Nevermore Academy — Class of 1996 Reunion (Ch. 2)
Larissa Weems x Reader (Wednesday) Fake Dating AU words: 5,556
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The Weathervane was unusually calm for the late afternoon rush. It smelled of coffee, burnt sugar, and rain-soaked wool.
It wasn’t actually raining.
That, Larissa thought, was simply Jericho’s natural state of being. Damp in spirit, if not always in weather. The town had a way of clinging to unpleasant atmospheres long after the cause had vanished, like a house where someone had died and no one had thought to open a window.
She stood just inside the café entrance, gloved hands folded neatly around the strap of her handbag, and resisted the urge to turn around. Her reflection in the entrance windowpane betrayed the truth: she’d dressed with more care than she intended.
It was ridiculous, of course. Larissa Weems did not flee coffee shops. She presided over board meetings, disciplinary hearings, parent conferences, and the occasional supernatural incident involving blood, feathers, or unauthorized necromancy. She had once negotiated with a werewolf father during a full moon and managed to keep both her composure and all of her limbs.
Surely she could endure one planning meeting. With you. At six o’clock. In public.
Larissa’s gaze swept the café with practiced discretion. A few townspeople occupied the tables near the front, their conversations low and ordinary in a way that made them feel suspicious. Two teenagers hunched over milkshakes in the corner, passing a phone back and forth with the solemnity of people viewing evidence at a crime scene. Behind the counter, a barista with violet hair and an expression of profound spiritual exhaustion wiped down the espresso machine as though it had personally wronged them.
Then Larissa saw you.
You had chosen a small table near the window, far enough from the counter to avoid the worst of the noise, close enough to the exit that no one could accuse you of lacking tactical awareness. You were already seated, one ankle crossed over the other, a mug in front of you, your jacket draped over the back of the chair.
You looked comfortable.
There was that same ease again, that quiet, infuriating way you occupied space as though no one had ever taught you to apologize for it. You glanced up as the bell above the door gave its brittle little chime, and when your eyes found hers, your mouth curved into a smile.
Not too broad. Not presumptuous. Just warm enough to make her notice.
Larissa approached the table with the measured grace of a woman walking toward a gallows she had arranged herself.
“Larissa,” you greeted.
Her name again. It still felt inconvenient.
“You’re early,” she said, removing her gloves finger by finger.
“So are you.”
“I prefer punctuality.”
“And I prefer a good table.”
Her gaze flicked toward the window, then back to you. “A strategic choice.”
“Quiet enough to talk. Visible enough not to look suspicious.” You lifted your mug and joked. “And close enough to the exit in case the conversation goes horribly.”
Larissa arched a brow. “Do you often plan your escapes before coffee?”
“Only when meeting beautiful women with access to restricted archives.”
She paused. For only a moment. Then she slid into the chair opposite you, dignity intact through sheer force of will.
“How efficient of you,” she said coolly. “Flattery and ulterior motives in the same sentence.”
“I like to respect people’s time.”
“An admirable quality, if that is in fact what you are doing.”
You smiled into your mug.
Larissa set her handbag beside her chair and looked toward the counter. The barista, perhaps sensing the approach of authority, straightened immediately.
“I’ll get yours,” you said, beginning to rise.
“That is unnecessary.”
“I know.” You stood anyway.
Larissa watched you cross to the counter, and then immediately regretted watching. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the act. You ordered coffee. You exchanged a few quiet words with the barista. You leaned against the counter with one hand, relaxed but attentive. Entirely ordinary.
And yet Larissa’s attention remained fixed on you with the same grim persistence she usually reserved for faculty budget discrepancies.
It was the arrangement, she reminded herself.
Observation was necessary. If you were to appear familiar with one another, she had to know your mannerisms. Your habits. The way you moved through a room. The rhythm of your speech. Whether you were the sort of person who flirted with everyone or merely with people whose professional boundaries you intended to ruin.
You returned with her coffee before she could reach any useful conclusion.
“Black,” you said, setting the cup before her. “No sugar.”
Larissa looked at it, then at you.
“You remembered.”
“You mentioned it yesterday.”
“I didn’t realize you were listening so closely.”
“I mean, I was asking you for access to one of the most restricted spaces in Nevermore. Listening seemed wise.”
A reasonable answer. Entirely too reasonable.
“Thank you,” Larissa said.
Your smile softened. “You’re welcome.”
