Three months earlier….
——————
"Clara? … Clara!"
The voice cracked like a whip, cutting through Clara's dreamless nap. A palm slammed against her desk, rattling her pen. Clara's lashes fluttered open, and her icy glare locked on the brown-eyed culprit, who'd decided Clara's beauty sleep was a personal insult.
"You don't have to yell," Clara drawled through a yawn, voice low and lazy.
She stretched like a spoiled cat, back arching, arms overhead, earning a few glances from nearby classmates.
Emily leaned over her desk, loose-wavy curls spilling like brown, silk ribbon, frustration written all over her flawless face.
"If you keep falling asleep in class, you're going to fail," she hissed.
Clara tilted her head, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Not likely."
She laced her fingers behind her head, lounging like she owned the place. College was too easy. She was a shark in a fish tank, graceful but caged.
Clara smirked at her best friend's theatrics, gathering her books at an infuriatingly slow pace. She thrived on being infuriating.
"Fine," she said at last. "But if I pass out mid-stretch during aerobics, it's on you."
Emily looped their arms together as they strolled down the corridor, her energy a sharp contrast to Clara's languid grace.
"Don't act like you don't love aerobics class," Emily teased. "At least we're in it together! Two classes together this semester is pretty lucky" She sang.
"I like the instructor," Clara corrected, flashing a wicked grin. "She lets us gossip…. and she doesn't yell at me. That's always a plus."
When they reached the gym building, sunlight streamed through the tall glass doors in a golden haze, bathing Clara in warmth.
Emily had ducked into the locker room to change. Clara borey wandered outside, stepping into the sunlight and inhaling deeply. The heavy scent of the musty hallways faded, replaced by something fresh and alive. She leaned against the building's sun-warmed stone, tilting her head back, the sunlight painting her golden hair with fire. The heavy hum of fluorescent lights and overcrowded halls melted away.
She'd planned ahead, wearing her workout set beneath her soft pink dress. A small smile tugged at her lips as she smoothed down the skirt. Wasting an outfit on a boring history lecture seemed like a crime.
As she admired the dress, movement caught her attention.
A tall figure in all black slipped past, head bent, moving through the crowd with quiet purpose. The air shifted as he passed, carrying a warm, woodsy scent—cedar and spice, like crushed maple leaves after a rain. Clara's breath hitched, and a soft, involuntary hum escaped her throat, like when you take the first bite out of a steamy apple pie.
She lifted her gaze quickly, hoping to catch his face, but he was already slipping around the corner. All she saw was glossy black hair, the kind you wanted to run your fingers through.
Emily suddenly bounced in front of her, blocking her view and breaking her trance.
She twirled dramatically in her new attire, ponytail swishing like a metronome.
"Too slutty?" Emily grinned.
Clara blinked at her. Emily's sculpted curves and perfect smile were enough to stop traffic; "slutty" was a laughable understatement.
"You look hot. Stunning, actually. Can we go now?" She craned her neck, trying to catch another glimpse of the stranger. He was gone.
Emily beamed, blissfully unaware. "Not as hot as you. Seriously, Clara, you're like—genius bombshell Barbie. Girls go under the knife to the lips and jugs you were god gifted. And don't think I forgot that it just slipped your mind about telling me that you got into every university you applied to! Seriously? Two years and you never told me?"
Clara shrugged, tying her long golden hair into a ponytail. "It didn't matter. I wanted to go where you went."
Emily melted at that, though she masked it with a dramatic sigh.
Class started, and Clara peeled off her dress, revealing biker shorts and a cropped sports tank.
Emily unrolled her yoga mat while their instructor—a deceptively petite woman with a drill sergeant's voice—clapped her hands.
_ _ _ _ _
Aerobics was hell. An hour later, sweat clung to their skin like armor. Emily bounced back effortlessly, while Clara, though glowing, rolled her eyes at the chipper instructor.
They split ways, Emily flashing a quick wave. "Call me later, babe!"
Clara adjusted her earbuds, the upbeat rhythm flooding her senses with warmth.
She glided down the hallway, sunlight streaking in through tall windows, the sunlight spilled over her, catching the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, and she looked like a goddess among mortals.
Sliding into her coding class, she crossed her legs, her skirt riding just enough to make nearby students fumble their pens.
But her thoughts kept drifting back to him.
She leaned a hand on her pink, soft cheek. She put her pinky to her lip. And if by sole will power, a head of dark hair passed through the threshold. She slowly removed the earphone.
