Page 35 of Thane's Demon
He didn’t want to stay away from me either.
15
NON-DATE
Walking beside him felt strangely natural, even though nothing about Thane was natural or simple. The campus stretched ahead of us in soft, warm hues, the afternoon sun dipping lower behind the buildings and casting long shadows across the quiet walkways. Students passed us in clusters, chatting and laughing, but every sound seemed muted to me, distant, as if the world had quietly stepped back to give us space.
Thane didn’t rush, nor did he stalk the way he had earlier. No, instead his stride adjusted just enough for me to keep up with him, so subtle I doubted he even realized he had done so. His hands stayed tucked in his pockets, yet every so often the muscles of his forearm tightened as though he wanted to touch me but held himself back. The thought sent a hopeful flutter through my belly.
We walked in an easy line along the quiet path, and after a few moments, I finally cleared my throat to ask where he grew up, but he started talking first.
“The college… do you enjoy it?”
Surprisingly, the question felt like something he really wanted to know, not just something to fill the silence.
“My classes are… a lot sometimes. More than I expected, actually. The university feels bigger every day instead of smaller.” Thane looked down at me, his expression unreadable.
“What are you studying?” he asked as we walked, his voice steady, his gaze cutting briefly toward me as if the answer mattered more than it should.
“Business,” I said quietly, trying to keep the distaste out of my tone and failing. “It was my father’s choice, not mine,” I explained, and Thane slowed just a fraction. Just enough that I felt his attention focus solely on me.
“What would you prefer to be studying instead?” I hesitated, pressing my fingers lightly to the strap of my bag.
“English literature,” I admitted. “That is what I actually love.” His brows drew together slightly.
“Why literature?” A small, almost embarrassed smile pulled at my lips as I tried to find the right words.
“Because of the stories... Because people can pour parts of themselves into them, their hopes, their fears, their secrets. You can lose yourself in a book and somehow find pieces of yourself at the same time. It’s like escaping and coming home all at once,” I told him, and something in his expression changed. Something barely noticeable, but enough that warmth spread slowly through my chest. The afternoon light made his eyes seem even bluer, as if a trick of the sun made them glow slightly as he watched me speak. “And poetry,” I added, looking away briefly. “I love poetry most of all.”
He studied me again for a moment before asking, “Do you ever write any?”
Heat crawled up my neck, and I let out a tiny breath.
“Yes, sometimes,”I whispered.
He stepped a little closer, his voice quieter, rougher in a way that curled around my ribs.
“I would like to hear one of your poems one day.”
My heart tripped over itself at the sincerity in his words, and I felt my cheeks warm. I couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“Maybe, one day,” I said, breathy and shy, though the truth was that part of me wanted him to ask again someday.
“What about you? Where did you grow up?” He hesitated for just a moment before answering.
“Part of my childhood was in the United States,” he said, his voice suddenly quiet. “After that, some time spent in Germany.”
“Germany?” I asked, interest blooming across my face. “What was that like?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Different. Cold. Structured.”
“Structured, how?” I teased gently.
He paused, then, after a moment's thought, he told me, “I was part of a special school there.”
My curiosity spiked again.