She reached for the cup, grateful for something to do with her hands. The coffee was hot enough to sting faintly through the porcelain. Good. Pain, however minor, had a clarifying effect.
For a moment, the two of you sat in companionable quiet. Outside, Jericho moved in its dreary little way. Across the street, the antique shop’s window display featured a collection of porcelain dolls arranged in what appeared to be a murder tribunal.
Larissa had always found Jericho tiresome. Nevermore was strange by nature, but Jericho was strange by denial.
You followed her gaze and grimaced faintly. “You know, those dolls weren’t all facing the same direction when I arrived.”
Larissa glanced back at you. “Are you attempting to unsettle me?”
“No. Just sharing.”
“How generous.”
“I thought honesty might help with the narrative consistency.”
Larissa’s mouth betrayed her before she could stop it, curving faintly at one corner.
“Very well,” she said, setting down her cup. “If we are to discuss this arrangement, we should begin with expectations.”
You folded your hands around your mug. “That sounds terrifyingly official.”
“It is a fake relationship, not a bank holiday. Some structure is necessary.”
“Of course.”
“First,” Larissa said, “we will not use the phrase fake relationship.”
You blinked. “Even in private?”
“Especially in private. It sounds juvenile.”
“What would you prefer?”
“Arrangement remains suitable.”
“Larissa, if someone asks how long we’ve been together and I say, ‘Oh, this arrangement has been going on for several weeks,’ I’m not sure it’ll help our case.”
She gave you a look.
You looked back, entirely too pleased with yourself.
“Fine,” she said. “Relationship, if necessary.”
“Romance?” You suggested.
“Absolutely not.”
“Entanglement?”
“Only if your goal is to sound like a scandal column written by a man with gout.”
You laughed, and Larissa had to look down at her coffee.
That sound again. Uncontrolled. Unrehearsed. Irritatingly easy to want again.
“Relationship it is,” you said. “How long have we been seeing each other?”
Larissa had prepared for this question. She had prepared for several questions, in fact, in a mental list arranged by likelihood and potential discomfort.
“Several months,” she said. “Long enough to justify my inviting you, not so long that anyone would expect extensive public knowledge.”
You nodded. “How did we meet?”
“At a town council function.”
“That works. We did technically meet there.”
“Precisely.”
“Though I think you ignored me for most of it.”
“I was speaking with the mayor.”
“You looked miserable.”
“I was speaking with the mayor.”
You nodded, “Fair.”
Larissa took a sip of coffee to hide the smile threatening her composure.
“It would be plausible,” she continued, “that we became acquainted after that. You had research interests connected to Nevermore history. I had reason to consult with someone familiar with Jericho’s private records.”
“And from there, mutual respect became attraction?”
Her fingers stilled against the cup.
You said it lightly. Not mockingly. But the word sat between you with a certain weight.
Attraction. Some people said such things as if they had no edges…
“That would be the implication,” Larissa said.
“The implication,” you repeated.
“Yes.”
“Are we affectionate?”
Larissa’s gaze sharpened. “In what sense?”
“In the sense that if someone watches us interact for more than thirty seconds, they should believe we like each other.”
“I am capable of appearing fond.”
“I have no doubt.”
“I am less certain about you.”
You placed a hand over your chest again, wounded in a way that was becoming theatrically familiar. “I’m deeply likable.”
“You are tolerable under specific circumstances.”
“That’s basically a love confession coming from you.”
Larissa gave you a look so flat it might have been used to press flowers.
You smiled. “Fine,” you said. “We like each other. Publicly.”
“Publicly,” Larissa agreed.
“And privately?”
Her eyes lifted to yours. The question had been too quiet to remain entirely teasing.
Privately.
A ridiculous word. A treacherous one. It suggested closed doors, lowered voices, gloves removed one finger at a time. Things Larissa had not given herself permission to consider, and certainly not across from you in a café that smelled faintly of cinnamon and municipal despair.
“Privately,” she said after a moment, “we maintain the terms of our agreement.”
You studied her, then nodded. You did not push. Larissa found that more disarming than if you had.
“Physical affection?” you asked instead.
She had known that question would come. “I think,” Larissa said carefully, “we should avoid anything unnecessary.”
“Define unnecessary.”
“Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m being practical. If we’re going to convince people, we should know what we’re comfortable with.”
Comfortable. An almost laughable word.
