The November light falls slant through the lecture hall windows, pale and thin, catching dust motes that drift like slow snow. I watch them sometimes when my mind wanders—which it doesn't, not in this class. Society and Law. An elective, technically, a box to check on the long list of requirements. But something about it holds me. The architecture of arguments, maybe. The way ideas stack like stones into something solid.
I raise my hand too much in this class. I know I do. But I can't help it.
Cathy sits beside me, chin propped on her palm, eyes at half-mast. She's been fighting a cold for days—hence the doctor visit she keeps mentioning but hasn't actually made. Every fifteen minutes, like clockwork, she leans over and whispers, "This is so boring." I nudge her. She sits up. Slumps again. Repeat.
Today, Mr. Michael paces at the front—gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses, tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows. The kind of professor who looks like he stepped out of a 1970s academic film. He stops mid-stride and turns to face us.
"Justice and the law," he says, voice carrying easily to the back row. "Can they coexist? Or are they fundamentally at odds?"
He scans the room. His gaze passes over laptops, over phones, over the kid in the corner who's definitely asleep. Then it lands on me.
"Hannah?"
The usual flutter—the one that lives in my chest before I have to speak in public. But I have answers. I always have answers.
I straighten in my seat. "I think the law can guarantee justice," I say. "Not perfectly. No system made by humans can be perfect. But it's the best mechanism we have. Plato argued that justice means giving each their due—and the law is how we codify that, how we make it consistent. Rawls talks about the veil of ignorance: if you don't know where you'll end up in society, you'll design laws that are fair to everyone, because you might be the one at the bottom. So yes. I think they can coexist."
Mr. Michael smiles. That small, approving smile that makes the flutter worth it.
"Well argued," he says. "Anyone see it differently?"
Silence settles over the room. I glance around—most people are studying their laptops with intense focus, or staring at the ceiling, or texting under their desks. Anywhere but at the professor. I start to relax, just a little.
Then a hand goes up.
"Mr.—?" Michael prompts.
A guy stands.
He's tall—taller than I realized from a distance. Late twenties, maybe? Hard to tell. He's wearing a gray jacket, soft-looking, and khakis—the kind of outfit that says he didn't try too hard but still managed to look put-together. His hair is brown, falling in loose waves, a few strands straying across his forehead. Good bones—cheekbones that catch the light, a jaw that suggests he doesn't miss many meals. There's something steady in his posture, something that says he's used to being heard.
Familiar bones.
My stomach drops.
It's him. The guy from the restaurant. The one whose white cashmere sweater I destroyed with a cappuccino two weeks ago. The one who left me double the usual tip and disappeared like a ghost.
He clears his throat. "Marshall. Second-year law student."
Of course he's a law student. Of course.
"I disagree with—sorry, I didn't catch your name?"
"Hannah," I manage. My voice comes out smaller than I meant it to.
"Hannah." He says it like he's filing it away, like he's already memorized it. "I disagree with Hannah's premise. Not because I don't respect the philosophers she cited—I do. But because law is made by people. And people are flawed. Biased. Self-interested. You can have a law that's perfectly legal and perfectly unjust—look at segregation. Look at the internment of Japanese citizens during World War II. Look at any number of laws throughout history that were on the books but morally bankrupt."
He's not done. He lists cases—I catch Plessy v. Ferguson, Korematsu v. United States—and precedents, and counterarguments I've read but didn't think to bring. His voice stays calm, measured, but there's heat underneath it. Conviction. His hands move occasionally when he makes a point, not dramatically, just enough to underscore.
When he finishes, the room erupts. Clapping. Genuine clapping, the kind that comes from people who actually listened.
Even Mr. Michael is applauding.
I sit there, face burning, pretending to take very detailed notes.
Class ends. The hall fills with the scrape of chairs, the shuffle of backpacks, the low hum of conversations sparking back to life. I'm shoving my laptop into my bag, planning my escape route—
"Hannah."
I look up. He's there. Marshall. Gray jacket, khakis, that face I can't decide is annoying or just... a lot. Up close, I notice things I missed before: the slight asymmetry of his smile, the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the way his eyes are hazel, not brown—green and gold in this light, like a forest at certain times of year.
"Hi," he says. "I'm sorry if I came off harsh in there. I just—I get passionate about this stuff. Didn't mean to steamroll you."
"You were right." The words slip out before I can stop them. "About the gaps in my argument. I should have thought of those."
He tilts his head, studying me. Something shifts in his expression—curiosity, maybe. Or surprise. Like I'm not what he expected.
"Can I get your number?"
I blink. "What?"
"Your number." He pulls out his phone, casual, like this is the most normal request in the world. "I go to that restaurant a lot—the one where you work. Thought maybe I'd know when you're on shift. Make sure I sit in your section."
Behind me, Cathy—who was definitely supposed to be at the doctor half an hour ago—makes a small, knowing sound. A sound I choose to ignore.
"I—" I start.
"She'd love to," Cathy cuts in, materializing at my elbow like she's been lurking there the whole time. "Hannah, give him your number."
I shoot her a look that clearly says I will end you. She ignores it completely.
So I rattle off the digits. Marshall types them in, nods once, and meets my eyes again.
"See you around, Hannah."
Then he's gone, weaving through the crowd toward the door. I watch him go—the set of his shoulders, the way he moves like someone who knows where he's headed.
