous, dizzying, and utterly crippling.

Stiff-fingered, I wrote back. Something unwitty, unfunny, and completely droll -- and with every letter I typed back, I stamped out any remaining feelings from today.

Vincent should be the one I talk to.

Vincent should be the one I think of.

Vincent should be the one I care about.

"I think," I announced, packing up my lunch box, "I want to give the dining hall a try."

We'll sit with your friends, I thought, getting to my feet. We'll sit with your classmates. With the girl who is actually able to like you back.

Logan gave me a steadying look. The measly bit of sunlight in the halls still managed to bring out the underlying gold in his eyes, but with me now looming over him, his gaze was cast in shadow. His eyes flickered to my phone clammed within my hand.

Always trying to read right through me, aren't you, Cross?

Logan closed his book. "As you wish, princess."

* * *

happy anniversary to me being employed!!

who knew having to work for a living would greatly eat into my schedule and will to live :D

-- knee