SIXTY | OBSIDIAN

Giddy with excitement, I clung to Cyrus’s hand as he pushed open the door to his office. He shared it with another lecturer, he’d told me, perhaps worried that I was overestimating what I was about to see in my head.

It still felt odd to hold his hand, but not because it was unpleasant. No – it was quite the opposite, in fact. I gave it a tiny squeeze, testing the feel of his palm against mine. A shockwave of pleasure tingled from the point of contact, arching up my arm and to the tips of my fingers. He squeezed back, and smiled at me.

“This is it,” he said, lightly, almost teasingly. “Room J two-hundred and eleven.”

He held the door open for me. Part of me wanted to close my eyes, to amp up the drama of the reveal, but I didn’t understand that part of myself. It was childish, immature, and it didn’t make any sense. I’d long since lost my attachment to the drama