The harsh fluorescent lighting of the 24/7 Express near the east gate of Saint Jude Academy flickered with a persistent, low-frequency hum. Outside, the autumn rain came down in relentless sheets, blurring the red and green neon streetlights into smudged watercolor streaks across the windowpane.
It was 9:42 PM.
Roland Glasner stood behind the register, his fingers mechanically adjusting the edge of the rubber counter mat. His uniform jacket—a faded navy polyester vest two sizes too large—hung loosely over his shoulders. His eyes were heavy, framed by dark circles that months of four-hour sleep cycles had carved deeply into his pale skin. In his head, he wasn't counting the hours left on his shift. He was mentally translating the time into numbers: two hours until the night delivery truck arrived, forty-five minutes to scrub the floor tiles, and six hundred yen left in his pocket until Friday’s direct deposit.
His right hand twitched beneath the counter, his fingers instinctively tapping out an arpeggiated rhythm against his thigh. C-sharp minor. A major. F-sharp minor. G-sharp seven. The muscular memory of the keyboard never quite left him, even when his palms were calloused from hauling wooden crates at the central district docks before sunrise.
The automatic glass doors slid open with a sharp, wet hiss, letting in a gust of damp, chilled air along with the scent of wet asphalt and rain-soaked wool.
Roland didn't immediately look up. He kept his head down, scanning a fresh box of mints with the hand barcode reader.
"Excuse me," a voice called out.
It wasn't the usual raspy voice of a late-night taxi driver or the slurred request of a salaryman stopping in for a tallboy of beer. It was clear, refined, and distinctly out of place in a damp convenience store at nearly ten at night. The pitch had a quiet, natural resonance—cool, measured, yet slightly edge-strained with panic.
Roland paused his rhythm, set the scanner down with a soft click, and lifted his gaze.
Standing on the black rubber welcome mat, clutching an umbrella that was dripping onto the polished floor, was Eleanor Vance.
Even clad in the standard dark navy blazer and pleated skirt of Saint Jude Academy's elite upper tier, Eleanor looked as though she belonged to an entirely different zip code. Her pale, chestnut-brown hair was slightly damp at the tips, clinging to the lapels of her dry-cleaned coat. She was the girl whose name circulated through every corridor of the senior wing—the daughter of Vance Holdings, the classical orchestra’s lead cellist, and the person who walked through the school courtyard every morning flanked by at least three different suitors holding espresso orders.
Right now, however, she looked deeply uncomfortable.
She stood before the counter holding a small paper bag containing a heated green tea bottle and a single container of egg salad sandwich.
"Good evening," Roland said smoothly, his voice flat, neutral, and thoroughly practiced from hundreds of customer interactions. "Will that be all for tonight?"
"Yes," Eleanor said softly, stepping closer. She placed the items on the counter, her slender fingers briefly touching the cold glass. She reached down into her leather school tote, her movements graceful yet visibly hurried. She unzipped the main compartment. Then she unzipped the inner pocket.
A quiet beat passed.
The low hum of the beverage cooler filled the silence between them.
Eleanor’s hand froze inside her bag. Her brow furrowed slightly, a small crease appearing between her perfectly shaped eyebrows. She checked the outer pocket again. She pulled out a sleek, slim smartphone, pressed the power button twice, but the screen remained utterly black—completely drained of battery.
"Is something wrong?" Roland asked, his tone polite but devoid of any real emotion.
"I..." Eleanor cleared her throat, a faint dust of pink creeping onto her cheekbones. She didn't look down; she maintained direct, sharp eye contact, though her posture stiffened. "It appears I have mislaid my card case. And my phone is dead."
Roland looked at the items on the counter. The screen on the register showed the total: 480 Yen.
Behind Eleanor, the rain slammed harder against the glass storefront. The bus stop across the street was empty, and the last line toward the residential hills was scheduled to pass in exactly six minutes. Roland knew the schedule by heart; he took that bus when he had enough change, though tonight he was planning to walk the three miles back to his apartment to save the fare.
"I see," Roland said simply.
Eleanor set her dead phone on the counter, resting her hands over her tote bag. "If you could perhaps hold these items for ten minutes? My family's driver should be searching the perimeter of the east station. I can return with cash immediately."
Roland looked at her face. There was no arrogance in her request, only the quiet, desperate pride of someone who had never once been unable to pay for a piece of bread in her entire life. She was clearly shivering beneath her damp blazer, her fingers stiff from the autumn chill.
He didn't say a word.
