The whispers started before Halifax even got to the first equation.
It was like someone had opened a window mid-lecture and let in the whole campus rumor mill. Heads kept twisting back, sideways, forward again, a ripple of hushed gasps and muffled laughter skating across the room.
At first, I thought maybe Halifax had written something wrong on the board—he'd done it once or twice before, and the class had turned into a small circus of corrections. But then I followed the collective gaze.
Yeah. Not the chalk.
Avery Brooke Prescott sat three rows over like she'd been born on a throne and somehow got demoted to a classroom chair. She wasn't even doing anything—just adjusting her hair with two fingers, stretching one leg out beneath the desk like she owned the floor, smiling faintly when she noticed someone staring too long.
Every movement was deliberate.
Every sigh timed.
Every look a dare.
It reminded me of someone.
