Chapter 5

The heavy oak door of the old music room clicked shut, sealing them into the quiet darkness. Outside, the university campus was winding down, but inside, the air was thick with a frantic, mutual desperation.

Atasha’s hands were clumsy as she tugged at the hem of Khalia’s oversized sweater.

She was breathing as if she had just run a marathon, her public elegance completely evaporating the moment the locks turned.

She pushed her lips against Khalia’s jaw, her teeth grazing the skin with an aggressive hunger that bordered on frantic.

"Slow down, Clemente," Khalia muttered, though she didn't pull away.

Instead, her hands gripped Atasha’s waist tightly, lifting her slightly to pin her back against the wall.

"The rules said to blow off steam, not to tear my clothes off."

"Shut up," Atasha breathed, her voice a ragged whisper. She tangled her fingers in the messy bun at the back of Khalia’s head, pulling it loose until dark waves fell around Khalia's shoulders.

Atasha stared into Khalia’s dark eyes in the dim light, her chest heaving.

"Just... shut up and make me forget today."

For the next hour, they didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

The physical connection was a battlefield where they traded their daytime frustrations.

Khalia used her quiet, surprising strength to control the pace, while Atasha used her fierce, demanding possessiveness to mark her territory.

It was toxic, intense, and deeply addictive.

By Tuesday morning, the mask was back on.

Khalia sat at a corner table in the university courtyard, a lukewarm paper cup of coffee sitting next to her open laptop.

She was proofreading the first data draft for their shared thesis, her thick glasses slipping down her nose.

A faint, purple bruise was blooming just beneath her collarbone, hidden safely beneath the high neckline of her faded knit sweater.

"Look at this, Atasha. The administration really expects us to share a courtyard with people who dress like they’re going to a garage sale."

Khalia didn't need to look up. Ysabella’s shrill, condescending voice cut through the morning air like a dull blade.

Ysabella strutted past Khalia’s table, her designer heels clicking loudly on the stone pavement.

Atasha walked beside her, looking flawless in a pastel blue blazer and a matching pleated skirt.

Her expression was neutral, a perfect picture of aristocratic detachment.

"Ignore it, Ysabella," Atasha replied smoothly, her voice carrying across the courtyard.

"Some people don't have the time or the resources to care about their appearance. Academic charity cases have more pressing things to worry about."

Ysabella let out a malicious laugh, tossing her hair.

"True. I guess when you have nothing else going for you, you have to spend all night buried in books."

Atasha’s eyes flicked to Khalia for a split second.

Khalia met her gaze over the rim of her coffee cup. There was no anger in Khalia’s eyes—only a cold, knowing amusement.

She knew exactly what Atasha had been buried in the night before, and it wasn't a textbook.

"Actually," Khalia spoke up, her voice clear and steady, halting Ysabella in her tracks.

"I spend my nights ensuring this department stays accredited. If I didn't, the university might actually have to look into how some legacy students manage to pass their midterms without knowing basic macroeconomics."

Ysabella’s face flushed with anger. "What did you say?"

"Let it go, Ysabella," Atasha interrupted sharply, her tone dropping a fraction. She stepped between Ysabella and Khalia, her back to the nerd.

"We have a luncheon with the dean. Don't waste your breath on someone who isn't even on our radar."

"Fine," Ysabella huffed, glaring at Khalia one last time before linking her arm through Atasha’s.

"Let's go. It smells like cheap detergent over here anyway."

As they walked away, Khalia went back to her typing. Her heart rate didn't even spike.

But as Atasha turned the corner toward the administrative building, she subtly dropped her left hand to her side, curling her fingers into a tight fist.

Her palm was sweating.

The double life was starting to feel less like a release valve and more like a pressure cooker.

Atasha could still feel the phantom imprint of Khalia’s fingers on her waist, and the fact that Khalia could sit there, completely unbothered, while Ysabella insulted her, was starting to drive Atasha completely insane.