Monday morning dragged rain across the courtyard like a heavy curtain. Emma didn't have an umbrella; she was halfway to the lecture hall when the sky decided to demonstrate its opinion on human plans.
She ran, the hem of her coat darkening, hair dampening in soft curls that Sophie would later call "tragic romance." She was two steps from the building when a shadow fell across her. A canopy of black appeared overhead.
"Borrow mine," Ethan said. He'd materialized like weather does—when you look up mid-drop and realize the sky has arranged itself around you.
"You'll get soaked," Emma said, tilting the umbrella over him.
"I've survived worse," he said.
They fell into step beneath the narrow shelter. People stared. A low-level hum passed through their classmates like static skating a wire.
"About the event," Emma began. "Thank you. Even if your father thinks I'm a… tuition invoice."
"He thinks everyone is an invoice," Ethan said dryly. "It makes him efficient."
"And you?"
"I prefer receipts," he said. "Proof that what I invest returns."
"Am I an investment?" She meant it as a joke. It didn't land like one.
His silence stung and then, carefully: "You are a risk."
She almost stepped out from under the umbrella. "That's an unkind thing to say."
"It's an honest one," he returned, and then, softer: "You make me forget to measure."
She looked at him. The rain was loud enough to be privacy. "What would happen if you didn't?"
"I'd stop before I start," he said. "And I'm not… good at stopping."
It wasn't a declaration. It was a warning disguised as self-knowledge. It made her breath do a strange, errant thing.
Inside, Professor Harper called on them to present their outline. They did. It went well—too well, perhaps, for the room's comfort. Emma felt it in the sideways glances, the whispers with her name tucked into them like a pin.
When class ended, Liam Hart from the back row—curly hair, soft smile—caught up with her. "Hey, Emma. That was brilliant. If you ever want another pair of eyes on your draft, I—"
Ethan appeared at her shoulder, as if conjured by the word pair.
"She has mine," he said, cool as glass.
Liam's smile tensed. "Right. Of course. I just meant—"
"I know what you meant," Ethan said.
Emma stepped between them. "Liam, thank you. I'd like that. I mean it."
Liam brightened. "Great. There's a café off Portner Street—"
"Text me," Emma said, and because her phone was in her hand, because her fingers wanted a choice, she entered her number in his screen.
Later, outside, as the rain thinned to a sheen, Ethan said, without looking at her, "He wants things he hasn't earned."
"So do you," she said gently. "You want my compliance."
"I want your time," he said, and the quiet intensity of it made her nauseous and dizzy at once. "I don't share well."
"That's not my problem to solve," Emma said. "And I won't let you make it one."
He stopped. She walked two more steps before realizing and turning. He stood in the rain, no umbrella now, letting it soak his hair dark.
"You're right," he said finally. "I'm… learning."
The humility threaded through the words like a rare mineral. She stepped back under the umbrella with him. The truce held until the end of the day, until her inbox pinged with an email from an address she didn't recognize.
Be careful. He breaks what he touches.
No signature.
No context.
Just a warning, like thunder without a storm