E L L E

I barely sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I hear the whisper Luke didn’t, the one that slid down the corridor after he left.
You are mine.
It threads through my dreams like frost through cracks, leaving me cold long after dawn. When the bells toll for the first period, my scarf feels too tight, my fingers too numb. The mirror above my desk is fogged though the window’s still shut. I swipe it clear anyway and tell myself it’s just condensation, not a warning.

By the time I reach the main hall, the world has already decided what happened last night. Gossip travels faster than frost at Ravenshade.
Luke Hart stormed off.
Elle Wrenwood was crying.
The new boy was involved.
Every whisper sharpens with each retelling.

Luke waits by the Literature wing doors, pretending to read the notice board. His hood’s down, hair damp from rain, sleeves shoved to his elbows. When his eyes find me, something in his posture eases, then tightens again, like he’s bracing for an argument he doesn’t want to have.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Hey.”

The word lands between us, heavy and uncertain. We haven’t spoken since he told me to run from him. My throat still aches from all the things I didn’t say.

Students brush past, laughing, their boots squeaking on wet stone. Someone murmurs, “She’s stringing them both along.” Another voice snickers, “Typical Wrenwood curse.”

Luke stiffens, fists hidden in his pockets. I keep walking, pretending I don’t hear. Pretending I don’t care.

He falls into step beside me. “Ignore them,” he mutters. “Are you ready for class?”

“Professor Maelor’s out sick,” I say, keeping my eyes on the floor. “They brought in Professor Vance for the poetry unit.”

“Poetry,” Luke repeats with a small, crooked grin. “So, no monsters today.”

“Not unless someone rhymes badly.”

The corner of his mouth lifts a little more. For a moment, it’s almost like before, two ordinary students trudging to Literature, no frost, no whispers, no locked doors calling my name.

Then the bell tolls, long and low, echoing through the corridor like breath over ice.

We step inside together.

The Literature wing always smells faintly of ink and rain. The room is warmer than the corridor, candlelight flickering over rows of desks and the tall arched windows streaked with mist. Someone has opened one just enough for the wind to sigh through, carrying the scent of wet leaves.

Professor Vance, young, neat, spectacles glinting waits at the front with a stack of thin books bound in cream paper. “Today,” he announces, “we begin our poetry unit. Love poetry, to be exact. The oldest kind.”

Groans ripple through the class, mostly from the boys. I slip into a middle row beside Luke, grateful for the buffer his presence provides. The gossiping voices hush a little, though not entirely.

Vance smiles faintly, setting down the books. “The exercise is simple. Each of you will select a verse and read it aloud. Poetry should be heard, not buried in ink. Listen for what it makes you feel.”

He starts down the rows, handing out copies. The paper is soft, the ink faintly smudged from use. When mine lands on my desk, I trace the edge, trying to focus on the texture instead of the way Luke’s knee bumps mine under the table.

The silence fills with turning pages, nervous laughter, whispers. I glance around the room. Near the back window sits the quiet boy everyone still talks about. The one who doesn’t speak unless forced. His dark hair falls into his eyes as he watches the candle flames instead of the page, unmoving.

The sight pulls at something in me I can’t name.

“Wrenwood, Hart.. you two seem alert enough,” Professor Vance says, voice brisk. “You’ll begin.”

Luke straightens, eyes darting toward me, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Do you mind if I read first?”

“Go ahead,” I whisper, though my pulse stutters.

He takes the book gently from my hands, fingers brushing mine for half a heartbeat, warm, solid, real. Then he turns to the front, voice steady but quiet.

The first line leaves his lips like a secret meant for one person only.

The class stills.

I forget to breathe.

Luke doesn’t rush. He scans the page once, then again, like he’s memorizing the lines before daring to speak. When he finally begins, his voice is low, careful but it fills every corner of the room.

If I could bottle warmth, I’d give it to you first.
If I could steal the frost from your breath, I would.
You call it curse; I call it proof you’re still alive.

The words aren’t loud, yet they sink beneath my skin like sunlight finding cracks in ice. Students stop whispering. Even the wind at the window seems to hush.

Luke’s gaze flicks toward me once, quick but unmissable, before he reads the next lines.

You are not what they fear, Elowen.
You are the reason I still stay when the halls go quiet.

My heart lurches. He didn’t say my name out loud, but the poem does, hidden in its rhythm. And every pair of eyes in the room turns subtly toward me as if they hear it too.