Roland reached down into the pocket of his own faded trousers beneath his work apron. His fingers brushed against a tiny handful of coins—his personal money, intended for a hot canned coffee to keep him awake during his midnight study session. He pulled out a five-hundred-yen coin, dropped it squarely into the register drawer, and hit the mechanical override key.
Ding.
The cash drawer popped open. He slid the coin into the slot, grabbed twenty yen in change, and slid the small metal coins across the counter along with the receipt and her bagged sandwich.
"It's covered," Roland said, picking up his barcode reader again. "Have a good evening, Miss Vance."
Eleanor stared at the two ten-yen coins sitting on the silver tray. Then her eyes snapped up to his face, widening slightly in genuine surprise.
"You..." She paused, looking down at his chest where a cheap plastic nametag read GLASNER. She looked back up, her eyes narrowing as if trying to place his face. "You know who I am?"
"We share a third-period European History class," Roland replied neutrally, scanning the next item in his restocking box without looking at her. "You sit three rows ahead of me by the window."
Eleanor blinked. She had never noticed him. In a school where boys spent their lunch breaks orchestrating elaborate excuses to hand her notes or invite her to coffee lounges, the boy standing behind this counter looked at her with the exact same mild indifference he would show a loaf of bread.
"I cannot simply take this," Eleanor said, her tone firming up. She pushed the twenty yen back toward him. "It is unseemly. You are working."
"It's four hundred and eighty yen," Roland said, finally looking up and meeting her dark hazel eyes directly. "And the last northbound bus leaves in four minutes. If you miss it, you'll be standing in the rain for an hour until your driver finds you. Take the tea while it's still warm."
Eleanor opened her mouth to argue, but the distant, low rumble of an approaching diesel engine echoed through the glass windows. The headlight beams of the northbound bus cut through the rain across the street.
She looked at the bus, then back at Roland.
For a fraction of a second, the polished, unshakeable daughter of the Vance family looked entirely human—hesitant, slightly flushed, and thoroughly caught off guard.
"I will repay you tomorrow, Mr. Glasner," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, solemn promise. She picked up the small paper bag, holding the warm glass bottle of tea close to her chest. "Double. No, tenfold."
"Just the four hundred and eighty yen is fine," Roland muttered, already turning his back to restock the shelf behind him. "Mind the step on your way out. The floor is slick."
The automatic door chimed as she stepped out into the night. Roland heard the quick, sharp rhythm of her heels against the pavement as she hurried toward the bus stop.
When he turned back around, the counter was empty, save for the faint, delicate scent of jasmine and rain that hung in the quiet air of the store.
Roland sighed, leaning his hands against the counter edges, staring at his reflection in the dark glass door.
"Great," he whispered to himself, feeling his empty trousers pocket. "There goes tonight's coffee."
The morning at Saint Jude Academy always smelled of floor wax, polished oak, and wet pine from the surrounding hills.
It was an elite institution, built on an old estate with sprawling Gothic brick architecture, manicured lawns, and wide, stone-paved courtyards. The students who attended fell largely into two categories: the legacy children of Tokyo's economic elite, and the small, quiet fraction of scholarship students who worked twice as hard to maintain the minimum grade averages required to stay enrolled.
Roland Glasner belonged to neither category comfortably. He was a tuition-waived student who barely maintained the bottom line of the required GPA because his night shifts constantly ate into his study hours.
By 7:45 AM, the main courtyard was already bustling with activity.
Roland walked through the rear wrought-iron gates, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark school coat. His hair—dark, slightly messy, and overdue for a trim—hung down near his eyes. He carried a battered leather satchel over his left shoulder, filled with second-hand textbooks and two notebooks with frayed edges.
As he walked past the fountain, a sudden surge of laughter erupted near the central entrance.
A group of senior boys—dressed in custom-tailored school blazers with crisp silk ties—were gathered near the wide marble steps. At the center of the group was Julian Hayes, the captain of the academy's fencing team and the son of a prominent luxury real estate developer. Julian was tall, athletic, with blonde hair styled with precise care, holding a large, carefully wrapped box of imported Belgian chocolates.
"Come on, Eleanor," Julian’s smooth voice echoed across the quiet courtyard. "It’s just a simple tea after afternoon practice. My family just opened a private club near the district garden. We could easily take my car."
Roland slowed his pace slightly as he approached the steps, intending to slip past the crowd without being noticed.
Standing at the top step was Eleanor Vance.
