The door clicked shut behind them, a final sound in the empty room. David turned the lock. The mechanism was old, heavy, a solid thunk of metal that sealed out the world. Elenora stood perfectly still, the chalk-dust air coating her tongue. The sodium light from outside cut the darkness into long, geometric shadows, painting David’s face in sharp angles of orange and black.
He didn’t speak. He simply walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the scuffed linoleum. He caged her against the wall, one hand flat beside her head, the other finding her hip. He studied her face. His eyes held that familiar, terrifying warmth, but beneath it was something new—a glint of pure, unadulterated mischief.
“Hi,” he said, his voice low.
He kissed her. It wasn’t the claiming force of the library, or the practiced passion of the hallway. This was slow. Deliberate. His lips moved against hers with a soft, exploring pressure that made her breath catch. When he pulled back an inch, she was blushing. She felt the heat in her cheeks, hated that he could see it in the dim light.
“Tell me about your family,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the fabric of her new skirt at her hip.
The question was a bucket of ice water. Her blush deepened, but now from shame. She looked away, at the shadow of an empty lab table. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Elenora.” He said her name like a command. “Look at me.”
She did. His expression was curious, patient. It was worse than his anger. “My mother is Chinese. My father is Korean. They own a dry-cleaning business. Two locations.” She recited it like a defunct fact, her voice small. “We live above one of them.”
David didn’t react to the modest details. He just nodded, as if filing the information away. “And they worked for that. For you.”
It wasn’t a question. It was an interpretation she hadn’t prepared for. Her silence was answer enough.
His hands came up to the first button of her white shirt. The uniform shirt he’d demanded she wear. His fingers were deft. The button slipped free.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her. Her hands flew up, gripping his wrists. “David. Don’t.”
He stilled. He looked at her hands on his wrists, then back at her eyes. He didn’t push. He just waited, his gaze holding hers, and in that wait she remembered everything. The threat in the hallway. His parents, their donations, the Vice Chancellor’s daughter shrinking from his command. The social annihilation that waited for her if she accused him. The physical ruin if she fought.
Her grip loosened. Her hands fell back to her sides, heavy as stones.
He saw the surrender. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh left him. Then, unexpectedly, he wrapped his arms around her. He pulled her into his chest. It wasn’t a violent pull; it was an embrace. A hug. His chin rested on top of her head, his body solid and warm around her. He smelled like sandalwood and clean cotton. For three heartbeats, she was confused. Comforted. Her face was pressed against the soft weave of his sweater, and the instinct to lean into it, to accept this strange comfort, was a traitorous ache in her chest.
“Just breathe,” he whispered into her hair.
Then his hands were at her buttons again.
This time, she didn’t stop him. She stared over his shoulder at the locked door, her body rigid as he worked his way down. The shirt fell open. The cool air of the room touched her skin, raising goosebumps. Her plain, gray bra was exposed. She closed her eyes.