The words on the page might as well have been written in another language for how long it took my brain to process them.
Class 1-B.
Not 1-A. 1-B.
"So?" Sloane asked, her voice bright with excitent. "What class did you get?"
I looked up from the letter, my mouth suddenly dry. The kitchen felt smaller sohow, the morning light too harsh against the white counters. "1-B."
The change in her expression was imdiate and devastating. Her face fell like I’d just told her soone had died. The excitent drained out of her eyes, replaced by sothing that looked suspiciously close to pity.
"Oh," she said quietly. "Oh, Lukas."
That tone. That fucking tone like she was about to tell everything would be okay while secretly thinking about how to break the news to her friends that her boyfriend didn’t make the cut. Like I was so charity case she’d have to carry through academy life.
"It’s not what you think," I said, but even I could hear how defensive it sounded.
"I know, I know." She reached for , her hands settling on my arms with that careful gentleness that sohow made it worse. "It’s still Halloran. You got into Halloran. That’s incredible. It’s just—" She stopped, her mouth opening and closing like she was trying to find a way to say sothing without turning it into a worse thing.
Just what, exactly? Just that everyone at school would look at our class assignnts and understand I wasn’t quite good enough for the real track? Just that she’d be spending her days training with the future ranked Heroes while I was doing whatever the hell 1-B students did with their ti? Just that the gap between us was now officially docunted on academy letterhead?
I could see her trying to calculate her way out of the conversational hole she’d dug. Every word she’d almost said was hanging in the air between us, and the fact that she was aware enough not to say them didn’t actually make them stop existing.
The System’s voice cut through my rising irritation with its usual helpful timing.
Class placent optimized for maximum developnt potential. Class 1-B instructor profile suggests enhanced individual attention and specialized training protocols.
Right. Because getting specialized training sounded so much better than being in the class everyone actually cared about.
Sloane was looking at with those big blue eyes full of concern and sothing that might have been guilt. Like she felt bad for succeeding where I’d apparently failed. The worst part was how genuine it was. She actually cared that I might be disappointed.
Which just made feel like an even bigger ass for being jealous of her placent.
"Hey," I said, stepping closer and wrapping my arms around her waist. "It’s okay, baby."
She lted into imdiately, her arms sliding around my neck as I pulled her tight against my chest. Her body was warm and soft, still carrying that faint scent of vanilla and sothing uniquely Sloane that made my brain short-circuit in the best possible way.
"I just wanted us to be in the sa class," she mumbled into my shoulder. "It would have been perfect."
"We’re still going to the sa school," I pointed out, rocking her gently back and forth. "We’ll see each other every day. Between classes, at als, during training. The dorms are probably right next to each other."
She pulled back enough to look at , her lower lip caught between her teeth in that way that ant she was thinking too hard about sothing. "But what if 1-B is like... redial classes? What if they put you there because they think you need extra help?"
The concern in her voice was so genuine it made my chest ache. Here I was being pissy about class rankings when she was worried about my feelings. No wonder the System had marked her as obsessed. Who else would care this much about my academic placent?
"Then I guess I’ll just have to prove them wrong," I said, leaning down to brush my lips against her neck.
She shivered, her grip on my shoulders tightening. "Lukas."
"What?" I murmured against her skin, letting my breath ghost over the sensitive spot just below her ear. "I’m trying to comfort my girlfriend here."
"That’s not comforting, that’s—oh!" She squeaked as I blew softly on her neck, the unexpected sensation making her whole body jerk in my arms.
"That’s what?" I asked innocently, doing it again just to watch her wiggle.
"Stopppppuh!" She dissolved into giggles, trying to squirm away while simultaneously clinging to tighter. "That tickles!"
"Does it?" Another puff of air had her practically climbing like a tree, her legs wrapping around my waist as she tried to escape the sensation while keeping as close as possible.
"Lukas, I swear to god, if you don’t—" Whatever threat she’d been planning dissolved into breathless laughter as I found that particularly sensitive spot again.
Mission accomplished. The worry had completely disappeared from her face, replaced by flushed cheeks and that bright smile that made everything else fade into background noise. Even the lingering sting of being placed in 1-B felt manageable when she looked at like that.
"You two realize I’m still in the room, right?" Diane’s amused voice cut through our mont.
I turned my head to find her leaning against the counter with her coffee mug, watching us with that expression that ant she was simultaneously fond and exasperated. Her pink hair fell in soft waves around her face, and she was wearing one of those silk blouses that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
"Sorry," Sloane said, though she made no move to untangle herself from . "We got carried away."
"Mm." Diane’s eyes were bright with sothing that looked suspiciously like mischief. "I can see that."
The way she was looking at us sent heat curling through my stomach. There was sothing predatory in that gaze, like she was cataloging exactly how Sloane was wrapped around and filing it away for later use.
"So," she continued, taking a delicate sip of her coffee. "Class 1-B."
"Yeah." I tried to keep the disappointnt out of my voice and mostly succeeded. "Not exactly what I was expecting."
"Hmm." Diane set down her mug and picked up my acceptance letter, her eyes scanning the text with the kind of professional focus that ant her brain was already working three steps ahead.
"Imara Steele."
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