Unlike last night, she looked impeccably put together. Her long hair fell over her shoulders in smooth, shining waves, and her uniform was pristine. Two of her friends—Claire, a petite girl with sharp glasses, and Marcus, a soft-spoken boy from the drama department—stood slightly behind her, watching the exchange with varying degrees of amused patience.
"Thank you for the thought, Julian," Eleanor said, her voice carrying that same cool, polite tone Roland had heard at the register. "However, I have commitments with the string ensemble after third period, and my schedule for the evening is already occupied."
"Occupied?" Julian laughed, stepping up one tread closer, his tone carrying an easy, persistent charm that usually worked on everyone in the lower grades. "It's just an hour, Eleanor. You're always working too hard. Besides, your father and mine spoke at the charity gala last weekend. He mentioned you were looking for new sheet music prints from the London archive. I actually managed to secure an original print—"
"Julian," Eleanor interrupted, her tone dropping a fraction of a degree in temperature. "I said no. Please do not make me repeat myself."
A few students lingering near the pillars nudged each other, whispering behind their notebooks. Julian’s smile tightened slightly at the corners, his pride clearly taking a minor hit in front of his peers.
"Right," Julian said, maintaining his posture while tucking the gift box under his arm. "Another time, then."
Roland kept his eyes straight ahead, stepping around the perimeter of the crowd to reach the heavy oak doors of the main building. He had zero interest in wealthy high school politics. His first exam of the term was in two weeks, and if his history grade dipped below a seventy, his textbook stipend would be reduced by twenty percent.
He put his hand on the heavy brass door handle.
"Roland!"
The voice rang out clearly across the terrace, cutting straight through the murmurs of the morning crowd.
Roland froze.
He didn't turn around immediately. He hesitated, hoping against hope that there was another Roland standing behind him. But he knew there wasn't. He was the only Glasner in the school directory.
Slowly, Roland turned his head.
Eleanor Vance was walking down the marble steps, completely ignoring Julian, Claire, and the lingering crowd of students who were now staring at her in utter confusion. She walked with deliberate, smooth strides, her long skirt swaying gently as she stopped right in front of Roland.
The entire courtyard seemed to drop an octave in volume.
Julian Hayes stood on the upper step, his brow furrowing as his eyes locked onto Roland’s faded blazer and worn leather bag.
"Good morning," Eleanor said.
Her voice wasn't the distant, formal voice she used with Julian. It was quieter, direct, and accompanied by a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in her expression—a subtlety that only someone standing less than two feet away could pick up on.
"Morning," Roland said cautiously, keeping his hands in his pockets.
Eleanor reached into her blazer's inner pocket and withdrew a small, pristine white envelope tied with a thin silver ribbon. She held it out to him with both hands.
"As promised," she said.
Roland stared at the envelope. "What is this?"
"Your change from last night," she replied evenly. "And the four hundred and eighty yen I owe you."
Roland looked at the ribbon. He looked at Eleanor’s calm, unwavering eyes. Then he looked over her shoulder and saw at least fifteen students—including Julian Hayes—watching them with intense, silent scrutiny.
"Miss Vance," Roland said in a low tone, stepping back half an inch. "I told you last night that four hundred and eighty yen was fine. You didn't need to put it in a decorative gift card."
"It is not a decorative gift card," Eleanor said smoothly, taking a half-step forward to close the distance he had just created. "It is four hundred and eighty yen. And a slice of high-grade Earl Grey tea cake from the bakery near my house. My mother insisted I bring it to you as an apology for my lack of preparation."
"Your mother?" Roland muttered, feeling a headache beginning to form right behind his left eye.
"Yes. She was quite insistent," Eleanor continued, her hazel eyes holding his without a trace of embarrassment. "She believes in proper etiquette. If a classmate saves you from being stranded in the rain, one does not simply throw coins back at him the next morning like a common transaction."
From the top of the steps, Julian took two steps down, his voice cutting through the space between them. "Eleanor? Is everything alright over there? Do you know this guy?"
Eleanor didn't even turn her head back toward Julian. Her focus remained entirely on Roland.
"Please take it," she whispered, her voice dropping into a softer, almost pleading register that only Roland could hear. "If you refuse it here, I will have to follow you to your desk, and I assure you that will attract significantly more attention than this."
Roland looked at her for three long seconds. He could see the faint flicker of nervousness in her eyes—she wasn't entirely as composed as she appeared to the rest of the school. She was running on sheer will and family-drilled pride.
Roland reached out, taking the small white envelope from her fingers. His rough thumb briefly brushed against her soft, cool palm.