Larissa Weems had spent much of her life appearing comfortable in situations designed to make her feel otherwise. She had learned how to stand still while being examined, praised, dismissed, envied, underestimated. Comfort rarely entered into it.
“An arm offered while walking is acceptable,” she said.
You nodded.
“A hand at my back, provided it is not excessive.”
“What counts as excessive?”
“You will know.”
“I admire your faith in me.”
“Do not.”
You smiled into your coffee at that.
Larissa continued, determined not to be derailed by the entirely unnecessary curve of your mouth. “Brief touches, if the situation requires it. Nothing that would invite speculation beyond what we intend.”
“Larissa, the entire point is to invite speculation.”
“Controlled speculation.”
“Oh, of course. My mistake.” You almost rolled your eyes.
“And no kissing,” she added.
The words landed rather abruptly. Your expression did not change much, but she saw the flicker of surprise.
“Noted,” you said.
Larissa’s fingers tightened around her cup.
It was reasonable. Sensible. A clear boundary. There was no reason to feel as though she had revealed something intimate by setting it.
“No kissing,” you repeated, gentler this time. “Unless you change your mind.”
“I will not.”
“All right.”
No teasing. No challenge. Just acceptance. It should have relieved her. It did, somewhat. It also left her with the irritating impression that you had heard the part she had omitted.
Larissa turned her attention to the folder she had brought with her and withdrew a small notebook. Boundaries were necessary. Unfortunately, they were not sufficient.
A lie, if it was going to survive public scrutiny, needed details.
“For this to be believable,” she said carefully, “people will expect that we already have a certain familiarity. That we know one another beyond formalities.”
Your eyes dropped to the notebook, delighted. “Did you make an agenda?”
“Naturally.”
“For our fake dating planning meeting?”
“Our relationship planning meeting,” Larissa corrected, with an expression that dared you to comment.
You did anyway. “I’m charmed.”
“You are premature.”
“That too.”
Larissa looked up sharply. You took a long, innocent sip of coffee.
A lesser woman might have laughed. Larissa was not a lesser woman. She pressed the tip of her pen to the page with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.
“Occupation,” she said.
“You know that already.”
“I know what you do professionally. I do not know how you explain it at parties.”
“Badly, usually.”
“Then practice.”
You leaned back in your chair, considering. “Independent researcher. Occasional consultant. Professional nuisance when institutions hide things in locked rooms and expect no one to ask why.”
“Charming.”
“You asked.”
“I did.”
“What about you?”
Larissa looked at you.
You smiled. “How do you explain your job at parties?”
“I am the principal of Nevermore Academy.”
“That’s not explaining. That’s a warning label.”
“You are not wrong.”
Your smile widened.
Larissa wrote professional nuisance beneath your name, then stared at it for half a second longer than necessary.
“Hobbies?” she asked.
“Is this for you or for the alumni?”
“Both.”
“Efficient.”
“You say that as though it surprises you.”
“No. I’m starting to think efficiency might be your love language.”
“My what?”
“Never mind.”
Larissa chose, generously, not to pursue that.
You stirred your coffee, though it didn’t need stirring. “I like museums. Any kind, really. Art, history, oddities… I like the quiet. The stillness. Feels like everyone’s agreed, just for that hour, to let things be.”
Larissa’s pen moved.
“Ballet.”
Her pen paused.
You noticed.
“Surprising?”
“No,” she said quickly.
You looked unconvinced.
Larissa cleared her throat. “Perhaps mildly.”
Mildly was a charitable lie. Your ease, the faint roughness to your voice, the scent of leather and pine that followed you—none of it suggested delicate pointe shoes or orchestral crescendos.
“I contain multitudes,” you said in a singsong voice.
“How poetic.”
“One of the first things I was obsessed with as a kid,” you said, leaning forward, elbows brushing the edge of the table. “My brother used to take me to performances when he could afford cheap seats. Guess it stuck.”
Larissa smiled softly, as if she was stuck in a memory. “I used to sneak into the local theater back home to watch rehearsals. Never had the courage to admit how much I loved it.”
You raised a brow. “You? Not have courage?”
“Regarding matters of personal expression,” she corrected, “yes.” A sigh escaped her. “Perfection was expected. And ballet felt… indulgent.”
“Indulgent can be good,” you murmured.
She looked down.
