Elara settles onto the bench, the cold wood pressing through the denim of her jeans, and she's aware of every inch of space between them—the gap where her thigh almost touches his, the inches of air that feel more intimate than contact. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, a short vibration against her hip. Derek's name flashes on the screen before she slides it deeper into her jeans, unread. The message glows for a moment in her mind: *How's studying going?* She doesn't answer.

Marcus doesn't look at her. He spreads his legs wider, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. He takes up the bench like it was built for him, and the posture is so natural—so unthinking—that she catches herself staring at the curve of his jaw, the way his collarbone shows at the collar of his polo. A group of guys she recognizes from the campus coffee cart are walking past, cups in hand, and they slow when they see her. One of them opens his mouth—probably to say something, to call her over, to try the same line they've tried every Tuesday for three weeks.

Marcus's head doesn't turn. He just speaks, low and flat, to no one. "Looks like they finally got the hint."

The guys veer left. One of them mutters something, but the words are lost in the crunch of gravel and the hum of the courtyard. They settle at a table at the far end, far enough that she feels a strange, quiet relief. She doesn't look at them. She looks at Marcus's profile—that sharp edge of his jaw, the small scar above his eyebrow she hadn't noticed before, the way his mouth rests in a half-smile that isn't quite a smile.

I am not his girl, she thinks. The thought is clear, almost clinical. She is someone else's. A phone away. A world away. But her body hasn't moved an inch, and her thigh is still two finger-widths from his, and she hasn't taken her hand out of her pocket where Derek's text is still warm against her hip.

"You're quiet today," he says. Still not looking at her. He reaches down, picks up a pebble from beside the bench, and tosses it into the fountain. The plink echoes across the courtyard. "Usually you've got some excuse ready by now. 'I have a boyfriend,' 'This is a group project,' 'We shouldn't be doing this.'"

"Do you want me to say those things?" she asks, and her voice is steadier than she expected.

He turns, finally. His eyes—dark, unhurried—run down her face, her neck, the curve of her shoulder through her sweater. "No," he says. "I like this version better."

The word version hangs in the air, and she feels it click into place, something she hadn't named until now. There is a version of her that texts Derek goodnight and a version that bends over a library table. They are not the same person. And the one beside Marcus on this bench—the one who hasn't checked her phone—is the one who feels real.

She looks down at her hands. The afternoon light catches the watch Derek gave her for their anniversary, the thin gold band that she's never taken off. She twists it around her wrist, once, then stops when she realizes she's doing it.

"What do you want from me, Marcus?" The question comes out before she can stop it, and she hears the crack in her own voice—the fraying edge she's been trying to hide.

He doesn't answer right away. He leans back, stretches an arm along the back of the bench, and his fingers are close enough to brush the collar of her sweater. She doesn't pull away. The air between them thickens, and she can smell him—soap, something citrus, the faint salt of skin.

"I don't want anything," he says. "I just take what's offered."

She looks at him. His expression is unreadable, but there's something in the set of his jaw—a patience she hasn't seen before. He's not pushing. He's waiting. And that's worse, because it means the choice is hers, and she's still here.

Her phone buzzes again. Two vibrations. A text, then another. Derek.

Marcus's eyes flick to her pocket. "You gonna check that?"

She doesn't move. Her hand stays on her thigh, fingers still, and she watches his pupils dilate slightly in the sunlight. The world narrows: the heat of the bench, the hum of the fountain, the weight of unread messages in her jeans.

"No," she says. The word is barely a whisper.

His hand leaves the back of the bench. His fingers find the collar of her sweater, the edge of the fabric where it meets her collarbone, and he touches her—just the pads of two fingers against her skin, light, testing. Her breath catches, and she feels it in her chest, in the hollow of her throat, in the quickening pulse he must be able to feel under his touch.

"This doesn't mean anything," she says, and the lie tastes familiar on her tongue.

Marcus doesn't smile. He just holds her gaze, his fingers still resting against her skin, and says, "Keep telling yourself that, Vance."

The fountain splashes. The guys at the far end laugh at something. The sun moves a finger's width across the courtyard. And Elara doesn't pull away.

The fountain splashes. The guys at the far end laugh at something. The sun moves a finger's width across the courtyard. And Elara doesn't pull away.

His fingers stay on her collarbone, light enough that she could pretend she doesn't feel them. But she does—the callus on his middle finger, the warmth of his skin against hers, the way his thumb rests at the hollow of her throat like it belongs there. She watches his face, looking for the triumph she expects, the smirk she's braced for. It isn't there. His expression is almost curious, like he's studying a problem he hasn't solved yet.

"You're not going to ask me to stop," he says. Not a question.

"Would you?"

His mouth quirks, just the corner. "Depends on how you asked."

She should leave. She knows she should leave. Derek's texts are burning a hole in her pocket, two unread confessions of trust she hasn't earned, and she should stand up, walk across the courtyard, and call him back. Tell him she loves him. Tell him she's sorry. Tell him something true before the lies pile too high to climb over.

Instead, she turns her wrist. The gold watch catches the light, and she watches it gleam—Derek's face when he'd fastened it around her wrist, his fingers clumsy with the clasp, laughing at himself. I practiced this, he'd said. I watched a tutorial.

Her hand falls back to her thigh.

Marcus's eyes track the motion. He sees the watch. She watches him see it—the way his gaze snags on the gold band, the way something flickers behind his eyes and then smooths over. He doesn't mention it. He doesn't touch it. But his hand moves from her collarbone to her jaw, fingers curling under her chin, and he turns her face toward him.

"Come on," he says. Low. Quiet. His thumb traces the line of her jaw, once. "I'm done sitting here."

He stands. Before leaving he said “Hey don't forget our project meeting tomorrow.”

“See you in study room” she replied.

“Hey my parents are leaving town tomorrow for three days. Why don't we sit in my apartment? We would have more time for out projects.” Marcus suggested.

She catches on how Marcus said projects instead of project.

“Projects? Do you also mean your so called ‘stretch all you holes' alongside our class projects?” She asked.

Marcus replied with a playful reply “That is why I like you. You are smart and funny too. See you tomorrow”

“Dream on” she answered with playful smile.