Chapter 92
Ellie's POV
"Lily?" I called out. No response.
I walked over to her desk—laptop closed, chair pushed in neatly. Megan's makeup station was unusually tidy, everything put away.
Huh. That's weird.
My stomach growled, reminding me I'd skipped lunch entirely in favor of working on project documentation. I grabbed my phone and pulled up our group chat.
Me: Where is everyone? Heading to Sterling Dining for dinner. Anyone want to join?
I sent the message and grabbed my jacket. The campus was beautiful this time of evening—fairy lights strung through the quad trees, students hurrying between buildings in puffy coats and scarves, that particular winter chill that made everything feel crisp and alive.
The path to Sterling Dining Hall wound through the main quad, past the library where golden light spilled from floor-to-ceiling windows. I could see students hunched over laptops inside, probably cramming for upcoming exams.
Two weeks, I reminded myself. Two weeks until finals, then winter break. You can handle this.
I was almost at the dining hall entrance when a hand closed around my wrist.
My entire body went rigid. Every instinct Thalia possessed screamed threat—my muscles coiled, ready to twist away, to defend, to fight if necessary. My free hand had already started moving toward the person's arm, calculating the best break-hold technique—
"Easy."
Jackson's voice. Familiar. Safe.
I spun around, heart still hammering, and found him standing there with that almost-smile that meant he'd caught me off guard. The setting sun backlit him, making his dark hair glow amber at the edges.
"Jackson." I let out a breath, willing my pulse to slow. "You scared me."
"Sorry." But his eyes held amusement. "Didn't mean to trigger the defensive reflexes."
The adrenaline was already fading, replaced by curiosity. "What are you doing here?"
Instead of answering, he held one finger to his lips—the universal gesture for be quiet—then tilted his head toward the dining hall's large windows.
I followed his gaze and immediately understood.
Ryan and Lily sat at a corner table, heads bent close together over Ryan's phone. But it was their body language that told the real story—the way Lily's hand rested on the table, fingers barely an inch from Ryan's. The way he'd angled his chair so their knees almost touched. The way she was smiling, that soft, genuine expression she usually reserved for really good news or particularly adorable animal videos.
Lily's phone sat face-down on the table—her universal "do not disturb" signal.
"Oh my god," I breathed. "That's why she didn't answer my text."
"Figured you wouldn't want to interrupt." Jackson's hand was still loosely holding my wrist, his thumb resting against my pulse point. The touch sent awareness skittering up my arm. "Come on. Let's find somewhere else to eat."
He guided me around the building's perimeter to a side entrance I'd never noticed before, choosing a secluded corner booth with sightlines that kept Ryan and Lily's table safely out of view. The thoughtfulness of it—protecting my friend's privacy while still making sure we ate—made something warm unfurl in my chest.
"You knew about this?" I asked once we'd settled in with our trays.
Jackson dumped two sugars into his coffee with more focus than the task required. "Ryan mentioned the exchange program to London a few weeks ago. Said he'd been accepted. Full funding, incredible opportunity."
"But?" I prompted, recognizing the setup.
"But he withdrew his application last week." Jackson's dark eyes lifted to mine. "Didn't even tell Lily it was on the table."
I twisted slightly to look back at Ryan and Lily's table—safely out of their sightline from this angle. Ryan was demonstrating something with his hands, probably explaining some medical procedure, and Lily watched with rapt attention. As I observed, Ryan reached out with his napkin, gently wiping a smudge of something from Lily's chin. The gesture was so tender, so unconsciously intimate, that I felt like a voyeur for witnessing it.
"He gave up London," I said quietly. "For her."
"Seems like it." Jackson took a long sip of coffee. "Though he'd probably deny the connection if asked."
"Megan's tarot cards," I remembered suddenly, warmth spreading through my chest. "She pulled the Three of Swords for Lily at that Halloween reading. Separation, heartbreak. Guess they were wrong."
Jackson's expression grew thoughtful. "Or Ryan changed what the cards predicted. Chose a different path."
Something in his tone made me look at him more closely. He was watching me with an intensity that sent my pulse racing—not predatory, but definitely aware. Like he was thinking about choices and paths and futures that extended beyond casual friendship.
He's thinking about us, Thalia whispered. About whether we can choose our own destiny.
"Free will over fate," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "I like that philosophy."
"Me too." Jackson's smile was small but genuine. Then he seemed to shake himself slightly, returning to the present moment. "So—about Don Miguel and your father."
Right. The walking stick situation.
"I talked to him earlier," Jackson continued. "Don Miguel should be in Spain for most of the winter—family obligations, several commissioned pieces he's working on. But he'd be happy to do a video call with your dad. Maybe after the holidays?"
Relief washed over me. "That would be perfect. Dad will be thrilled."
"I'll send you Don Miguel's contact information once I confirm his schedule." Jackson paused. "For what it's worth, Don Miguel was really moved that your father appreciated the craftsmanship so deeply. Most people just see the price tag."
"Dad's not most people." I smiled, thinking about his workshop, his careful hands, his genuine love for well-made things. "He understands what it means to create something with your whole heart."
Jackson's expression softened. "Yeah. I got that impression when I met him."