“I also like a good beer,” you added, gentler now, as if sensing she needed the subject turned slightly away from herself. “Which usually ruins the effect.”
“Does it?”
“Depends on the exhibit. Some of them practically require one afterward.”
Larissa made the mistake of imagining you in some dimly lit gallery, head tilted before a painting, speaking quietly about brushwork or history or whatever it was you saw when you looked at beautiful things. Then she imagined you in a bar afterward, relaxed and laughing with a bottle in your hand, utterly untroubled by contradiction.
It annoyed her, how easily the image came.
Then her gaze caught on the leather jacket draped over your chair, and another image intruded: you arriving at Nevermore astride a motorcycle, entirely too comfortable with the attention it drew.
“You ride a motorcycle,” she said.
Your brows lifted. “I didn’t mention that.”
“You arrived on one yesterday morning.”
“You noticed?”
“I notice most things.”
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
Larissa wrote motorcycle, then immediately wondered why it looked more intimate in her handwriting than it had any right to.
“Is that a deal-breaker for a fake girlfriend?” you teased.
She felt heat prick her cheeks. “I—certainly not. It’s merely… unexpected.”
“That tends to be the reaction.” Your smile softened as your fingers brushed the rim of your mug. “It belonged to my father originally. I fixed it up after he stopped using it.”
Larissa glanced up.
You shrugged, as if the detail had escaped by accident and now needed to be made smaller. “It’s loud, inconvenient, and makes people assume things about me that are only half true.”
“That sounds like most forms of transportation chosen for emotional reasons.”
You laughed softly. “You’re not wrong.”
“And family?” Larissa asked curiously.
The question was more delicate.
Your expression softened. “I have a brother. He has a daughter. My niece.”
Larissa wrote niece, though the word felt inadequate for whatever had just happened to your face.
“I watch her sometimes,” you continued. “When he needs help. Or when she decides I’m more fun.”
“And are you?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
Larissa’s brow rose.
“My brother works long shifts, so I help out when I can,” you said. “She’s four. Very opinionated. Deeply suspicious of vegetables.”
Larissa’s brow rose.
“I let her get ice cream before dinner once,” you added. “Now I’m beloved and morally compromised.”
“A dangerous combination.”
“She thinks so,” you said, smiling helplessly into your cup.
Larissa could picture it too easily, as well. You with a child beside you, conspiratorial and amused. You kneeling to zip a small coat, or pretending not to notice sticky fingers, or allowing yourself to be tugged toward something ridiculous because a child had demanded it with complete confidence.
There was an ache in the image she did not care to examine.
“What’s her name?” Larissa asked before she could stop herself.
“Mara.”
Her expression warmed before she could arrange it into something more useful, more guarded.
“Mara,” Larissa repeated, and wrote it down carefully.
You watched her do it.
“You don’t have to remember all this.”
“If we are to appear close, I should remember what matters to you.”
The words were practical. Mostly.
You looked away first, and Larissa counted that as a private victory.
“What about you?” you asked, sitting back in the booth.
Larissa’s pen stopped moving. “What about me?”
“Hobbies. Family. Things alumni might expect me to know.”
“My professional history is public enough.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
A silence settled between you, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy in the way old doors were heavy. The kind that required both hands to open.
Larissa looked down at the notebook. Her own page remained largely blank.
Principal of Nevermore. Former student. Shapeshifter. Immaculate posture. Avoids vulnerability as if it were a contagious disease.
Not especially helpful in these circumstances.
“I enjoy music,” she finally said.
“That’s safe.”
“It’s true.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
Larissa looked at you. You looked back.
The café hummed around you. Cups clinked. The espresso machine hissed. Someone near the counter laughed too loudly and then seemed embarrassed by the sound.
Larissa turned her pen once between her fingers.
“I paint,” she admitted.
The admission left her so quietly that, for a moment, she almost convinced herself she had not said it aloud.
But you heard her. Your expression changed—not dramatically, not enough to make her regret it immediately. You simply became stiller. More careful.
“You paint?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
Larissa’s shoulders tightened. “No one knows that,” she said.
It was not an answer. You seemed to understand that.
“Then I won’t tell anyone.”
She should have moved on. She should have written down some bland, acceptable detail instead—watercolors, landscapes, amateur interest. Something harmless.
But the truth, once loosened, had a perverse desire to continue to unravel.
