The basement of St. Jude's was a maze of concrete and shadow, a stark contrast to the polished mahogany of the floors above.
It smelled of limestone and old paper. Up here, the world was built on privilege; down here, it was built on what that privilege had tried to bury.
Alistair was already there when I arrived. He looked like a man vibrating on a different frequency. His hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes were bloodshot, the grey replaced by raw exhaustion. He didn't even greet me.
"Claire and I had... a disagreement," he said, his voice sandpaper-dry. He was pulling a heavy iron key from a hook near the archive door.
"A loud one. I think the neighbors in the village finally have something to talk about."
"I'm sorry," I said, though I wasn't. I could feel the tension radiating off him, a dark, electric energy that made the air in the narrow hallway feel thin.
"Don't be," he snapped, then immediately softened. "It's not your fault, Elara. It's been coming for a long time. Now, what is it you're looking for? You said it was something related to the 1990s curriculum shift?"
"The disciplinary records from '98," I said. "There's a gap in the public library. I think they're in the overflow boxes."
He unlocked the heavy steel door. It swung open with a groan that echoed through the dark. We stepped inside, the beam of his flashlight cutting through the dust motes. The shelves reached the ceiling, packed with grey boxes labeled only with years and numbers.
"The late nineties are in the back," he muttered, moving deeper into the narrow aisle.
The space was tight, barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. I followed him, my pulse beating in my throat. I wasn't thinking about the files anymore. I was thinking about the way his shoulders looked under his shirt, the way his breath was hitching in the cold air.
"Here," he said, stopping at a shelf near the floor. He leaned down to pull out a heavy box, his back against the opposite shelf. "Box 442. This should be it."
As he stood up, the box caught on a metal edge. He jerked it back, losing his balance in the cramped space. I reached out to steady him, my hands landing on his chest. He stumbled back, his spine hitting the shelves, trapping me between the boxes and his body.
The flashlight dropped, rolling under a shelf and casting long, distorted shadows up the walls.
We were inches apart. I could feel the heat coming off him, the scent of his soap mixed with the metallic smell of old records. His heart was hammering against my palms, a frantic, irregular rhythm that matched my own.
"Elara," he breathed. It wasn't a warning. It was a plea.
I didn't think. I didn't calculate. I just leaned in and closed the distance.
The kiss was like a dam breaking. It wasn't the soft, hesitant thing I'd imagined in my room at night. it was desperate and punishing. Alistair's hands, usually so careful and precise, gripped my waist with a strength that left no room for doubt. His hand sliding to my lower back, pulling me against him. He tasted like coffee and something bitter, anger, maybe. Or relief.
I lost track of where I ended and he began.
The "responsible man" was gone, replaced by someone who was hungry for the very chaos he claimed to fear.
My back hit the cold metal of the shelves, and I pulled him closer, my fingers tangling in his hair, undoing the neat, polished mask he'd worn for a decade.
He groaned into my mouth, a hand sliding up to grip my jaw between his fingers, tilting my head back as he slid his tongue into my mouth. My heat tilted to the side and his tilted to the opposite.
I took a bite of his lower lip, letting it go and smack against his teeth. He looked at me through half-closed eyes before kissing me again.
It felt like a fever dream, the smell of dust, the darkness, the crushing weight of his body against mine. It was the first time in my life I felt like I wasn't just observing. I was participating. I was winning.
Then, as quickly as it had started, he pulled back.
His breathing was ragged, his chest heaving. He stared at me in the dim reflected light of the fallen flashlight, his eyes wide with a sudden, devastating realization. The silence that followed was heavy, awkward, and thick with the sound of our own pulses.
Alistair cleared his throat, a sound that felt absurdly loud in the archive. He reached down, fumbled for the flashlight, and clicked it back into a steady beam.
"Right," he said, his voice trembling slightly. He adjusted his collar, his fingers shaking as he tried to regain his composure. "The files. We... we should find the files."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My lips felt swollen, and my skin was buzzing. I just nodded and stepped back, giving him the space he clearly needed to pretend this hadn't happened.
He turned toward the boxes, his movements mechanical. He pulled Box 442 and set it on a small folding table, his back turned to me.
" '98. Here," he muttered, his voice regaining its academic drone, though it lacked its usual conviction. "Margot Vance. Disciplinary action. Incident reported by... Diana Halloway."
The names hit me like a bucket of ice water. I stepped forward, the thrill of the kiss fading into the cold reality of my mission. He handed me the folder without looking at me.
We stood there in the dark, the flashlight focused on the yellowed paper, two people pretending the world hadn't just tilted on its axis. We were looking for ghosts, but for a few seconds, we had been the only things that were real.