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That first day, I texted him after every class. The second day too. By Friday, I’d pared it down to whenever I changed buildings.

Progress.

Adrien has not progressed at all.

“Your last class ends at three-fifteen,” he says.

“Yep.”

“I’ll be here at three.”

“Why?”

“In case it ends early.”

“It has never ended early.”

“It could. This is only the third week.”

“Well, it won’t.”

“If it does, I’ll be here.”

I press my lips together to hide a smile.

That’s the real problem—I secretly like this.

Sometimes his insistence on knowing exactly where I am makes me feel like I am nineteen going on nine, and sure, sometimes I want to remind him that normal college students do not text their partners after crossing from one building to another.

But then some small, scared part of me remembers waking up alone at the safe house.

The crushing silence. The empty space beside me in that narrow bed. How easily my mind turned a few hours alone into forever.

Now? Now I never wonder if he’s coming back. I always know where he is. He always knows where I am. And every single afternoon, no matter what, he’s waiting.

Sometimes in the car.

Sometimes leaning against it, smoking, even though I’ve been trying to convince him to quit.

Once, during a thunderstorm, inside the lobby because apparently getting wet would have killed me.

“Lunch?” he asks.

“In my bag.”

“Eat it.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Not just the fruit.”

I put on my best offended face.

He lifts one brow.

Fine.

Last Thursday I may have only eaten the strawberries, two cookies, and maybe three bites of my sandwich because Maya from textiles started telling me about natural indigo dyes and I got distracted.