“I don’t show anyone,” Larissa said. “I have no interest in being compared. Or praised insincerely. Or told that something private has merit only because someone else has decided it does.”
Your voice softened. “And you’re afraid it won’t be perfect?”
She swallowed. “Because it doesn’t need to be. It’s the only thing in my life that doesn’t require excellence. No Board evaluations. No faculty judgments. No comparisons to my predecessor.” Her gaze drifted to the window. “Just color and canvas. I don’t have to be the headmistress. I can simply be.”
You watched her as if she had handed you something breakable and trusted you, inexplicably, not to close your fist around it.
Larissa resented the gentleness in it. Worse, some small, neglected part of her recognized it as kindness.
“That makes sense,” you said.
She almost laughed. It did not make sense. Not to most people. Most people believed beauty needed an audience. That talent needed witness. That private things were wasted if they remained private.
Larissa had spent her life being witnessed. Examined. Interpreted. Reduced to a set of visible facts: tall, elegant, controlled, successful. Painting was the one thing that did not ask her to be impressive. The one thing she could do without consequence. The one place where perfection was not demanded at the door like a ticket.
“It’s the only time,” she said, then stopped.
Your voice was careful. “The only time what?”
Larissa looked out the window again. The porcelain dolls across the street had shifted… again.
Wonderful. Even the town’s unsettling décor had better timing than she did.
“It is the only time I do not have to be perfect,” she said at last.
The words settled between you. You didn’t make a joke, didn’t laugh.
Larissa’s throat tightened. She regretted it now. Not the truth, exactly, but the nakedness of it. The way it sat there on the café table between your coffee cups, fragile and horribly alive.
Then you said, “Whatever you make doesn’t have to justify itself to anyone.”
She looked back at you.
Your expression was calm. Certain. “It can just exist,” you said. “And still be beautiful.”
Larissa forgot, briefly, how to breathe. It was a foolish response to a simple kindness. She knew that. She was not seventeen anymore, no matter what this reunion seemed determined to resurrect.
And yet. Something inside her went very still.
“That is a generous sentiment,” she said.
“It’s not generosity if it’s true.”
There it was again. That ease she had not yet decided whether to admire or resent.
Larissa looked down at her notebook and found that her hand had not moved for several minutes. She wrote one word beneath her own name.
Painting.
The letters looked strangely exposed. This was the problem with pretending at intimacy. Occasionally, one stumbled into the real thing.
You reached for your cup. “Feels like we’re off to a good start.”
“Does it?” she asked, hating the softness in her voice.
You gave a small, warm smile. “Yeah. It feels like we’re going to be convincing.”
Her pulse gave one traitorous little answer.
“Now,” she said, voice smoother than she felt, “before this becomes too sentimental, we should discuss the reunion attendees.”
You leaned back, accepting the retreat with infuriating grace. “Of course. The ghosts.”
“Former classmates,” Larissa corrected.
“You described them as people pretending to remember you fondly.”
“In that case, ghosts may be kinder.”
“Oof. That bad?”
Larissa’s mouth thinned. “Not all of them.”
“But some.”
“Some people are most comfortable when others remain exactly where they left them.”
You watched her carefully. “And where did they leave you?”
Larissa considered not answering. Then she surprised herself.
“At the edge of things.”
Your face shifted. Not pity. She would have ended the conversation if it were pity. Recognition, perhaps.
“I see,” you said.
“Yes,” Larissa replied. “I rather feared you might.”
Outside, the streetlamp flickered once, then steadied. A car rolled slowly past the café, tires hissing against pavement that had no reason to be wet.
Larissa opened the folder and pulled out a neatly folded sheet.
“I have compiled a list of individuals likely to be in attendance.”
“You made a dossier?”
“A guest list.”
“With emotional threat assessments?” you teased.
“Don’t be absurd.”
You reached for the paper.
Larissa held it just out of reach for one additional second, mostly because you looked amused and she was, apparently, becoming petty in your presence.
Then she handed it over.
You scanned the list. “Morticia Addams?”
Larissa’s facial expression did not move. But something in the air changed.
You looked up. “Ah,” you said.
“There is no ah.”
“That was definitely an ah.”
“It was not.”
“You have an ah face.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
“You do when someone named Morticia appears on a list.”
Larissa reached for her coffee. It was lukewarm now. Tragic.
“Morticia Frump, at the time,” she said. “Now Addams. We were roommates.”