Someone snickers softly. The sound snaps through the air like a twig breaking.

Luke pretends not to notice. His jaw tightens, but he finishes the final verse.

If love is madness, let me be lost.
If it burns, I’ll walk through the fire for you.
Just, don’t look away when I do.

The last word trembles, barely audible, but it carries. Even Professor Vance looks caught off guard, the grading quill frozen above his notebook.

The silence that follows is unbearable. My palms are damp against the desk. My chest feels too tight to breathe properly.

Luke lowers the paper, glances at me again, this time not hiding it. His eyes are soft and unguarded in a way that makes the world tilt. He doesn’t have magic, but the moment feels enchanted all the same.

The whispers start immediately, soft gasps, muffled laughter, the scrape of someone’s chair. Did he just? Was that for her?

Luke, oblivious or determined, just exhales shakily and gives me a small, uncertain smile. “Guess that’s… poetry.”

I can’t speak. I can only nod. My throat is full of heat and something dangerously close to hope.

At the back of the room, the quiet boy hasn’t moved. But his gaze has lifted from the candles, straight to me.

And the air feels colder again.

The moment hangs too long. Luke’s voice fades, but no one quite remembers how to breathe again. Even Professor Vance clears his throat softly, as if breaking a spell.

“Thank you, Mr. Hart,” he says at last, the faintest smile twitching at his lips. “That was… unexpectedly heartfelt.”

Laughter ripples through the room, quick and embarrassed. The tension breaks, but not for me. I can still feel Luke’s words echoing in my chest, every line glowing like embers that won’t cool.

I risk a glance toward him. His cheeks are flushed, his fingers trembling where they rest on the desk. The poem might have been anonymous, but everyone here knows exactly who it was for.

Before I can look away, a prickle runs down the back of my neck, cold and certain.

Someone else is watching.

I lift my eyes to the far corner.

The new boy sits as still as stone. The candle nearest him flickers once, guttering low. Shadows slide across his face, cutting sharp lines through the pale light. His gaze isn’t on Luke. It’s on me.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watch, calm as winter.

A shiver slips beneath my scarf. The air seems thinner near him, like the room itself is holding its breath.

When Professor Vance asks for the next volunteer, the sound of his voice feels distant, muffled. Someone laughs nervously, a chair scrapes. The world stirs again.

But that gaze doesn’t let me go.

I force myself to look away, to stare at the words on my page until they blur. Luke whispers something beside me, maybe my name, maybe a joke to ease the tension but I can’t answer.

The candles tremble a second time, their flames bowing toward the windows. The frost on the glass thickens.

And in that shifting light, for just a heartbeat, the reflection in the window seems to turn its head toward me.

Class ends in a blur of shuffling papers and forced laughter.
Luke’s still talking to Professor Vance about the assignment, voice warm again, as if the poem didn’t set the whole room buzzing. I pack my things slowly, palms damp, trying not to look at the back corner.

When I finally risk it, the new boy is gone. His chair sits empty, candle burned lower than the rest.

The window behind it is still rimed with frost.

Luke calls my name softly. “Hey, don’t listen to them, okay? They’ll forget by lunch.”
He’s smiling, awkward, hopeful. His hand finds mine, thumb brushing the back of it, a question he’s too gentle to ask out loud.

I force a smile. “You were… good.”

He laughs under his breath. “You mean I didn’t butcher it?”

“Something like that.”

It should feel safe. Normal. But the cold is creeping back. The desk beneath my hand feels wrong, too smooth, too still. I glance down.

My notebook is open where I left it. A single frost spiral crawls across the page, thin as a hairline crack. Then another, branching outward, the lines sharpening into letters that carve themselves in pale ice.

Not him.

The words gleam faintly before fading, leaving only wet streaks across the paper.

My breath catches.

Luke leans closer. “Elle? You okay?”

I slam the cover shut before he can see. “Fine,” I whisper, voice too thin.

He frowns. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m just cold.”

He squeezes my fingers, warmth bleeding into the chill. It helps, until the frost creeps up the edge of my desk again, glittering in the candlelight like a signature I can’t erase.

The bell tolls, long and low. Students spill into the hall, laughter echoing.

Luke doesn’t notice the letters reforming behind me, faint but certain this time, etched in the moisture of the window.

Not him.

And when I turn, the frost spirals toward my reflection.