Cathy grabs my arm. "Oh my god. He's into you."
"He is not into me. He just disagreed with me in front of thirty people and then asked for my number to coordinate coffee schedules."
"That's called flirting. For law students, anyway." She grins, smug. "Also, he's hot. You noticed he's hot, right? Like, actually hot, not just 'academically interesting' hot?"
I noticed. I'm not going to admit it.
"He's not simple," I say instead. "There's something about him—I can't explain it. He's not as straightforward as he seems."
Cathy rolls her eyes. "You think everyone's hiding something."
Maybe because everyone is.
The walk out of the building is quiet. The trees along the path are mostly bare now, their branches sketching dark lines against the fading sky. A few leaves skitter across the pavement, dry and brown. I pull my jacket tighter and keep walking.
That's when it hits me: I promised Rachel last night I'd go to her birthday party. I should get her something. I don't have to work tonight. Which means I have time to think. To worry. To remember that Rachel's birthday is coming up and I still have no idea what to get her.
I pull out my phone. Scroll to a name I never thought I'd call.
Alex.
It rings twice. Then: "Yeah."
"It's Hannah." Pause. "Rachel's roommate."
"I know who you are."
I ignore the edge in his voice. "I need help. With her birthday. I don't know what to get her, and I thought maybe—since you're her boyfriend—we could figure something out together?"
A beat of silence. "Where are you?"
"Just leaving the law building. Heading to the library."
"I'll be there." Click.
I stare at my phone. No "goodbye." No "see you soon." Just... click. This guy has the social skills of a feral cat.
I wait on the steps of the law building, watching the sky darken. The windows of the library glow yellow across the quad. Students pass in clusters, laughing, talking, normal people doing normal things. I wrap my arms around myself against the cold.
Five minutes later, a black car pulls to the curb.
It's a Maybach—I only know because my dad used to read car magazines, and I remember the name, remember him saying someday. Sleek and low and utterly obscene, the kind of vehicle that doesn't just say money but screams it from rooftops.
The window rolls down. Alex looks at me from the driver's seat.
"Get in."
I reach for the back door. Locked.
"Front," he says. And grins. Actually grins, like this is funny.
I climb into the passenger seat. The interior smells like leather and something clean—the same scent I remember from that first night in my room. The door clicks shut, the window rolls up, and suddenly we're sealed in. Quiet. Private. Invisible to the outside world.
"So," I say, trying for casual. "You busy? Because if you are, we don't have to—"
He pulls away from the curb. Doesn't answer.
I study him while he drives. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his hands rest on the wheel, loose and confident. Dark hair curling just above his collar. In the dim light of the dashboard, his face is all angles—cheekbones, brow, the hard set of his mouth. He looks tired, I realize. Worn around the edges, like someone who doesn't sleep much.
I try again. "What are you getting Rachel? For her birthday?"
"You live with her." His eyes stay on the road. "You tell me."
"That's why I'm asking you. You're her boyfriend. Shouldn't you know better than me?"
He's quiet for a moment. The city slides past outside—streetlights, storefronts, people hurrying home.
"I've already got her something," he says finally. "That part's handled." A pause. "There's only one thing I'm worried about right now."
"What?"
He slams the brakes.
The car jerks to a stop, and I lurch forward—seatbelt catching, heart slamming into my throat. Before I can scream, before I can even breathe, his hand is over my mouth.
He's close. Too close. I can hear him breathing. Can feel the warmth of his skin against my lips. His eyes—dark, unreadable—hold mine. The car is soundproof. I know that now. I know no one outside can hear me, can see me, can do anything if—
I push.
Hard.
He lets go, leaning back into his seat. Something flickers in his expression—amusement? Satisfaction? I can't tell.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" My voice shakes. I hate that it shakes.
He looks at me. Quiet. Studying.
Then he points. At me.
"You," he says. "You're the only thing I'm worried about."
I stare at him. My brain short-circuits. The words don't make sense. None of this makes sense.
"Is this a joke?" The words come out sharp, angry. "Do you think this is funny? You have a girlfriend. You don't get to—you don't just—"
He blinks. And then he laughs.
Not a mean laugh. Not a mocking one. Just... laughter. Genuine, surprised, like I've done something he didn't expect. It transforms his face—softens the hard angles, makes him look younger. Almost human.
"I'm kidding," he says. "Jesus. I'm kidding. You should see your face."
I don't find it funny.
"You made me feel like—" I stop. Swallow. The heat in my chest isn't fear anymore. It's anger. Clean and bright. "If you want someone you can mess with, someone who'll just take it, I'm not that person. I'm not anyone's toy."
I grab the door handle. It opens—thank god, it opens—and I'm out, slamming it behind me so hard the whole car shakes.
I don't look back.
I walk. Fast. Away from the car, away from him, away from whatever that was. My heart is still pounding, my hands still shaking, and I can't believe I was stupid enough to call him. To get in that car. To think any of this was normal.
The wind hits my face, cold and sharp. I wrap my arms around myself and keep walking.
The street stretches ahead, lined with trees and old houses converted into offices. A cat watches me from a porch. Somewhere a dog barks. Normal things. Safe things.
I don't know where I'm going. I just know I have to move.
Behind me, I hear the Maybach pull away, engine barely a whisper. I don't turn around.