Your eyes flickered with interest. “Roommates?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And she is expected to attend with her husband.”
You checked the list. “Gomez Addams.”
“Yes.”
You looked up at Larissa again. “Do I need to know something about Morticia?”
“No.”
“Larissa.”
Her name, gentle and chiding, should not have worked. She decided that it hadn’t. Then she answered anyway.
“Morticia was beloved,” Larissa said. “Beautiful. Effortless. Brilliant in ways that made people forgive her for never seeming to try.”
You didn’t interrupt. Larissa wished you would. It might have allowed her to stop.
“She had a way of making the grotesque look graceful,” she continued. “Of making danger seem romantic. People were drawn to her. They still are.”
“And you?”
Larissa smiled faintly. It was not a happy expression. “I was useful.”
Your gaze sharpened.
“She wasn’t cruel,” Larissa said, because it mattered. Because the truth was worse for lacking a villain. “Not intentionally. Morticia could be very kind. But kindness does not always prevent someone from casting a shadow.”
You looked at the guest list again. “And you spent a lot of time in that shadow.”
Larissa’s fingers tightened around her cup. “Yes.”
There. The truth, stripped of all useful decoration.
You set the paper down with care.
“I should probably know what people might assume about us,” you said.
Larissa’s eyes lifted.
“And about you and Morticia,” you clarified.
Her expression cooled by a practiced degree. “There is nothing to assume.”
“That doesn’t usually stop people.”
No, Larissa thought. It did not.
“There may have been speculation,” she said carefully.
“Was it accurate?”
Her pulse gave one hard, offended beat.
You didn’t look mockingly. Only directly.
Larissa could have lied. Easily. She had lied about smaller things to more important people.
Instead, she said, “Not in any way that matters now.”
You absorbed that. Then nodded. “All right.”
No demand. No triumphant little smile. No invasive curiosity. Just all right.
Larissa was beginning to suspect that your restraint would prove more inconvenient than your curiosity.
“She may ask about you,” Larissa said.
“Morticia?”
“Others as well. But yes.”
“What should I say?”
“That you find me impressive, of course.”
You smiled. “That part won’t be difficult.”
Larissa looked at you over the rim of her cup. “You are very determined to make this evening tiresome.”
“Only for your cardiovascular health.”
“How considerate.”
“I try.”
She should not have enjoyed this. She truly shouldn’t have.
“And if someone asks why I’m with you?” you continued.
Larissa’s chin lifted slightly. “Because you have excellent taste.”
You laughed again, and this time Larissa allowed herself the smallest smile in return.
“Good answer,” you said.
“It has the advantage of being plausible.”
“Very humble.”
“Humility is overrated.”
“That might be the first thing you’ve said tonight that I completely believe.”
Larissa’s smile lingered.
Then, because Jericho had a vindictive sense of timing, something went wrong.
The lights flickered. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause alarm. Just a brief dimming, as if the café had blinked.
The conversations around you continued. The barista cursed softly at the espresso machine. Outside, the streetlamp flickered again.
Larissa’s smile vanished.
You noticed immediately. “What is it?”
She did not answer at once.
Across from you, on the wall above the counter, a round clock ticked steadily toward six forty-three. Then the second hand stopped.
The room did not.
A spoon clinked against ceramic. Someone coughed. The espresso machine hissed. Your fingers tightened around your mug.
The clock remained frozen.
Larissa slowly turned her head toward the window. A man in a gray coat stood outside beneath the streetlamp, cigarette lifted halfway to his mouth. Unmoving.
No. Not unmoving.
Paused.
The flame from his lighter hung small and bright in the air, a tiny orange wound against the darkening street.
“Larissa,” you said quietly.
She looked back at you. The smile had gone from your face.
For one second, neither of you moved. Then the clock resumed.
The man outside finished lighting his cigarette. The streetlamp steadied. The café continued on, oblivious and ordinary, which in Jericho was usually the first sign of something being deeply wrong.
Larissa rose from her chair. “Come with me.”
You stood at once, reaching for your jacket. “That was one of the anomalies.”
“Yes.”
“So the Hourglass—”
“Not here,” she said sharply.
You fell silent. Not from being intimidated or chastened. Never that.
But because you understood.
Larissa left money on the table for both coffees and gathered her handbag, every motion controlled, precise, far calmer than she felt. She could sense your presence beside her as the two of you moved toward the door.
