Chapter Ten: The Invitation
The room smelled faintly of ink and old paper, a comforting aroma that always made Amaya feel like she was on the verge of discovering something monumental—even if it was just the digestive tract. Her textbooks were stacked in careful piles, pages marked with sticky tabs and scribbled notes in every margin.
Aris packed up his bag with his usual meticulous precision, sliding each book into place like he was assembling a mechanical puzzle. Amaya watched him, pencil poised, heart hammering in her chest. The air between them had shifted, almost imperceptibly, over the past weeks. There was a tension now—a quiet electricity whenever their hands brushed, whenever he leaned over to point at a diagram, whenever she caught his eye just a fraction too long.
"You know," she began, zipping up her pencil case with exaggerated care, "all work and no play makes Aris a dull boy."
He paused mid-motion, the bag half-slid into his shoulder. "I don't recall asking for a literary and psychological analysis of my character," he said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.
"It's an observation," she said, leaning against the table, the warmth of her body close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his arm. "And a prescription. You should come with me."
Aris froze, hand gripping the strap of his bag. Slowly, he turned to look at her, his expression unreadable, professional. "Come with you… where?"
"The winter carnival," she said, practically tripping over the words in her excitement. "It's in the town square. Ferris wheel, lights, doughnuts, a hall of mirrors—supposed to be terrifying." She tilted her head, hoping to convey both innocence and adventure in equal measure. "It's tomorrow night."
He stared at her like she'd suggested they skydive without parachutes. "A carnival."
"Yes! Lights, music, fun, sugar, joy—things normal people have!" Her voice grew animated, hands flailing slightly in emphasis. "Your brain will literally implode if you don't take a break. Basic science."
"I have a neuroanatomy midterm on Monday," he said, the faintest edge of a scowl cutting across his features.
"And you'll know it all because you're Aris Rowon," she countered, stepping just a little closer. "Even geniuses need downtime."
He shook his head, lips pressing together, and for one fleeting moment, she saw something in him that wasn't entirely exasperation. Something softer.
Something… conflicted.
"No, Amaya," he said, firm, but the tone lacked its usual coldness.
"Why not?" she pressed, leaning on the table, daringly close. "It's just… a carnival. We could bump into each other accidentally. Neighbors, coincidental meetings, nothing scandalous."
He glanced down at her, his hands tightening slightly on the straps of his bag. She noticed, of course. Every small detail he didn't intend to reveal was magnified in her observant eyes—the tilt of his jaw, the barely-there crease at the corner of his lips, the almost imperceptible hesitation in his stance.
"I am not going," he said finally, low, but there was something in the sound of it—like he was speaking to himself as much as to her.
Her heart thudded in her chest. Not "can't." Not "won't." He said he wasn't going, and yet there was that tiny pause, the faint trace of unspoken thoughts lingering in the air. She smiled softly. Victory, subtle and delicious.
"Fine," she said, voice soft, almost wistful. "Then I'll go and imagine you're there. I'll take notes for you. Ferris wheel physics, sugar-to-blood conversion rates, mirror maze trajectory… all scientifically accurate."
His gaze flickered, just a fraction, and she caught a glimpse of amusement—or was it intrigue?—before the mask slid back into place.
"You're insufferable," he said, voice low, a whisper only she could hear.
"Only for science," she said, grinning. "And only for you."
He shook his head, turning toward the door. "Study chapter twelve," he said, the faintest edge of warning in his voice. "And Amaya?"
"Yes?"
"Try not to burn the kitchen with your birthday candles tomorrow. I wouldn't want to be held responsible."
She blinked. Birthday. Right. Tomorrow she'd be seventeen. Somehow, in her excitement over the carnival, she'd forgotten. Her pulse quickened with the reminder—not for the age, not for the cake, not even for the presents—but for the idea that he might notice.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across her room, warm and golden. Amaya stretched, sitting up in bed, blinking against the light. Seventeen. The number felt monumental, but also… like a threshold. She ran her fingers over the pages of her botany and zoology notes, her mind still half in yesterday's conversation with Aris.
Her mother knocked gently. "Happy birthday, darling. Breakfast is ready."
Amaya yawned, slipping into her robe. "Thanks, Mom. Did you… did anyone—" She stopped herself, realizing she'd almost asked if Aris had done something. The thought made her cheeks flush pink.
Her father entered shortly after, holding a small envelope. "We kept it simple this year. A little card, and a present you'll love." He handed it over, smiling. "No lectures about botany grades today. Consider it a truce."
Amaya tore the envelope open, revealing a voucher for a new set of watercolor paints, and a handwritten card. She hugged it to her chest. The family chatter continued around her, the laughter warm and grounding. And yet, in the back of her mind, the carnival—and Aris—loomed like a magnetic pull.
Later that afternoon, she made herself tidy for the evening, flipping through her outfit options with care. Something casual but bright. A sundress, maybe, or her favorite jeans with that yellow sweater that always made her feel bold. She wanted to look… approachable, but not desperate.
Adventurous, but not childish. She wanted him to notice, in whatever fleeting, accidental way he might.
When Liam wandered into her room, clipboard in hand (he was apparently trying to "audit her pre-carnival planning"), he raised an eyebrow.
"You are way too excited about this," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "Not that I don't understand. You're seventeen, it's your birthday, and you have a tutor-slash-neighbor-slash-heartthrob hovering somewhere in your subconscious. But don't get arrested by your own enthusiasm."
Amaya laughed, shoving him gently. "I'm not a child. And I don't have a crush. Not that you need to know."
"Oh, I know," he said, smirking. "I just enjoy the mental image of you balancing textbooks in one hand and heartbeats in the other."
"Shut up," she said, but the blush on her cheeks betrayed her.
"You know," Liam added, mock-serious, "if you faint at the sight of Ferris wheels, I'll be there to catch you. Med student duty."
Amaya rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop the small smile curling at the corner of her lips. Liam had no idea, but in some ways, he was helping her train for this evening: laughter, teasing, and gentle chaos—the kind of emotional endurance that might come in handy if Aris appeared unexpectedly.
That night, the town square was ablaze with color. Strings of lights hung overhead, and the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and popcorn mingled in the cold winter air. Children laughed as they ran past, couples strolled hand in hand, and the Ferris wheel slowly rotated, a massive circle of glowing promise against the starry sky.
Amaya's heart raced as she wandered through the stalls, tasting a small doughnut that might as well have been a cloud, feeling the world tilt pleasantly as the wind tugged at her hair. She imagined Aris here, somewhere in the crowd, maybe nearby, pretending not to notice, maybe just… observing.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Liam:
"Happy birthday. Don't forget: sugar + Ferris wheel = dizziness. Science. Love, big bro."
She grinned, typing back a quick reply, then turning her attention to the Ferris wheel line. Her pulse sped—not just with excitement, but with anticipation. Tomorrow, she'd be seventeen. Tonight, she was alive in the kind of small, dizzying adventure that made life feel like it could shift on its axis.
Somewhere between the glow of lights, the laughter of strangers, and the smell of fried dough, she realized: she wasn't just seventeen tomorrow. She was on the edge of everything she'd ever wanted, and maybe, just maybe, Aris Rowon might be there to see it.
And for once, she didn't feel like she had to study to earn his attention. She just had to be herself.