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The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of Nevermore Academy, casting golden streaks on the polished wood floors. Larissa Weems sat at her desk, her slender fingers gliding over a stack of papers with a practiced ease that had long ago become second nature. Her office, grand and imposing, was filled with relics from the school’s storied past—portraits of former headmasters, thick tomes with spines cracked from centuries of use, and her own neatly arranged awards and commendations.

Yet, for all its grandeur, the room felt unusually small today. Constricting.

The embossed invitation in her hand caught the light, its silver letters shimmering against the black cardstock.

Nevermore Academy — 30th Class Reunion

Larissa stared at it as though it were a portent, its edges sharp with memory. The invitation itself was elegant. Tasteful. Entirely harmless to anyone who did not know better. But old wounds had a way of dressing themselves in pretty things.

Her mouth tightened as images rose unbidden—fragments of laughter echoing down corridors, polished shoes on ballroom floors, the soft humiliation of being admired from a distance but never truly wanted up close. There were bits of insecurity and half-forgotten stings drifting to the surface like debris on a restless tide.

She had been the tallest girl in her class. The poised one. The clever one. The one teachers trusted and peers respected when it suited them while her classmates flitted through their teenage years with reckless abandon. She had learned very young how to make elegance look effortless, how to hold her chin high enough that no one noticed when she wanted to disappear.

But she had also been the girl standing quietly at the edge of the dance floor, pretending not to mind when no one asked.

Admired, perhaps. Respected, certainly.

Chosen? Rarely.

Never first. Always almost. The lingering sting of that truth made her stomach tighten, even now.

Larissa exhaled slowly through her nose and set the invitation down with deliberate care, as if too much force might betray her. It was absurd, really. She was no longer that girl. Her life had taken a different turn since then—an impressive one, by any reasonable measure. Principal of Nevermore Academy. Celebrated alumna. A formidable woman entrusted with shaping the minds and futures of generations of outcasts.

She had built a legacy here. Poured herself into the school as if dedication might alchemize longing into purpose.

And perhaps it had. Mostly.

But for all her accomplishments, there remained a hollow space in her chest that ached whenever she thought about walking into that reunion alone. Not because she needed anyone. Larissa Weems had long ago learned the art of self-sufficiency. Need was an indulgence she could rarely afford.

No, it was not loneliness that troubled her. It was the fear of being seen. Not as the principal. Not as the polished, untouchable woman she had so carefully constructed.

But as the girl she had once been. The girl everyone had looked past. Besides the fear of old insecurities surfacing, it was the quiet realization that she had never really left.

With a sigh, her gaze drifted from the invitation to the slip of paper beside it, where she had written your name in neat, careful script.

That was the other matter occupying her thoughts.

You had come to her office earlier that morning with a request bold enough to be irritating and well-researched enough to be difficult to dismiss. Access to Nevermore’s restricted archives was not something Larissa granted lightly, least of all to someone who did not belong to the academy. The collection contained histories that were dangerous in the wrong hands, relics better left undisturbed, and records so old that even their dust felt accusatory.

But you had not asked with the entitled impatience of a curious amateur. You had come prepared.

You spoke of a series of anomalies in Jericho—brief lapses in time, strange repetitions of events too precise to be coincidence, eyewitness accounts that contradicted themselves in ways no ordinary hysteria could explain. You had traced the disturbances back through town records, private collections, half-burned diaries, and finally, impossibly, to a name Larissa had not heard spoken aloud since her own student days.

The Obsidian Hourglass.

A Nevermore legend. Or, at least, that was what most believed it to be.

An artifact supposedly capable of manipulating time in small but dangerous fractures. It had been dismissed by generations of students as a gothic little myth, the sort of thing whispered about during midnight dares and embellished by bored teenagers looking to frighten one another.

But Larissa knew better than most that legends at Nevermore rarely came from nowhere. And you, apparently, had reached the same conclusion.