The bell above it chimed when she stepped outside.
The evening air was cold enough to bite. Jericho’s main street stretched in both directions, damp and dim and deceptively still. The man in the gray coat was walking away now, smoke trailing behind him.
Larissa turned toward you.
“This changes things,” you said.
“It confirms that your concerns have merit,” she agreed.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“It also means your access to the archives will begin tomorrow.”
Your brows lifted. “That soon?”
“Under my supervision,” she said. “Do not look pleased.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You are failing.”
The corner of your mouth twitched, but the humor faded quickly as you glanced back through the café window at the clock.
“Did anyone else notice?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“That’s worse, isn’t it?”
Larissa did not answer. Because yes. It was worse.
A temporal disturbance observed by multiple witnesses would have created panic, but it also would have created proof. This had been quiet. Selective. Precise. The kind of wrongness that slipped through the cracks and left reasonable people doubting themselves.
The kind of wrongness Nevermore tended to bury until it began digging back.
“I should go through my notes tonight,” you said. “There might be a pattern with location or timing.”
“No.”
You looked at her.
Larissa realized, belatedly, that the word had come too quickly.
“No?” you repeated.
“It would be unwise for you to pursue this alone.”
“I’ve been pursuing it alone for weeks.”
“And now you’re not.”
The statement hung between you.
The streetlamp buzzed faintly overhead.
Your expression softened, just a little. “Is that part of the archive agreement or the dating arrangement?”
Larissa’s jaw tightened. “Both,” she said.
You seemed to like that answer more than she intended.
“Then what do you suggest?”
“Return home. Make no additional inquiries tonight. Bring your notes to Nevermore tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Is this you worrying about me?”
“This is me managing risk.”
“Of course.”
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly.”
You smiled then, small and real, and for one strange moment Larissa forgot which problem she was meant to be solving first: the stopped clock, the impossible artifact, the looming reunion, or you.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” you said.
“And tomorrow evening,” she reminded you. “We have not finished preparing for the reunion.”
“You still want to continue with that?”
The question surprised her. Perhaps it shouldn’t have.
Larissa looked at you, at the concern tucked carefully beneath your curiosity, at the steadiness of you in the dim light.
“Yes,” she said.
Your gaze searched hers. “Even with all of this happening?”
“Especially with all of this happening.”
A faint smile touched your mouth. “That sounds ominous.”
“This is Jericho. Everything sounds ominous if one is paying attention.”
“Fair point.” You stepped back, then hesitated.
Larissa saw the question before you asked it.
“Would it be too much,” you said carefully, “if I touched your arm before I go?”
Her breath caught.
Unfortunately, you were becoming rather skilled at noticing the things she preferred to keep brief.
“For practice,” you added, though your voice was softer than before.
Larissa should have refused. It would have been simple. Sensible. Entirely within the boundaries she had drawn less than an hour ago. Instead, she inclined her head once.
You moved slowly enough that she could have stepped away.
She did not.
Your hand settled lightly against her forearm, just above the wrist. A brief touch. Warm through the fabric of her sleeve. Nothing theatrical. Nothing excessive. Her pulse, apparently, didn’t care for the distinction.
“Goodnight, Larissa,” you said.
“Goodnight,” she replied.
You released her and walked toward the motorcycle parked near the curb. Larissa watched as you pulled on your helmet, swung one leg over the bike, and glanced back at her before starting the engine.
The sound cut through the quiet street, low and rough and entirely at odds with the careful elegance of the evening. Then you were gone, taillight disappearing into the fog-softened dark.
Larissa remained beneath the streetlamp longer than necessary.
Across the street, in the antique shop window, the porcelain dolls had turned to face her. Every single one.
Larissa stared at them. “Subtle,” she murmured.
Then she turned sharply and walked toward her car, heels clicking against the pavement with the brisk certainty of a woman who had no intention of being intimidated by cursed dolls, temporal anomalies, or the lingering warmth of your hand on her sleeve.
By the time she reached the edge of town, she had already begun revising the next day’s schedule.
Nine o’clock. Archive access.
Six o’clock. Continued reunion preparation.
And somewhere between those two appointments, Larissa would have to determine which required closer supervision: an artifact capable of fracturing time, or the fact that she was looking forward to seeing you again.
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Tagging @barbarasstar, @egos-r-life. Let me know if you want tagged or untagged!
