Rachel didn't strut. Strutting was for amateurs.
She glided.
Down the main corridor of campus in a peach satin dress that caught the morning light like a fresh bruise. The skirt hugged her hips with the perfect amount of intention, the gloves on her arms matching the soft pastel shade but hiding the more violent evidence of last night's verbal war.
Behind her marched two men who looked like the mid-boss fight of a mafia game. Broad. Bearded. Identically dressed in security black and carrying the unmistakable "my paycheck depends on your teenage whims" expression.
They were both a head shorter than her in heels.
It was insulting, really.
Rachel paused at the doors of her lecture hall, turned to them with a smile so sugar-slick it could've passed for polite.
"Wait here, puppies," she said. "Try not to break the vending machines this time."
Neither responded. Professionals. Boring ones.
She blew them a kiss anyway and walked into class like she hadn't just left behind two extras from Die Hard: The Early Years.
Inside, things were blissfully normal. The murmured rustle of notes, the bored shuffle of chairs. She slid into her seat with grace honed by spite and etiquette class and crossed her legs at the ankle, eyes forward.
But her mind? Racing.
Her mother hadn't even pretended this was subtle. The guards were a message. A gilded leash. Rachel was allowed to dance—but only in the cage.
The class dragged.
By the time she stepped back into the hall, her guards flanked her again like sentinels who'd just discovered what body heat was. She resisted the urge to spin and knock their heads together like coconuts.
And then—Luna.
He was waiting near the building entrance, earbuds in, backpack slung low, looking up just in time to spot her.
His eyes widened at the sight of the guards.
Rachel raised a brow, strolling toward him with a smirk.
"Hey, handsome," she called. "Sorry if I startled you. I've picked up a couple of strays."
Luna blinked. "Are they…?"
"My mother's latest art installation," she said, flipping her hair. "Entitled: Control Through Subtlety. She's experimenting."
Luna's lips twitched. "Do they follow you everywhere?"
"Just today," she said. "They'll get bored soon enough. I don't exactly scream 'hostage risk.'" She leaned in. "But if you tell them that, I'll have to kill you."
He smiled. "Actually… I was hoping we could talk."
Rachel blinked. "Right now?"
"If you're free. I could even come over after school—"
"Scandal," she said, deadpan. "Don't threaten me with a good time."
Luna flushed. "I'm serious."
"I know." She tilted her head, deliberating. "Alright. Change of plan. Come have lunch with me."
"Where?"
Rachel smiled. "The library. Second floor's got a café and the guards seem allergic to books."
She was right.
By the time they reached the arched entrance, the guards took up positions near the security counter without a word. Rachel didn't wait—she took Luna's hand and led him up the curving stairs, the clack of her heels echoing like a countdown.
And finally, finally, they were alone.
Just the two of them, the scent of paper and espresso, and everything unsaid lingering like the sugar packets between them.
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