You wanted access to the restricted archive records connected to the Hourglass. Not the student-facing accounts or the sanitized histories tucked neatly into public catalogues, but the sealed documents. The ones hidden behind wards, faculty permissions, and several layers of institutional discretion.

Larissa should have refused you outright. She nearly had.

But there had been something about the way you sat across from her desk, composed but not arrogant, careful but not afraid. Something about your unguarded confidence. The ease with which you met her gaze. You had spoken to her not as a gatekeeper to be flattered, nor as an obstacle to be maneuvered around, but as an equal.

That alone had been disarming. Larissa was not accustomed to being disarmed, and you lingered in her mind long after you left.

—

The sound of brisk footsteps in the corridor outside drew her attention. A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

She straightened. “Come in.”

The door opened, and there you stood.

For one irritating, treacherous second, Larissa forgot the practiced expression she had intended to wear.

You looked much as you had that previous morning—composed, curious, with that same quiet magnetism that made the air seem to shift around you. It made her painfully aware of how tightly she had been gripping her fountain pen. There was an ease about you that Larissa found almost indecent. As though the world had tried to make you smaller once or twice and failed to leave a lasting impression.

“Principal Weems,” you greeted, offering a polite smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” she replied smoothly, her voice betraying none of the nerves twisting low in her stomach. “Please, come in.”

You stepped inside, and the faint scent of leather and pine accompanied you. Larissa gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. As you sat, your eyes moved briefly around the room—not prying, but observant. Taking in the portraits, the shelves, the careful order of her space. There was curiosity in your expression.

And, unless Larissa was mistaken, admiration.

She folded her hands neatly atop the desk. “I’ve been giving some thought to your request.”

Your posture shifted, attention sharpening. “And?”

“And,” she said, allowing the word to settle between you, “it is unconventional. Potentially dangerous. Almost certainly inadvisable.”

Your brow arched slightly while a faint smile tugged at your mouth. “That sounds like the beginning of a no.”

“It would be,” Larissa replied, “if the circumstances surrounding your research were less concerning.”

Your amusement faded slightly. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

Larissa reached for one of the folders on her desk and opened it, revealing the notes she had compiled since your first meeting. Reports of clocks stopping simultaneously across three blocks of Jericho. A student insisting she had lived the same conversation twice. A shopkeeper swearing that an hour vanished between one breath and the next. Nothing dramatic enough to stir panic. Nothing obvious enough to demand intervention.

But patterns rarely announced themselves politely.

“You believe these anomalies are connected to the Obsidian Hourglass,” Larissa said.

“I think they might be,” you replied. “I’m not claiming certainty. Not yet. That’s why I need the archive.”

“The restricted archive.”

“Yes.”

“Which exists precisely because certain knowledge should not be handled casually.”

“I’m not casual about this.”

“No,” Larissa said, studying you. “I don’t believe you are.”

The admission seemed to surprise you. Your expression softened by a degree, and Larissa disliked the way some small, unguarded part of her responded to it.

She closed the folder.

“Even so, allowing an outsider access to sealed Nevermore records is not a favor I grant lightly.”

“I understand.” You leaned back slightly, though your gaze remained steady on hers. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another way forward.”

Larissa believed you. That was the problem. Belief was a dangerous thing. It opened doors that caution preferred locked.

Her eyes drifted, despite herself, to the black invitation resting near the edge of her desk.

You followed her gaze. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

Larissa resisted the urge to turn the invitation facedown like something indecent. Instead, she let her fingertips rest lightly against the desktop, perfectly still.

“I may be willing,” she said at last, “to consider a limited arrangement. Something I need assistance with.”

Your brow arched. “An arrangement?”

“Yes.”

The word steadied her. Arrangement sounded practical. Controlled. Administrative. It did not sound like loneliness. It did not sound like old hurt. It did not sound like the terrible, humiliating desire to walk into a room full of ghosts and not have to face them alone.

You leaned forward, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

Larissa held your gaze. “In three weeks, Nevermore is hosting its thirtieth reunion for the class of 1996.”

“The invitation,” you said.