"Fine," Roland said quietly. "Thank you. We're even."
A tiny, almost invisible smile touched the corner of Eleanor's lips before she instantly masked it behind her usual serene expression.
"We are even regarding the tea," she corrected him smoothly. "However, I believe you still sit three rows behind me in European History. Perhaps you wouldn't mind lending me your notes from last Thursday? I missed the last twenty minutes due to my cello rehearsal."
Roland opened his mouth to tell her that his handwriting was terrible and that she could easily ask anyone else in the top ten percent of the class. But before he could speak, the warning bell chimed high above the tower, echoing across the courtyard.
"Third period," Eleanor said, stepping past him toward the heavy wooden doors. "Don't be late, Mr. Glasner."
She pushed open the door and vanished into the crowded main hallway, leaving Roland standing on the steps, holding a silver-ribboned envelope, while half the senior class—and one very annoyed fencing captain—stared at him in silence.
Roland looked down at the envelope in his hand, let out a long, heavy breath, and muttered to himself:
"This is going to make my shift tonight so much harder."
By eleven in the morning, the rain had cleared, leaving the sky over Saint Jude Academy a brilliant, crisp blue. Sunlight washed over the stone courtyards, drying the puddles into dark patches on the gray flags.
Third-period European History took place in Lecture Hall 3B, a steep, amphitheater-style classroom with stepped row seating and high, stained-glass windows along the southern wall. The room smelled of old paper, chalk dust, and the sharp scent of orange peel from someone's hidden morning snack.
Roland sat in his usual spot: the far-left seat of the very back row, right beneath the shadow of the heavy wooden door frame. From here, he had an unobstructed view of the entire room, the blackboard, and the back of ninety different heads. More importantly, it was the easiest seat to slip out of the moment the final bell rang, allowing him a head start to catch the 3:15 PM city bus toward his afternoon shift at the distribution warehouse.
Across the room, three rows down and precisely in the middle column, sat Eleanor Vance.
She was currently surrounded by a wall of people.
To her left sat Claire Hastings, her close friend, who was frantically turning the pages of a thick leather-bound binder while pointing at something on her tablet screen. To her right sat Marcus, who was leaning back with his arms folded behind his head, arguing softly with another boy from the student council about the upcoming autumn festival budget.
And standing right beside her desk, leaning against the wooden edge with a deliberate air of casual confidence, was Julian Hayes.
Roland leaned his chin on his left palm, his pen resting loosely between his fingers. He wasn't trying to listen, but Julian’s voice had a certain projected quality meant to be heard by everyone within a ten-foot radius.
"My uncle managed to get three tickets to the Philharmonic performance this Saturday," Julian was saying, sliding a polished plastic ticket holder onto the edge of Eleanor's desk. "Front row balcony. I know how much you admire the guest violinist from Vienna, Eleanor. It’d be a shame if the seats went unused."
Claire looked up from her binder, glancing at Eleanor with an expression that clearly said, That’s a three-hundred-dollar ticket.
Eleanor didn't pick up the ticket holder. She was neatly writing the date at the top of her notebook with a fine-tipped black ink pen. Her handwriting was small, precise, and perfectly aligned, like print from a printing press.
"Thank you, Julian," Eleanor said, her tone perfectly even, neither encouraging nor cold. "But Saturday is my father’s annual corporate foundation meeting. I am required to attend the evening reception."
Julian didn't look discouraged. He smoothly picked up the ticket, sliding it back into his jacket pocket. "The reception at the Grand Central Hotel? That ends by eight. The performance doesn't start until eight-thirty. I could have my driver pick you up right from the hotel entrance. You wouldn't miss a single minute."
"I am afraid I will be far too tired after the reception, Julian," she replied quietly, turning a page. "And I have prep work for Monday's history seminar."
"History seminar?" Julian chuckled softly, casting a quick, dismissive glance toward the back of the classroom. "It's just mid-term prep, Eleanor. You're already at the top of the department. You don't need to spend your weekends stressing over dates and treaties."
At the front of the room, Mr. Harrison—a stooped, gray-haired man with heavy spectacles and a sweater vest—shuffled in, clutching a massive stack of mimeographed worksheets.
"All right, settle down, settle down," Mr. Harrison called out, his voice dry as parchment as he dropped the papers onto his lectern with a loud thump. "Desks cleared of everything except your primary texts and writing utensils. We are continuing our analysis of the 19th-century industrial labor trade agreements today."
Julian gave Eleanor a small, lingering smile before turning around and walking back to his seat in the front row, throwing a short, sharp look toward the back corner where Roland sat.
