"It's just playing along… men flirt with women, that's how it works. You'd better get used to it fast. You fall apart this easily, what makes you think you're fit to stand next to me?"
Every word was like a soft thorn pressing into my chest.
I lifted my face to meet those eyes—gentle, lingering, deceptively warm.
Searching desperately for the smallest trace of guilt.
There was nothing. Only ease and indifference.
I opened my mouth, but my throat was so tight it ached.
What he called flirting, what he called playing along—that was real feeling wearing a convenient mask.
And I was the one who'd wanted nothing more than to stand beside him.
In the end, the only person trapped was me.
Oliver's brow lifted, a flicker of triumph crossing his gaze, and he aimed the camera straight at my face.
"What are you staring at me for?"
"Look at the lens. Apologize. Mean it."
"I'll put in a word with Instructor Henson for you—get her to go a little easier next time."
"Then we'll call the whole thing settled."
When I didn't react, his brow knotted. "Talk."
I laughed.
Apologize? Davina Henson probably loved having a cautionary tale like me around.
The camera's red light pulsed. I glanced at the time—and something clicked. I spoke up.
"Instructor Henson is nothing if not dedicated—even this late, I'm sure she wouldn't mind making a personal house call in her black stockings."
"But I'm a little tired tonight. Tell her to get some rest. Wouldn't want her boyfriend to worry."
Oliver caught the implication. One brow ticked upward.
"I know you don't like hearing it, but you're the one with the filthy mind. Of course everything looks dirty to you."
I looked at the seriousness on his face, and for a second my mind stalled.
Davina showing up late at night to lecture me.
It had happened far more than three times.
At first, she knew she had Oliver wrapped around her finger and didn't bother hiding it.
I never argued with her, so she'd use the late hour as her excuse and simply stay the night.
Later she started staying past midnight, standing over me as I knelt for some supposed breach of etiquette.
She'd even drink from Oliver's glass right in front of me, just to provoke.
Afterward she'd brush it off with a casual "Oh, I grabbed the wrong one," and that was that.
The most recent time, she leaned into him on purpose.
Half a glass of water spilled right down the front of her, plain as anything.