“Quite.”

“And you need...?”

She hesitated. Only for a second. Only long enough to despise herself for it.

“As principal, I am expected to attend,” Larissa continued, her tone measured. “As an alumna, I am expected to participate. Smile. Reminisce. Endure several hours of pleasantries with people who have varying degrees of interest in pretending they remember me fondly.”

Your expression shifted, something almost sympathetic passing through your eyes.

Larissa’s spine straightened. She had not asked for sympathy. “I require a date,” she said crisply.

Silence.

Your lips parted slightly.

Larissa met your gaze with all the poise she possessed, her blue eyes unflinching though she could feel the faintest warmth rising beneath the high collar of her blouse.

“A date,” you repeated.

“Preferably one charming enough to endure small talk, clever enough not to be intimidated by Nevermore alumni, and discreet enough to understand that the arrangement is mutually beneficial.”

The corner of your mouth lifted.

There it was again—that almost-smile that suggested you had found the one loose thread in her composure and were considering whether to pull.

Larissa braced herself for laughter, for dismissal, for the kind of polite, casual rejection that had haunted her in her youth.

“Principal Weems,” you said, voice light but not unkind, “are you asking me to fake date you?”

Her lips twitched, caught somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. “I believe the more accurate term is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Of course,” you said gravely. “Very professional.”

“Entirely.”

“And in exchange?”

Larissa allowed herself to breathe.

“In exchange, I will grant you supervised access to the restricted archive materials concerning the Obsidian Hourglass. Limited access,” she clarified. “Nothing leaves the archive. Nothing is copied without my approval. And if I determine at any point that the research poses a threat to this school or its students, the arrangement ends.”

Your teasing expression sobered.

“That’s fair.”

“I have not finished.” Larissa’s eyes sparkled with quiet challenge. 

You sat back, visibly fighting another smile. “My apologies.”

“You will also keep all information obtained from the archives confidential unless disclosure becomes necessary to prevent harm.”

“Agreed.”

“And,” Larissa continued, lifting her chin slightly, “you will not wander the grounds unaccompanied, charm my staff into violating protocol, or attempt to circumvent any wards, locks, or faculty restrictions.”

Your hand moved to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Principal.”

“I rather suspect you would recover.”

That made you laugh softly. The sound was warm. Unexpectedly so. Larissa looked down at the folder, though she did not read a word on the page.

The banter was easy. Too easy. It slid between you with a naturalness she had not anticipated, and it unsettled her more than your original request ever could. Larissa had prepared herself for negotiation. For suspicion. For the tedious necessity of maintaining authority while managing risk.

She had not prepared herself for the possibility of enjoying you.

“Well,” you said after a moment, “I suppose that depends on what being your date entails.”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you.” The words left her too quickly.

Your eyes brightened. Larissa hated that she had given you that.

“I would simply require you to accompany me for the evening,” she continued, more evenly. “Engage in conversation. Maintain the impression that we are... close enough for your presence to be unremarkable.”

“How close is close enough?”

Larissa’s gaze sharpened. “I trust you possess enough social intelligence to improvise within reason.”

“That sounded almost like a compliment.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“I’ll try to remain humble.”

“A quality I am certain comes naturally to you.”

You grinned, and Larissa found herself irritated by how pleased she was to have caused it.

She reached for the reunion invitation and slid it toward you across the desk. Your fingers brushed the edge of the cardstock, and her attention caught—briefly, foolishly—on the shape of your hand against the black paper.

You glanced over the details. “Formal attire?” you asked.

“Naturally.”

“Dancing?”

“Likely.” Larissa confirmed.

“Former classmates with unresolved emotional baggage?”

Larissa’s expression cooled by instinct. Your teasing softened at once. It was subtle, the adjustment. Barely there. But she saw it.

“Yes,” she said. “I imagine there will be a great deal of that.”

You studied her for a moment, and Larissa had the uncomfortable sense that you were seeing more than she had intended to reveal. She had learned long ago how to make herself unreadable. Students saw authority. Parents saw polish. Staff saw competence. Alumni saw success.