Roland ignored him completely. He flipped his notebook open to a fresh page, checking his wrist. His cheap plastic watch read 11:02 AM. In four hours and twenty-eight minutes, he needed to be at the docks.
"Before we begin," Mr. Harrison said, peering over his glasses at the class, "a quick announcement regarding the mid-term research pairing. As noted in the syllabus, this assignment accounts for twenty percent of your term grade. It requires a collaborative comparative study between two distinct economic models of the late Victorian era."
A collective murmur ran through the room. Pairings at Saint Jude were always a high-stakes social game. The wealthy students usually grouped together to hire outside private tutors to write their outlines, while the high-performing scholarship students tried to team up to pool their library resources.
"I have already finalized the pairings," Mr. Harrison announced, picking up a printed sheet of paper. "To ensure a balanced distribution of analytical perspectives, I have assigned the groups myself."
A suppressed groan rippled across the front rows.
Mr. Harrison began reading down the list in his slow, rhythmic monotone.
"Hastings and Vance..."
Claire perked up, looking over at Eleanor with a relieved smile.
"Correction," Mr. Harrison said, pausing and squinting at his printout. "My apologies. Hastings with Miller. Vance... Eleanor Vance with Glasner, Roland."
Silence fell over the middle section of the room.
Claire’s jaw dropped slightly.
In the front row, Julian Hayes stiffened, his head snapping around so quickly his hair swept across his forehead. He stared straight at Mr. Harrison, then slowly turned his body to stare back at the rear corner of the lecture hall.
Roland stopped mid-stroke with his pen. A drop of dark blue ink slowly bled into the rough paper of his notebook, forming a tiny, dark stain.
"Mr. Glasner," Mr. Harrison called out, looking up over his frames toward the back row. "Are you present?"
Roland raised his hand slightly. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Miss Vance," Mr. Harrison continued, looking toward the center. "You two will be analyzing the primary source archives from the northern railway expansion. The preliminary outline is due next Friday."
Eleanor didn't look back. She sat perfectly straight, her head held high, though Roland could see her shoulders drop just a fraction of a millimeter—whether in relief or resignation, he couldn't tell.
"Sir," Julian’s voice cut through the room, sharp and confident. He raised his hand without waiting to be called on. "Is there flexibility in these assignments? Eleanor and I have already outlined several joint reference materials for the trade economic unit during our study group last week. It would be significantly more efficient if—"
"This is not a corporate merger, Mr. Hayes," Mr. Harrison interrupted dryly, without even looking up from his papers. "It is a high school history assignment. The pairings are final. If you have an issue with your assigned partner—who is Mr. Sterling, by the way—you may discuss it with me during office hours after three."
Julian’s face went slightly pale, his jaw tightening into a hard, rigid line. He slowly lowered his hand, casting another look back toward Roland—this time filled with a cold, clear warning that required no translation.
Roland didn't care about Julian’s looks. He was currently panicking for an entirely different reason.
A paired project.
A paired project meant after-school meetings. It meant library sessions. It meant group discussions, shared notes, and scheduled coordination.
And scheduled coordination was the one thing Roland Glasner’s life could not support.
Every single minute of his day outside of class hours was accounted for. From 3:30 PM to 7:30 PM, he was at the distribution warehouse sorting freight. From 8:30 PM to 1:00 AM, he was at the convenience store. On weekends, he cleaned the floors at the local community center gym from six in the morning until noon before taking a double shift at the bakery delivery hub.
If he had to sit in a library for two hours every afternoon with Eleanor Vance, he wouldn't just be tired—he would miss his shifts. And if he missed his shifts, he couldn't pay his uncle the monthly room rent, nor could he buy his little sister the new reference books she needed for her middle school entrance exams.
"Now then," Mr. Harrison said, tapping his chalk against the blackboard with a series of sharp, rhythmic clicks. "Turn to page one hundred and forty-two..."
Roland stared down at his notebook. The ink stain had spread into the shape of a bruised leaf.
From three rows down, a small piece of lined paper—neatly folded into a tight, perfect triangle—was passed back from desk to desk.
The student sitting in front of Roland dropped it onto his open notebook without a word.
Roland looked at the paper triangle. He unfolded it carefully.
Inside, written in that same immaculate, microscopic print, was a single short message:
We will discuss the schedule after class. Do not run away to your convenience store before we talk.
— E. V.
Roland looked up. Eleanor was still facing the blackboard, her back straight, her pen moving rhythmically across her notebook as if she hadn't just orchestrated a covert communication across four rows of desks.
