The library’s third floor was supposedly reserved for graduate-level research and serious academic work, which meant it was usually empty except for the most dedicated students. I’d claimed a corner table to work on my European Economics essay, grateful for the quiet space away from the constant whispers and stares that had followed me since the newspaper scandal.
I was deep into analyzing pharmaceutical trade regulations when movement near the periodical section caught my attention. Nick and Roni were sitting at a table partially hidden behind the tall shelves, their heads bent together over what looked like homework. But it wasn’t their studying that made me pause—it was the way their hands were intertwined on the table between them.
Not the careful, performative hand-holding they did
