The Pony Trap is a roar of cheap beer and undergraduate desperation, but all I feel is the heat of his stare from across the bar. He wasn’t supposed to be here. I wore the shorts instead, a petty defiance that now feels childish under his blue, analytical gaze. He leans against the wall by the dartboard, a pint untouched beside him, watching me fail to charm the two Australian surfers Lacey dragged me over to meet. And the worst part is the slow, knowing tilt of his head—he’d predicted this, and my rebellion only proved his point.

“So you’re, like, a professional mermaid?” one of them—Liam or Leo—shouts over the thrum of a terrible country cover band. His eyes are glued to my chest, not my face. I force a laugh that sounds like a choked seagull. “Performance artist,” I correct, but it’s swallowed by the noise. I can feel Sebastian’s focus like a physical weight between my shoulder blades, a cool, dry counterpoint to the humid, beer-soaked air. I take a desperate sip of my vodka soda. It tastes like regret and melted ice.

“Right. Cool,” the other one says, already looking over my head for the next distraction. Lacey, bless her, jumps in with a flirty touch to his arm, trying to salvage the sinking ship. My performance is flopping. The script is wrong. The audience is bored. And the one person actually paying attention is the critic I never wanted.

I risk a glance back. Sebastian hasn’t moved. He’s just… observing. A professor at a zoo, watching the primates fling their own shit. Our eyes meet for a second—a jolt of pure, undiluted voltage—and I snap my head around so fast my neck cracks. My heart is doing a frantic tap dance against my ribs. Why is he here? To gloat? To supervise?

The Australians excuse themselves to get another round, a transparent escape. Lacey leans in, her perfume a cloud of candy-sweetness. “Okay, maybe not the surfers. His fault for killing the vibe.” She nods sharply toward Sebastian. “Who is the broody, hot professor in the corner and why is he staring at you like you’re a misbehaving footnote?”

“That,” I say, draining my glass, “is my temporary roommate. And he’s not broody. He’s… conducting a field study on catastrophic life choices.” I can feel his gaze still on me, a laser point of quiet judgment in the chaotic dark. It should make me want to disappear. Instead, it makes every nerve ending stand up, saluting.

“Another,” I say to the bartender, sliding my empty glass across the sticky wood with a force that feels like a declaration. I will not look at him. I will find someone else. Anyone else. The bartender, a guy with a beard that could house small birds, nods and starts mixing. I turn my back squarely to the dartboard wall, presenting Sebastian with the defiant line of my shoulders. See? Unbothered. A study in moving on.

Lacey materializes beside me, a fresh cocktail already in hand. “Okay, new plan. Pre-med hottie by the pool table. Solid shoulders, kind eyes, probably knows CPR.” She follows my rigid posture and sighs. “Or we could just stand here while you mentally duel Professor Tall, Dark, and Judgmental. Your call.”

“I’m not dueling. I’m ignoring.” The new drink arrives. I take a gulp. The vodka burns a clean, stupid path down my throat. “And his name is Sebastian. He’s not a professor of… this.” I gesture vaguely at the beer-soaked chaos.

“He’s professoring something right now,” Lacey murmurs, her eyes darting over my shoulder. “And it looks advanced. You’re vibrating, Im. Like a plucked string.”

She’s right. My skin is too tight. Every laugh from the crowd, every clink of glass, feels like it’s happening inside my skull. And beneath it all, a low, humming awareness of where he is in the room. A gravitational pull I have to consciously resist. This is ridiculous. He’s just a man. A stuffy, uptight, impossibly observant man who ironed his jeans.

“Fine. Point me at Pre-Med.” I push off the bar. The room sways just a fraction—the drinks, the noise, the sheer performance of it all. I weave through the crowd, Lacey’s hand a steadying pressure on my lower back. I can feel the exact moment Sebastian’s gaze tracks my movement. It’s a physical sensation, a cool spot between my shoulder blades amidst the sweat and heat. I don’t look. I focus on the pool table, on the guy in the dark green henley lining up a shot. He has nice hands. Competent. I can work with nice hands.

Pre-Med—his name is Evan, he tells me, shouting over the twangy guitar solo—has very clean, very warm hands. They settle on my hips as we shuffle in the cramped space they call a dance floor, which is really just a cleared patch of sticky linoleum near the bathrooms. I let my body move against his, a slow, deliberate roll of my hips. The bass from the speakers thrums up through the soles of my boots. I close my eyes, but not to feel him. I’m listening for the absence. For the moment the cool, pinpoint pressure of Sebastian’s gaze vanishes from the back of my neck. It hasn’t. Yet.

“You’re a good dancer,” Evan says into my hair, his breath smelling of IPA and mint gum. His hands slide up, thumbs brushing the underside of my ribs. It feels nice. Uncomplicated. A handsome, clean boy with kind eyes and solid shoulders who wants to kiss me. This is the script. This is what I came for.

“Thanks,” I murmur, turning my head to rest my cheek against his chest. My eyes open, scanning the wall by the dartboard through the swaying bodies. The space is empty. Just a half-finished pint sitting alone on the ledge. A cold little monument to his departure. He’s gone. The victory is hollow and sudden, a trapdoor opening under my stomach. I straighten up.

Evan takes it as an invitation. His hands firm on my shoulders, turning me to face him. The music is loud, the lights are low, and his mouth is on mine before I can fully register the shift. It’s a good kiss. Confident. Warm. I kiss him back, letting my teeth scrape his lower lip just to feel him jolt against me. He groans, a low, appreciative sound, and his fingers tangle in my hair. I’m doing it. I’m here, in the moment, with a perfectly lovely man. So why am I cataloging the exit?

“Want to get out of here?” Evan asks against my mouth, his voice rough. His hand is on the small of my back, dipping just below the waistband of my shorts. I can feel the heat of his palm through the thin cotton. It’s a real question. A real offer. I pull back just enough to see his face—earnest, flushed, wanting. Lacey would be giving me a double thumbs-up from the bar.

“I…” The word dies. My gaze flicks over his shoulder one more time, a stupid, compulsive check. The empty wall mocks me. Sebastian didn’t just leave. He saw the kiss, assessed the data, and concluded the experiment was beneath his continued observation. Of course he did. I feel a sudden, sharp sting of humiliation, hot and bright. He’d watched me choose the shorts, watched me fail with the surfers, watched me settle for the first solid option, and then he’d simply… clocked out. Filed me under ‘Predictable.’ I am a misbehaving footnote, and he’s finished the chapter.