I couldn't stop thinking about that woman and her face. Not last night—and definitely not this morning, with Aspen blasting All Time Low's "New Religion" loud enough to echo through the vents.
I resonated with the lyrics that sang about finding God and heaven in the bedroom. And being someone's new religion? Every word clawed at my concentration.
It wasn't just Eleanor's face that haunted me. It was what had happened the night before, when Francesca's head was bobbing like she was auditioning for sainthood with that devotion as if she was worshipping something holy between my legs.
I liked being revered. I liked being treated like a god. But last night, something in me froze. I never froze. I had been centuries-deep in vices that my sins were a second skin. But something about Eleanor disrupted my rhythm.
I couldn't stop imagining her face in Francesca's place. And the thought felt… intrusive.
All that happened really unsettled me. Was I being dethroned? Or worse… was I being baptized into something new? Some religion in the shape of one woman?
It pissed me off.
Logically, this should've been simple. I'd perfected the game. I flirted with women I assumed were not virgins. I fed on their lusts. It kept me satisfied without compromising the vow. It was clean. It was harmless. They got the attention, I got the scent of temptation, and nobody bled.
So why the hell did she feel different?
***
Later in the afternoon today, I spotted her in the campus courtyard again. She was with the same crowd orbiting her like she was the sun to their solar system. She was seated again with her head down, notebook open, sketching something I couldn't see.
Elise settled in beside Eleanor with that same over-accessorized smugness she wore like a uniform each day. Today, she was louder. Perhaps emboldened by the audience around her?
"El, you're so mysterious lately," Elise said, voice sticky with fake sweetness. "My mum
asked about you, and I didn't even know you spoke. All these secrets. You're not pregnant, are you?"
The table erupted in gasps, but Eleanor just blinked. As always, she seemed unfazed. She closed her notebook and calmly sipped her smoothie.
That should've been the end of it. But Elise didn't like being ignored.
"Seriously," she pressed on. "You can tell us. Is it one of those older guys from your lecture? I heard one of them was, like, obsessed with you."
She was clearly talking about me. I don't know if that irritated me more, or the way her other so-called friends laughed—pretending as if not to enjoy it.
I was halfway to the table before I could think better of it.
"Elise, is it?" I said smoothly, hands in my pockets, "You know, if your personality were as tight as your jeans, you might actually get someone to look at you without cringing."
The laughter turned against her. No surprise there.
Elise stiffened, cheeks flushed red beneath her bronzer. "Excuse me—who even are you?"
I leaned in just enough to drop my voice. "Someone who doesn't need to impress a crowd to feel relevant."
She scowled, grabbed her bag, and stormed off with her pride clinging to her like perfume gone sour.
Eleanor looked up at me. She appeared calm, her expressions neutral. Like none of it had rattled her in the slightest.
"Thanks," she said. "But you didn't have to do that."
"Didn't do it for you," I replied. "She was annoying."
Her lips curved, just slightly. "Noted."
"What? You don't find her annoying?"
I should've walked away. That would've been the smart thing to do, but I didn't. Instead, I waited until her friends dispersed. Until they were all drawn away by the next social skirmish. And when we were finally alone, I moved closer.
"Are you always this composed?" I asked, studying her. "Even when people come for your throat in public?"
"I've had worse," she said, brushing a hair from her cheek. "Comments like that don't bother me. Elise doesn't bother me."
"Then who does?" I asked, voice dipping.
She arched a single brow. "People who think they're being clever. Or charming, even."
I smirked. "Is that what I'm doing?"
"I don't know yet," she replied. "But you're trying too hard."
I leaned in, close enough to taste her breath. "What if I'm not trying at all? What if this is just... me?"
And there it was—that cinematic moment between silence and something more. The shift when flirtation edges toward invitation, when the cameras zoomed in and the background noise was dulled by deep breaths. I watched her up close. Waited for the flicker of interest, the tilt of the head, the inhale that told me she felt it too. But it didn't come.
She met my gaze. Unblinking, steady. Like she saw right through me and wasn't the least bit impressed by what she found.
And that's when it bit me—a sharp, sour sting in the air of crushed garlic. And it wasn't subtle. It was a strong, pungent garlic. She was marinated in the scent, like it had soaked into her skin and formed a barrier.
I grimaced not only in disgust, but in pain. I could barely mask it. It wasn't the scent itself—hell, I'd had garlic aioli on chips last week after losing a bet to Aspen. But this was different. This was awfully wrong. It triggered my every instinct. Like my body knew before I did. Like my body was warning me to run.
"What the hell—" I muttered under my breath.
She tilted her head. "Something wrong?"
I stepped back. "Nothing."
But it was something. My chest was tight, my hunger shut down, and all the heat I'd been building shattered into glass.
I muttered a goodbye and walked off—fast, angry, confused. I didn't look back. Whatever I'd come to the courtyard hoping to prove, it ended in garlic and silence.
The scent clung hard to my throat. It dug deep into my skin, it stung like hell.