Chapter 3

Lyra slowly turned to look at Vincent. He already had that infuriating grin plastered on his face, the one that said I know exactly what I'm doing and you're not going to resist me. He then tilted his chin slightly downward, gesturing for her to look under the desk.

Against her better judgment, she did.

There it was: his hand, palm open, waiting.

You've got to be kidding me. He's serious? Right now? In the middle of class?

She glanced down at his hand, then back up at him. His fingers looked strong, confident, like they belonged on piano keys: or wrapped around a throat in a mafia movie, depending on the day. And yet, the simple gesture felt... intimate. Quiet. Like a challenge and a promise all in one.

I should ignore him. I should ignore him. But...

Her thoughts drifted back to the night at the bar. The old man. The panic. The way Vincent had stepped in without hesitation, shielding her, protecting her when no one else would have.

He saved me. And honestly? I don't think anyone's going to bother me again if I'm seen with him.

Slowly, cautiously, she placed her hand into his. Vincent didn't miss a beat. He interlaced their fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world, his thumb beginning to gently stroke the back of her hand.

Holy crap. His hand is warm. Big, solid... kind of comforting. This is way too soothing. Dangerous levels of soothing.

She sat stiffly, trying not to look at him, trying not to let her face give away the million thoughts sprinting through her head. But her grip didn't loosen.

Vincent didn't say a word either. He just held her hand, like it meant something.

Damn him.

.

.

Later that day, Lyra was nestled deep in the corner of the campus library, her knees tucked under her, fingers curled around the edges of a worn paperback novel. The rain had been tapping against the windows for a while, a soft murmur in the background as she read. It had been comforting at first-soothing, even. The perfect ambiance for a quiet escape into fiction.

But when the low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, vibrating the glass just slightly, Lyra's body tensed. She glanced up from the page, her eyes drifting toward the gray world outside the tall windows.

The storm wasn't passing. If anything, it was getting worse.

She sighed, snapping the book shut with a soft thump and began packing up her things.

I really thought waiting it out in here would help. Maybe if I sat still long enough, the rain would get bored and leave. She shook her head at herself. I should've listened to Sophia when she told me to come with her. Why do I always have to be so stubborn?

A memory tugged at her, just earlier that afternoon.

.

.

"Come on, Lyra," Sophia had said, balancing her tote bag over one shoulder, glancing out at the clouds. "That sky looks serious. You don't want to get caught in that."

"It's just drizzle," Lyra replied, flipping another page in her book. "It'll stop soon."

"Drizzle turns into downpour. Downpour turns into regret."

"I'll be fine," she'd said with a laugh. "You go ahead."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Don't say I didn't warn you when you're sprinting home like a wet cat."

.

.

Now, standing under the school's overhang, Lyra watched the rain pour like someone had taken a scissors to the clouds. Water cascaded from the edges of the roof like tiny waterfalls, the wind catching stray drops and flinging them sideways.

This isn't just bad, it's biblical. I'll drown before I get home.

The storm seemed louder now that she was outside, thunder cracked across the sky like splitting wood, and lightning flashed so bright it left a ghost-image on her retinas.

She took a reluctant step forward, peering into the downpour. Maybe if I run... but my bag'll be soaked, my notes will melt, and I'll look like a soggy raccoon. Her hand hovered near the strap of her backpack, debating whether to brave it or retreat.

Then, just as she was about to turn around and make a tactical retreat back into the library, a voice, low, smooth, unmistakably smug, brushed past her ear.

"Need help, sweetie?"

She didn't even need to turn around. That voice was starting to become dangerously familiar.

"Vincent," she muttered under her breath, pivoting to face him.

There he was, standing just behind her with an umbrella propped casually over one shoulder, rain glistening off the fabric like tiny diamonds. His black jacket clung to him in all the right places, and his hair was slightly tousled, like he'd just stepped out of a photoshoot and into the storm. He looked irritatingly perfect for someone who had just appeared like a smug storm angel.

"I don't need your help," Lyra said, arms crossed. "I was just... going to wait it out."

Vincent tilted his head, amused. "You've got a weather app, right? It says this storm's sticking around until midnight."

"Midnight?" she repeated, her voice a little too high-pitched. "You're joking."

Midnight?! No way. I'll be pruned like a raisin by then. Why didn't I check the damn app myself?

"Yep," he said with a grin, tapping his watch for emphasis. "And right now, the time is... 4:06 PM. You really planning on standing here for eight hours?"

She sighed in defeat, dragging a hand down her face. Her pride was sturdy, but not stormproof.

"Vincent," she said finally, eyes narrowing as she spoke, "please... take me home."

He looked at her for a beat, and then smiled, soft, boyish, disarming. "You look so cute when you're desperate," he teased, reaching forward to pinch her cheek gently.

Lyra recoiled slightly, flustered, her face burning. "Don't touch my face."

"But it's so pinchable," he said, laughing. "Alright, alright. Come here."

He opened his umbrella wide and stepped closer, angling it so it covered them both. As if on instinct, he reached down and took her hand, his fingers intertwining with hers.

Not this again. Why does he keep doing that? It's like second nature to him. And the worst part? My hand... it fits so damn well in his.

His grip was firm but gentle, his thumb once again rubbing slow, calming circles on the back of her hand as they began walking down the campus steps and into the rain, safely sheltered beneath the umbrella. The storm hissed around them, but she barely felt it.

This is so stupid. I should be annoyed. I want to be annoyed. But he's warm and charming and now my hand doesn't feel like it belongs to me anymore. It belongs to him.

Lyra glanced up at him, her eyes drifting to his profile. "Thank you," she mumbled, feeling strangely small.

"What's that?" Vincent teased, turning his head just slightly toward her. "Can't hear you over the rain. You'll have to speak up."

He dipped his head lower, angling his ear toward her like he genuinely expected her to whisper.

She scowled but leaned up anyway, her breath warm against his skin. "I said... thank you."

No sooner had the words left her mouth than she felt the quick press of his lips against her cheek, soft, fleeting, but electric.

"You're welcome," he murmured. "But you'll have to pay me back eventually. I don't give free rides and free kisses."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "You kissed me!"

Vincent winked. "It's called interest, sweetheart."

I'm going to lose my mind. I swear I am.

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