Page 15 of Shattered Ice
I don’t go to the alcove yet. I watch her first.
I stay shrouded in the stacks, half-concealed behind ancient philosophy tomes—spines cracked, dust thick as secrets, the air heavy with the rot of forgotten time. From here, I have a clean line of sight. She’s already there at her usual table, posture rigid as rebar, her notes arrayed in obsessive rows of color-coded tabsin military formation. That relentless, merciless order makes something inside me throb, a low, familiar ache of recognition.People wear discipline like armor after they’re broken.I know the signs because I see them in the mirror every goddamn day. She’s cracked once. I want to know what did it. Who. How deep the fracture runs.
Her sweatshirt is frayed at the cuffs, sleeves tugged down to her knuckles to hide how raw she is beneath the surface. A cheap cartoon cat sticker peels from the edge of her laptop—ridiculous, juvenile, a bright insult against the severity of her focus. But the cardboard sleeve on her coffee cup is rubbed nearly raw, her thumb worrying it bloody. Anxiety, coiled just beneath that rigid calm. I catalog these details the way I track plays—methodical, ruthless, prepping for the moment I’ll need them to break her open.
This girl—Clara Harrington—no one handed her a damn thing. Not a desk, not a scholarship, not the cold steel in her spine. She radiates a single, defiant message:I earned this, and I will bleed before I ever give it up.
That kind of hunger—desperate, ugly, beautiful—draws my attention more than I want to admit. She’s not a distraction. Not yet. I’m still deciding if she’s leverage or noise.
I roll my neck, vertebrae popping loud in the hush, and step out from the stacks. Heat radiates off me, sharp and invasive in the sterile chill. The atmosphere shifts. A few heads lift, eyes widening in recognition before quickly dropping back to their books. I feel their attention like a physical weight, the silent judgment and awe a constant cloak I wear on this campus. I ignore it. My focus is singular. Her.
Her head doesn’t lift until I drag the chair back—slow, deliberate. The scrape of its legs is a razor blade grating against the tile, a sound meant to provoke, to see if she’ll flinch.
She looks up. No startle. No fear. Just that same, infuriating, assessed-and-dismissed calm. The stare a goalie gives seconds before a slapshot. Steady. Braced. Daring.
Clara slides a stack of papers across the table. “Did you do the problem set I gave you Monday?”
I drop into the chair, sprawling like I own the air between us, knees knocking the table leg hard enough to make her pens rattle. “I gave it as much time as it deserved.”
“Which was none,” she says, her voice flat as cut glass. “Midterms are coming—fast. Time isn’t a luxury we have.” Her eyes, steel under glass, lock on mine. “So. Let’s try this again. What exactly don’t you understand?”
I’ve had this conversation with tutors before—shrugs, smirks, half-assed jokes until they gave up. But with her, the lie dies on my tongue. I meet her challenge head-on. “Pretend I know nothing. If you’re good, it won’t matter.”
She doesn’t blink. “You don’t need me to pretend. You’ve been proving it for years.”
A rough laugh escapes me. “You’ve got claws.”
“And you’ve got excuses.”
I lean forward, elbows braced on the table, deliberately crowding her space. The air goes tense, heavier, hotter. “You always this mouthy, or is it justme?”
“It’syou.” Not even a flicker. She flips open the Stats book, pen already moving. “Congratulations. You bring out the best in people.”
She’s not bluff or bravado—she’s ballast. Most people bend under pressure. She doesn’t. It pisses me off. It makes me want to see how hard she’ll fight before she cracks. Her notes are obsessive, the ink so small it’s like she’s trying to shrink into the page.
I tap my pencil against the edge of her paper, each click intentional. “Wow. Do you practice writing that tiny, or are you just trying to make me feel stupid?”
Her glare slices up. “If you feel stupid, that’s on you.”
The spark in my chest is more than irritation now. Interest. I smother it. “Alright, Professor Harrington. Enlighten me. Where do we start?”
“Basic algebra,” she says. Her power play is so obvious it almost makes me laugh.
I groan loud enough to draw a look from a kid nearby. “Algebra? Thought we were past the kiddie pool.”
“Apparently you’re still splashing.” She shoves the notebook closer.
Our hands brush—just the tips of my fingers against the back of her hand. A lightning strike. Raw, unfiltered electricity jolts up my arm and straight to my fucking heart. My pulse hammers in my throat, a violent staccato that drowns out the library’s fluorescent drone. Her skin burns against mine, impossibly soft in a way that rips through every defense I have. For a split second, there is no game, no tutor, no library—just the searing, cellular shock of her touch.
She jerks back, but a full heartbeat too late. I see it all: the sudden rigidity in her forearm, the flush that crawls up her neck like a stain, the sharp, involuntary intake of breath. The air between us collapses. I don’t move. This isn’t interest anymore; it’s surveillance. In that single, electric second, her armor didn’t just crack. It fucking shattered.
“Careful, Harrington,” I say, my voice dropping to a register meant to settle under her skin. “People might think you like me.”
“Flattery isn’t your strength.” Her voice is clipped, but her next inhale isn’t steady. A micro-tell. Victory.
After that, we work. I solve half a problem and push it toward her. She corrects it before the last number is down. “You skipped a step.”
I lean back. “I like shortcuts.”
