Blackmail, Sweetheart [Still Flashback]

Blackmail, Sweetheart [Still Flashback]
This morning I knew I was already late before I even opened my eyes. 
My phone was dead. The alarm never went off. And the model board I’d strategically placed on a chair last night was now half-crushed under my own foot as I scrambled out of bed. Perfect.
I hadn’t even started the day yet, and it was already spiraling like the opening scene of some apocalyptic movie.
With one arm clutching a tote bag whose strap had snapped last semester (karma, obviously) and the other hauling a model board roughly the size of a mini coffin, I dragged myself to campus.
I walked faster, basically a jog, but I prayed I still looked at least somewhat graceful. My blond hair, which still felt foreign every time a mirror reflected that alien back at me, was in chaos thanks to the morning wind. Not that I cared. I was too busy trying not to die halfway up the faculty stairs.
By the time I reached the classroom door, I froze. My palms were sweaty, my heart pounding like I owed someone money, and my brain was chanting the lazy student’s final prayer: Please... please... don’t let the professor be in there already.
Relief. The room was noisy, still alive with chatter. No professor. No PowerPoint slides. No deadly stare from Professor Thomas, who loved haunting us at seven in the morning.
I ducked my head and made a beeline for a middle-row seat. The model thudded onto the floor, and I collapsed into the chair like a survivor stumbling out of a war zone.
“Late, huh?” Clara, my classmate, grinned from the seat beside me. Her face was fresh, her bun neat, and she looked nothing like someone who’d been up until three a.m. eating despair-flavored chips.
I nodded weakly. “Blame God, the weather, and the education system.”
She laughed softly. “So, how’s the new hair? Instagram blowing up?”
I groaned. “Like hellfire.”
And of course, just when I was ready to savor a moment of peace with Clara and her thermos of instant coffee, a chair screeched behind me and someone sat down with all the swagger of original sin.
Sebastian. Because obviously, life never lets me rest.
“I could give Reagan a run for his money, you know,” he whispered in his fake mysterious tone.
I turned slowly, expression flat.
He smirked. “I’m serious. When it comes to hair, I win. When it comes to charm... well, we can debate that tonight.”
I hoisted my model board, the one the size of a fishing boat, and shoved it at his face.
“Ow!” He laughed, shielding himself. “That your version of love?”
“That’s my version of academic revenge,” I shot back. “Because I know you were sipping coffee at the cafeteria while I was sketching till sunrise.”
He raised a brow. “If you wanted a hug to melt the exhaustion away, you could’ve just asked. No need for violence.”
I smirked. “Violence saves lives sometimes, Bas.”
Clara only shook her head beside us, biting back laughter as she sipped her coffee.
The classroom grew louder as more students poured in. I tried taming my hair with one hand while the other still gripped the model.
“But seriously,” Sebastian went on, “the hair suits you. Makes you look... more dangerous.”
I didn’t answer. Just gave him a sidelong glance before muttering, “Good. I’m considering a career as a supervillain.”
He chuckled, then flicked his gaze toward the door. “Shame Reagan’s not here to see it. I bet the guy would drop out of his program just to sneak into architecture class and stare at you.”
I shrugged. “If he drops out, it’ll be because of an existential crisis, not me.”
A few minutes later, Professor Thomas strode in carrying a blue folder and the look of a man determined to ruin our lives. Silence hit the room instantly. Even Sebastian, king of big mouths, sat up straight.
:::
The campus hallway was nearly empty when I stepped out of class. Sunlight cut through the giant windows, blinding and... irritating. I balanced the model board in one arm while wrestling with my backpack, its strap one bad breath away from snapping since last semester.
Walking sideways like some sketchy delivery worker smuggling boxes, I pulled out my phone and checked my messages.
Dominic (20 minutes ago): “You still alive, troublemaker?”
Ruan (18 minutes ago): “If you disappear for another two days without a word, I’ll curse you with permanent hair loss.”
I snorted. “Two of the most possessive brothers in all of South America,” I muttered, thumbs flying as I typed back: “Relax. Still breathing. Might die from theory class, though.”
I was too busy texting to notice my path leading me straight into something solid.
Not a wall. Walls aren’t usually warm. And they don’t smell this good.
A chest. Broad. Solid and wrapped in leather.
Shit.
My head lifted slowly, and there they were. Dark eyes, far too familiar, staring down at me in a way that should come with a health warning.
Reagan.
“Gretta.”
Oh no.
My eyes dropped, totally not at his chest. At the board. My board. Now scattered across the floor like the shattered dreams of a third-year architecture student.
He looked at me for a beat too long, just enough to make my neck burn. Then, casually, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, he crouched down to gather my pieces.
“You look prettier today,” he said, voice calm, like he was greeting a friend at the cafeteria.
I blinked. “And you look more like a ghost who lives to flirt with lost students.”
His grin flashed. The human version of a sinful sunset.
“Out of everyone I could’ve bumped into today,” he said, stacking my boards neatly, “you’re still my favorite.”
“If that’s supposed to be a compliment, try again. Maybe one that doesn’t sound like a line from the campus playboy starter pack.”
He stood, arms full of my model. “I’m hungry,” he said simply. “Have lunch with me.”
I stared at him. “No.”
He raised an eyebrow, still hugging my board. “Would you mind if I held your project hostage until you said yes?”
I hissed. “That’s academic blackmail.”
He grinned wider. “And I happen to be very good at blackmail, sweetheart.”
I glanced around. Empty. The hallway was deserted. No witnesses. No savior. No good excuse for why my heart was hammering like a marching band warming up in my ribcage.
“Reagan,” I warned, “if you’re still holding my board in five seconds, I’m throwing a T-square at you.”
He shrugged. “I can live with that.”
I groaned.
Five minutes later, we were walking side by side beneath the shade of the campus trees. He was still carrying my board.