You, apparently, had the audacity to see a person.

“How convincing do you need this to be?” you asked, quieter now, thoughtful.

Larissa’s throat tightened. There were several answers she could have given. Convincing enough that no one pities me. Convincing enough that no one wonders why I came alone. Convincing enough that I do not feel seventeen again.

Instead, she said, “Convincing enough that no one questions it.”

You nodded slowly. “Then we should probably discuss the details before the reunion. If we’re meant to seem close, we’ll need to know things about each other.”

Larissa arched a brow. “You seem very prepared for deception.”

“I prefer the term narrative consistency.”

Despite herself, Larissa smiled. A small thing. A dangerous thing.

“Indeed,” she said. “Then perhaps we should meet somewhere less formal to establish the necessary... narrative consistency.”

“The Weathervane?” you suggested.

Larissa considered it. Neutral ground. Public enough to remain appropriate, private enough if one chose the right table. She could already imagine the ridiculousness of it—the two of you sitting across from each other over coffee, exchanging curated facts like actors rehearsing intimacy.

And yet, some traitorous part of her did not dislike the thought. “The Weathervane will do,” she said.

“When?”

“Tomorrow evening. Six o’clock.”

You nodded. “It’s a date, then.”

Larissa’s eyes narrowed. You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. “A planning meeting,” she corrected.

“Right. A planning meeting where I learn how to convincingly fake being your date.”

“Precisely.”

“Which is very different.”

“Drastically.”

The amusement between you lingered, delicate and bright, before settling into something quieter.

You rose from the chair, smoothing a hand over your jacket. “Then we have a deal?”

Larissa stood as well. It was unnecessary, perhaps, but she found herself unwilling to remain seated while you looked down at her—even if the difference was negligible. Her height had always been one of the few advantages she trusted without question.

“We have a preliminary agreement,” she said. “Contingent upon your continued discretion and good behavior.

“My good behavior is usually negotiable.”

“I would advise against testing the limits of my patience.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You extended your hand. Larissa glanced at it.

There was no reason for hesitation. She had shaken countless hands in this office—parents, donors, faculty, mayors, inspectors, alumni with too much money and too little humility. A handshake was nothing. A formality. A seal on a practical arrangement.

Still, when she placed her hand in yours, the warmth of your palm seemed to startle something loose in her chest.

Your grip was firm but not forceful. Grounding. Larissa held it for precisely as long as politeness required and not a second longer.

At least, that was what she told herself.

When you released her, your smile had softened again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Principal Weems.”

“Larissa,” she said.

The correction surprised both of you. For one suspended moment, the office went still.

Larissa recovered first, though only barely.

“If we are to appear familiar,” she said, folding her hands before her, “you may as well begin practicing.”

Your smile deepened, but you did not tease her this time. “All right,” you said. “Larissa.”

Her name in your mouth was an astonishingly inconvenient thing.

She gave a single, composed nod. “Until tomorrow.”

You inclined your head and turned toward the door. Larissa watched you go, her expression carefully arranged, her mind already racing with contingencies. Archive permissions. Ward access. Reunion schedules. Alumni lists. The foolish risk of allowing you anywhere near the sealed records.

The even more foolish risk of allowing you anywhere near her.

The door closed behind you with a soft click. For several seconds, Larissa remained standing. Then, slowly, she looked down at the reunion invitation still resting on her desk.

It had not changed. The same elegant cardstock. The same silver lettering. The same promise of an evening spent among old ghosts. But now, beside it, lay the folder containing your research notes.

The Obsidian Hourglass. Missing time. A dangerous artifact that might not be legend after all.

And you.

Larissa lowered herself back into her chair, pressing her fingertips lightly to the place where your hand had held hers.

It was a foolish thing, this arrangement. Reckless, even. She knew that.

And yet, as the late afternoon light thinned across her office floor, Larissa found herself staring not at the invitation, but at the empty space you had just occupied.