Roland slumped back into his hard wooden seat, staring at the high ceiling of Lecture Hall 3B.
"It's going to be a very long semester," he muttered, closing his eyes for three brief seconds before taking up his pen once more.
When the bell rang at 12:15 PM signaling the start of the lunch hour, the classroom instantly dissolved into the usual noise of moving chairs, unzipping pencil cases, and loud chatter about cafeteria specials.
Roland gathered his things with practiced speed. He crammed his notebook into his leather satchel, zipped his pencil pouch, and stood up, intent on making a straight line for the side door that led to the old rear staircase—the one nobody used because it was damp and cold.
"Roland."
He stopped just as his hand reached the brass latch.
Eleanor was standing right behind him. She had slipped past the crowd of students gathering near the front podium with remarkable stealth, leaving Claire and Marcus behind at her desk.
"You move very quickly," she noted, her voice quiet as she stood in the narrow aisle between the desks.
"I have things to do," Roland said, turning to face her. "Look, Miss Vance—"
"Eleanor," she corrected him flatly. "If we are to be academic partners for the next three weeks, calling me 'Miss Vance' will sound absurd when we are reviewing census data."
Roland rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the knots of muscle tense up beneath his collar. "Listen, Eleanor. About this project. I can write the entire second half myself. The Victorian industrial trade section—I know it well enough. You take the agricultural expansion half. We don't need to meet every day. We can just merge our outlines the night before the deadline."
Eleanor stared at him, her hazel eyes searching his face with quiet intensity.
"You want to split a collaborative paper down the middle without a single coordination meeting?" she asked, her tone carrying a mixture of disbelief and genuine curiosity.
"It saves time," Roland said simply. "You're busy. You have cello rehearsal, orchestra practice, your family's events. And I... I have commitments."
"Commitments," she repeated slowly. Her eyes drifted down to his wrists—where his sleeves were slightly frayed—and then to his shoes, which were clean but worn thin at the soles. "You mean your job."
"Jobs," Roland corrected her before he could stop himself. He caught his own slip of the tongue and mentally cursed. "It doesn't matter. The point is, I don't have two hours after school to sit in the main library drinking iced tea and discussing font sizes."
"I don't drink iced tea in the library," Eleanor said, her tone remarkably mild. "And I don't care about font sizes. I care about getting an A on this assignment."
She stepped closer, leaning in slightly so her voice wouldn't carry to the lingering students near the front desk.
"Mr. Harrison evaluates the structural unity of the argument," she explained, her voice dropping into a low, crisp register. "If two people write separate halves without aligning their thesis statements, he docks fifteen percent immediately for lack of thematic cohesion. I cannot afford a fifteen percent penalty, Roland. My academic standing depends on maintaining a ninety-five average across all humanistic subjects."
Roland looked down at her. Up close, he could see the faint shadows under her eyes as well—hidden carefully under light makeup, but there nonetheless. She wasn't just a rich girl playing at being perfect; she was working under a different kind of pressure, one that required absolute, flawless execution at every single moment.
"Twenty minutes," Roland said after a long pause.
Eleanor blinked. "What?"
"Twenty minutes a day," Roland said, checking his watch. "During the lunch hour. Right here, or in the old annex building where it's quiet. We exchange notes, align the thesis, and assign the daily writing targets. No afternoon meetings. No library sessions after four PM. That's my absolute limit."
Eleanor watched him for a long moment. She seemed to be weighing his words, processing the strict boundaries he was drawing—boundaries that no other boy at Saint Jude would ever dream of establishing with her.
"The old annex building?" she asked, her brow lifting slightly. "The one past the old conservatory?"
"It's quiet," Roland said. "Nobody goes there because the heating pipes rattle. It has tables and broad windows. If you want to work without being interrupted by Hayes or your friends every five minutes, that's where we do it."
Eleanor looked over her shoulder toward the hallway, where Julian was currently standing near the lockers, looking around as if searching for her.
She turned back to Roland, her eyes clear and resolute.
"Twenty minutes," she agreed, holding out her small, pale hand. "Starting today. Show me this annex."
Roland looked at her extended hand for a moment before taking it, giving it a brief, firm shake. Her skin was cool, her grip surprisingly firm for someone who spent six hours a day playing the cello.
"Follow me," Roland said, turning the brass latch and opening the creaky side door into the cold, quiet staircase beyond. "And try not to step on the loose floorboards on the third landing. They squeak."
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