(Michelle Lui's POV)
Sunday evening settled over the city like a soft blanket — warm, hazy, slow.
I had just finished showering and was blow-drying my hair when my phone buzzed.
Steven Sy: Are you free tomorrow afternoon?
For the Microeconomics project.
My heart hopped.
We'd talked about it briefly during the week, but I assumed we would work in the library or some café. Something normal. Something public. Something low-flutter.
Michelle: Yes! Where do you want to meet? Library? Café?
A long pause.
Then:
Steven: …My place?
It's quiet.
I work better there.
I stared at my phone.
His… place?
As in… his house?
As in… the fortress of wealth and privacy where only a handful of people have probably ever been allowed inside?
I swallowed.
Michelle: Are you sure? I don't want to intrude.
Another pause, then:
Steven: You're not intruding.
Steven: I want you to come.
My heart somersaulted so violently I had to sit down.
Another message appeared:
