The dynamic in Literature 202 had shifted. It was a subtle change, invisible to anyone else in the steeply tiered lecture hall, but to Amelia, it was as palpable as the weight of her textbook. When she slid into seat 12 next to Adrian, there was no longer a wall of tense silence. Instead, a quiet, humming awareness settled between them.
He didn't greet her with a smirk or a sarcastic comment. He simply glanced up from his notebook, where he was once again sketching, and gave her a small, almost shy nod. "Reed."
"Vale," she responded, her voice equally quiet.
Professor Evans launched into a lecture on post-modern meta-narrative, but Amelia's focus was divided. She was acutely aware of the space where his arm rested on the shared desk, mere inches from hers. She noticed the way he'd underlined a passage in his copy of Slaughterhouse-Five—a thoughtful, precise line, not a frantic highlight. She saw him jot a question in the margin: Is Billy Pilgrim's passivity a critique or a surrender?
It was the question she'd been turning over in her own mind.
When the class was dismissed, they packed their bags in a silence that felt comfortable, not charged. As they stood to leave, he didn't immediately move towards the door and his waiting crowd. He hesitated, turning to her.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked. His tone was casual, but there was a tightness around his eyes that betrayed his nerves.
"Sure," she said, her own heart beginning to thump a little harder.
They waited as the other students filed out, the noise fading to an echo in the hallway. Suddenly, they were alone in the vast, empty room, surrounded by the ghosts of a hundred literary arguments.
"My father," Adrian began, then stopped, clearing his throat. He looked down at his hands, then back at her. "There's a fundraising gala for the Vale Foundation. It's this Friday night. A whole… production."
Amelia's mind conjured images of ballrooms, champagne flutes, and women in gownows that cost more than her tuition. "Okay," she said slowly, not sure where this was going.
"I have to go. It's… non-negotiable." He took a breath, his gaze steady on hers. "And I was wondering if you would come with me."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Of all the things he could have said, this was the last thing she expected. A gala. With him. As his date.
"Me?" The word came out as a stunned whisper. "Why?"
A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "Because the thought of going through that entire night surrounded by people who want something from me, or who are paid to smile at me, makes me feel like I'm suffocating. Because I think you're the only person in this entire city who would look my father in the eye and tell him if his tie was ugly."
Amelia blinked, utterly disarmed. It wasn't a line. It wasn't flattery. It was a raw, honest plea. He was asking her to be his shield. His anchor in a sea of fakes.
"Adrian… I… I don't have anything to wear to something like that," she said, the protest sounding weak and pathetic even to her own ears.
"That doesn't matter," he said, his voice intense. "Wear a paper bag. I don't care. Just… be there."
She stared at him, at the desperate hope in his blue eyes, so different from the cool detachment she was used to. This was the boy from the coffee shop, the one who was tired of the performance. He was inviting her backstage, into the heart of the masquerade.
Every sensible bone in her body screamed no. It was a terrible idea. It was stepping directly into the spotlight she had spent her life avoiding. It was accepting a role in his world, a world where she didn't belong.
But looking at him, seeing the vulnerability he was offering her like a gift, she found her sensible bones were vastly outnumbered by her foolish, curious heart.
"What would I even do?" she asked, her resistance crumbling.
"Just be you," he said softly. "Argue with me about the art on the walls. Make fun of the terrible orchestra. Save me from myself."
The silence stretched, filled only with the distant sound of students in the hallway. He was asking her to cross the Cafeteria Divide for real this time. Not just for a study session, but for a night that defined his life.
She took a deep, shaky breath.
"Okay."
The word was barely audible, but it seemed to echo in the quiet lecture hall.
His entire posture changed. The tension drained from his shoulders, and the smile that spread across his face was one of pure, unadulterated relief. It transformed him, making him look younger, lighter. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," she repeated, a little stronger this time. "Okay, I'll go."
"Thank you," he said, and the gravity in those two words told her more than a thousand flowery speeches ever could.
He quickly gave her the details—time, place, the fact a car would pick her up—before turning to leave, as if afraid she might change her mind.
Amelia stood alone in the empty classroom, the ghost of his relief still hanging in the air. She had just agreed to walk into the lion's den. She had no dress, no knowledge of black-tie etiquette, and no idea what she was doing.
But as she walked out into the hallway, a strange, giddy sensation bubbled up inside her, overpowering the fear. For better or worse, the story was unfolding. And she was no longer just a reader; she was a main character.