You take your usual seat halfway up the hall.

The air smells of chalk, wet coats, and the low heat of too many bodies.

You tell yourself to listen this time.

Then she walks in—hair damp from the rain—and takes the seat beside you.

Her sleeve brushes yours.

A quick spark.

“Is this Dalton?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you say. “D.H. Lawrence.”

She sighs. “Figures.”

At the front, Dalton reads: ’The body’s life is the life of the heart.’

The words sound too clean for what they mean.

You underline life without knowing why.

Her leg crosses; fabric whispers.

You stare straight ahead.

When class ends, she’s already pulling on her coat.

The air she leaves behind smells faintly of rain and skin.

You sit there longer than you should, trying to remember a single thing Dalton said.

A week later she finds you again.

Or maybe you were waiting.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” you say.

“Didn’t expect to come back,” she answers.

Then, quieter: “Wanted to see how far we’d get this time.”