The orientation flickered behind his eyes like a reel from some psychological horror:
Her fingers "slipping" as she passed him a cup of coffee, dark liquid splashing across his crisp white shirt.
"Oops," she'd said, voice dry as bone. "You should really watch where you're going."
The way she'd intercepted a group of students heading toward him during networking hour, hijacking the conversation.
"Oh, Rinon?" Her voice had lifted just enough to draw attention. "He's fascinating. The strong, silent type or maybe just silent because he has nothing to say."
And then the name tag.
That slow, deliberate rip as she brushed past him during introductions, her nail catching on the edge like it had been planned.
"How clumsy of me," she'd murmured, holding the torn piece of laminated paper between two fingers, her eyes gleaming like she'd won a bet.
He exhaled sharply, forcing his grip on the pen to loosen before it snapped.
The door swung open.
She just strode straight to the front row and dropped into a seat, posture draped in effortless arrogance, legs crossed.
Rinon didn't look up, but his pen faltered for half a second..
Rinon had arrived twenty minutes early to Business Ethics and Corporate Strategy, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh while he surveyed the room.
He chose a seat in the far corner not the very back, but close enough to the exit that he could slip away unnoticed.
Like you ever would, a voice in his head whispered, sounding suspiciously like hers.
The professor began droning about utilitarianism and stakeholder theory. Rinon took notes mechanically, his handwriting a controlled, even script that betrayed none of the chaos in his mind.
Then, halfway through the lecture, something slid across his desk.
A folded slip of paper.
He stared at it like it might bite.
A beat passed. Then another.
Finally, he unfolded it.
"You couldn't help it could you?"
He almost smiled, despite himself.
Almost.
Instead, he turned it over and wrote:
"Neither can you, it appears."
He threw it back at her.
She picked it up without looking, unfolded it with theatrical slowness. Her lips curled, something between amusement and approval and then she raised her hand.
"Professor," she called out, voice slicing clean through the hum of laptops and half-asleep undergrads. "What's the ethical penalty for self-deception? You know when someone lies to themselves so much they start believing it?"
The professor blinked, caught mid-thought. "That's... not really in the syllabus."
Saafia tilted her head slightly, just enough to glance back at Rinon.
"What if it's strategic self-deception?" she continued, feigning innocence. "Like, say, pretending you don't care when you're actually terrified?"
The professor stammered, flustered. "Ms. Bin, unless this is related to "
Rinon stood abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor.
"May I be excused?"
The professor gestured vaguely, more startled than approving.
He didn't wait.
Behind him, the door clicked open.
"That was quicker than yesterday," came her voice, lightly mocking. "I'm almost disappointed."
He didn't turn. "Self-deception was it?"
"You."
The word hung there, absurd and casual.
He turned to face her.
"Why?"
She stepped closer. Her expensive shoes made no sound.
"You're pretty, like David."
"That's not a reason."
"It's the only one that matters." She tapped one manicured finger against his chest, right over where his heartbeat thundered. "Of course it is, what's more fun than marring perfection."
He caught her wrist before she could pull away.
"So you're the type to destroy beauty?"
She raised a brow. "No?"
"I don't know you enough to hate you."
She gave a slow, foxlike smile. "Then let's fix that."
She leaned in, her breath brushing his ear.
"Midnight. Old library. Don't be late."
He didn't release her wrist. His grip was firm, not cruel but questioning.
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking."
"That's not an answer."
"What, you need a reason now?" She tilted her head, lashes lowered. "I thought you didn't care."
"I don't."
"Liar." She slid her hand free, but not before letting her fingers trail along his palm. "You care so much it's practically pathetic."
He clenched his hand into a fist. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you'll be there."
"And if I'm not?"
She turned, walking away, her voice floating behind her like smoke.
"Then I guess I'll have to find some other poor soul to ruin. But we both know you'd hate that more."
Her footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Rinon watched her retreat.
She was right.
And he hated that most of all.