Chapter 185: 185: The First semester VIII

---

Color rose under her skin like dawn under frost. "You sound like a poet," she said.

"I feel like a lost man," he said. "I wanted to find you. I could not leave. Punishment. Curfew. Rules that have never met romance."

Sera’s laugh ghosted out. "You can find me in your heart," she said, trying to make light and failing because truth made it heavy. She breathed. "Listen. You cannot leave freely now. First-years never can. But there will be an outdoor training in a few weeks. You will go to buy things. When you go out, I will meet you. At the house. At the shop. The one I gave you."

John looked at her, eyes warm and unguarded for a moment. "I will come," he said. "My body and my heart—" he stopped, embarrassed by his own daring, then decided to be brave twice in one day— "they crave you."

Sera’s ears went pink. She stepped half a pace closer and then half back, both motions wrapped in patience. "Then we will be good to the rules in public," she said, eyes bright. "And find old doors in private."

"How do I reach you," he asked. "If I get permission to leave early. If the day decides to be kind."

"I will send a stone," she said. "A twin communication stone. Someone I trust will deliver it. When you go out, call me and I will answer. But..." She glanced toward the windows of the hall and the dark glass that reflected a hundred curious eyes. "For now, we speak like this. With space between."

John nodded. He wanted to take her hand. He wanted to lean his head against her shoulder just to see if the world would stop racing long enough to breathe once without a count. He did neither.

Sera stole another small breath. "Evening," she said. "After your last class, meet me by the old library. The broken one, with ivy that thinks it owns the wall. There is a bench behind the west stack. No one goes there. We can talk. Just talk." She swallowed. "I want to talk without eyes."

"I will be there," John said. "One class left. I will come when the bell is finished with its pride."

They stood a heartbeat longer. The plane leaves above them moved like green hands thinking of applause.

"I should go," Sera said finally. "If I stay, someone will carve a ballad into a wall that deserves better."

He nodded. "I understand."

She turned. After three steps, she looked back with a smile that had learned to make do with small distances. "Eat your fill," she said. "And tell your little tyrant that cake is not a vegetable."

John’s mouth tilted. "He will argue."

"He always does." Sera walked away, gathering the attention she did not want like a cloak she would fold later.

John waited until the doors closed on her and the hum of the hall swallowed its own story again. He let the line inside his chest steady. Then he went back in.

Fizz was nose-to-nose with a large boy over a tray. "I am telling you," the boy rumbled, "the last slice is for my friend."

"I am telling you," Fizz replied, hands on small hips he had conjured for the argument, "that destiny does not care about your friend and neither does this cake."

"It’s pie," the boy said.

"It identifies as cake," Fizz snapped.

John cleared his throat. The two combatants paused. Fizz flicked a paw toward the plate. "Judge this. Is it cake."

"It is pie," John said.

The large boy looked smug.

"And he is taking it," John added.

The large boy looked less smug. Fizz stood on the plate like a tiny victorious general. "Thank you," he said primly, then sagged by his elbow into John’s shoulder and whispered very loudly, "So, how was talking with the goddess follower who pretends not to be in love with you."

John set down his tray. He did not look at any of the people pretending not to stare. "Good," he said simply. "We will meet later. Old library. Fizz, don’t say that. People will hear."

Fizz wiggled his whiskers. "Secret rendezvous near crumbling tomes. I approve. Books love drama."

They ate. Or rather, John ate and Fizz conducted delicate negotiations with sweets that involved passionate speeches and small bites. Around them, the hall played the same note it always played: envy in the high voices, curiosity in the low, the steady bass of spoons and plans. Someone at the far table whispered "Black family" like a prayer or a warning. Someone else whispered "commoner" like they had never met one.

Fizz licked sugar off his paw with dignity. "People talk," he said. "Let them. Talking is their only skill. We" —he gestured between them with a crumbly flourish— "have more."

John finished his stew. He did not say he was nervous about the meeting in the ivy’s shadow. He did not say he wanted to run and he wanted to stay and he wanted the world to stop asking him to be brave every five minutes. He drank water that tasted clean and honest and thought about the bench behind the west stack.

"Class in ten," Fizz said, reading the clock of John’s face as if it had numbers on it.

John stood. Fizz scooped up the disputed pie, took one solemn bite, and pushed the rest onto the large boy’s plate without comment. The boy blinked, surprised into gratitude, which is a very good surprise.

They left the noise and stepped back into the hall’s cooler echo. Through the tall windows, the old library’s ivy showed itself as a green problem for later. The bell lifted its head.

Fizz bumped John’s arm, lighter this time. "We will keep to the rules," he said softly. "We will count the breaths. We will still find the quiet places."

John nodded. He could feel the little black egg in the void, patient as stone; he could feel the weight of the day with its shapes and doors; he could feel Sera’s voice like a line that pulled but did not tear. He breathed four in, four out, and the line in his chest stayed straight.

"Come on," he said. "One class. Then a bench behind a wall that remembers better stories."

They turned the corner, and behind them the dining hall erupted into another small argument about whether flan is a real word. Fizz sighed. "This school," he declared, "is a fun place. I am looking forward for the next class."

They walked toward the afternoon.