Then the room shifted.
The shadow slipped across the doorway.
Her gaze snapped up.
There he was.
The stranger in black. The man whose very presence had made her breath hitch.
Clara froze, earbuds dangling from her hand.
"You've got to be shitting me."
_ _ _ _ _ _
Clara has always loved numbers.
Numbers were loyal. They didn't lie, or change their minds. They followed rules, clean and simple—like she did. That's why she thrived in advanced coding while most students fled to pottery or art electives to "relax." Clara wanted rigor. Challenge. Something to keep her razor-sharp brain from rusting.
This class was meant for engineering majors, tech prodigies, and caffeine-fueled introverts. So why was he here?
He didn't belong. Not with that sleek leather jacket, that lazy confidence, that way he prowled into the classroom like he owned it. His raven-black hair fell into his eyes, and he combed it back with his fingers—a move that felt practiced but effortlessly careless.
Clara straightened in her seat, eyes locked on him like a cat sighting prey.
He went straight to the professor's desk, voice low and rich with an accent she couldn't quite place. English? No… something older. Smoother.
She found herself leaning forward, her pulse quickening, straining to catch his words.
"…late add to the class," she could barely make out what the professor was saying.
Perfect. Clara's lips curled into a smile as a plan formed. She grabbed her notebook and sauntered over, heels clicking softly on the linoleum.
To anyone watching, she was just a diligent student waiting her turn. In reality, she was studying him like a puzzle she had to solve.
Up close, the scent of cedarwood and crushed leaves wrapped around her like velvet. It was intoxicating. His tailored shirt hinted at lean muscle—strong but not bulky. Those blindingly white shoes told her he paid attention to detail. And the way he stood… relaxed, like he didn't care what anyone thought.
"Have a seat anywhere," the professor said, handing him a slip of paper. "You'll need a partner for the project. Miss Lovesteen, your partner, Jack I believe right? He still out with meningitis? Pair up."
Clara's grin widened. Jackpot.
"Hi!" she said brightly, stepping into his space with a practiced sway of her hips. "Clara Lovesteen."
He turned. Dark eyes met hers. And for a moment, she swore the world tilted.
"And you are…?" she asked, flashing her perfect, weaponized smile.
"Cyra." His voice was low, smooth, and completely unfazed by her proximity.
"Mmm. Interesting name," she teased, inching closer. "Cyyyra."
He didn't move back. He leaned forward, lips brushing close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
"And yours, my dear…" he whispered.
"Yes?" she murmured, breath catching.
"— is basic."
He pulled away with a ghost of a smirk, striding toward an empty desk, leaving Clara frozen, mouth slightly open.
"B-basic?!" she sputtered.
The audacity. No one—no one—had ever dismissed her like that. She stormed to her desk, slamming her bag down with enough force to draw stares. Her cheeks burned hot with anger.
Basic.
Was she supposed to be some vapid, pretty face to him? Just another girl in a short dress and glossy lips?
She clenched her fists so hard her nails dug crescents into her palms.
"Alright, everyone, laptops out," the professor droned. "We don't have time to work on your coding project in class. Today we will finish yesterday's lesson. Work with your partners outside of class if you want to pass, the project is worth 25% of your grade."
Great. Partnering with Mr. Leather Jacket was going to be hell.
"Look," Cyra's voice cut through her thoughts. He leaned casually on her desk, his expression unreadable. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that. I just… I know your type."
"Excuse me? My type?" Her voice rose, sharp as broken glass. Heads turned.
He held his hands up, palms out, like he was humoring a child.
"Pretty. Polished. Dangerous in your own way. But not my type. I'd rather be honest than… lead you on."
"Lead me—are you insane?" she snapped. Her chest heaved, fury flaring hotter with each syllable.
"Relax, Princess."
Her jaw clenched.
"You're a good girl, that's all" he said smoothly, tilting his head, studying her like a specimen. "Always early. Backpack packed with color-coded notebooks. Teachers adored you. You peaked in high school but still think you run the place like a queen bee. Perfect little princess."
Her fingernails bit into her palms so deeply it hurt. She was two seconds from punching him and he was disappointed when she didn't.
But then he leaned in, smirk curling.
"Prove me wrong."
Her breath caught. "Excuse me?"
"Prove me wrong." His voice dropped lower, dangerous. "Go on a date with me. Tomorrow. Show me you're not all rules and polish."
His gaze locked with hers, sharp and cold, daring her to break.
"I dare you."