Chapter Text
Calla had been in Berlin for a year and had learned the seminar room on the third floor the way she'd learned everything here. She knew which chairs had the best sightlines. Which window let in too much afternoon glare. Which radiator made noise.
She sat in the second row, left side. Notebook open. Twenty minutes early.
People filtered in. She recognized most of them. They were different. Wealthy, mostly. From prestigious undergraduate programs.
They spoke casually about gap years in Southeast Asia, research assistantships at Oxford, family connections and-
And they called her Ice Queen Calla.
They had started calling her that sometime around midterm season, when it became undeniable that the new girl was not simply shy, but entirely unreachable. The name spread quietly at first - whispered behind hands, traded in amused glances - but by winter it had settled over her like a second skin. Not shouted, never to her face. They were not brave enough for that. But she heard it all the same.
She did not correct them. There was nothing to correct.
A year had passed, and she had not made a single friend. Not for lack of opportunity - she had been approached, invited, tested in the shallow ways people tested strangers. She had simply failed to respond in the expected manner. Or perhaps she had refused. The distinction hardly mattered. In the end, the result was the same: distance. Clean, absolute, and, in its own way, merciful.
Only a girl named Sarah persisted.
Calla had long since concluded that this persistence could only be explained by some innate, self-destructive tendency. There was no other reason a person would repeatedly seek out someone who gave so little in return. Sarah spoke to her between lectures, sat beside her uninvited, filled silences Calla had no intention of breaking. It was not kindness - not entirely. There was a stubbornness to it, an insistence that bordered on defiance, as though Sarah had taken Calla’s indifference as a personal challenge.
Calla did not understand it. She did not try to. She understood herself well enough.
Still, she noticed things.
The way voices lowered when she entered a room. The way laughter sharpened at the edges when it brushed too close to her name. The careful politeness of those who addressed her directly, as if speaking to something that might fracture under the wrong pressure… or worse, not react at all.
The Ice Queen. It was almost amusing. Ice, after all, implied something delicate. Something that might melt, given the right conditions.
Calla knew better. Ice Queen. Fine. Better than some alternatives.
The door opened.
She didn't look up immediately. Finished the sentence she was writing.
When she did look up she saw someone who'd been awake for too long and had made peace with it. The man scanned the room with the rapid assessment of someone used to walking into spaces late and finding the path of least disruption.
The seat next to her was the only one that didn't require climbing over someone.
He sat in it. She looked back at her notebook.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
He dropped his bag, opened it, didn't find what he was looking for, made a small sound of resignation and closed it again. She looked sideways. No notebook. No laptop. He was apparently planning to sit through a three-hour seminar with nothing to write on.
She tore a page from her notebook and put it in front of him without looking at him.
A pause.
"Thanks," he said.
She didn't answer.
The professor started. She wrote. He wrote on her torn page, she could see it in her peripheral vision, but not notes. Something else. Connected by arrows, branching, the kind of thinking that didn't organize itself linearly.
At the break she looked at the page when he went to get coffee.
It was a diagram.
She was looking at it when he came back.
He put a coffee in front of her. She hadn't asked for one.
"You take it black," he said. "I've seen you in the department kitchen."
She looked at the coffee. At the diagram.
"You're Daeron," she said.
"Yes."
"You were gone last year."
"Yes."
"You came back."
"Evidently."
Calla looked at him. She knew his type. Rich boy taking a psychology degree as a hobby. All sharp angles and shadows. Hair that needed cutting. Clothes entirely black - jeans, shirt, jacket. He looked… haunted.
She picked up the coffee. "I'm Calla."
"I know." He sat down. "I've read your undergraduate thesis."
He did what.
"It's on the department server," he added. "I read everything on the department server when I got back. To see what I'd missed."
"And?"
He looked at her then. Really looked. And something in his eyes-
Not intimidation. Amusement.
"And your argument in the third chapter has a structural problem but the core insight is better than most published work I've read this year."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"What structural problem," she said.
He told her. He was right. She didn't say he was right.
"That's-" she stopped. "You're oversimplifying."
"And you're overcomplicating. Sometimes the simplest explanation is just correct."
"You are reductive."
"And you're rigid. But I'm still curious about your actual argument."
She stared at him. "Rigid?"
"Methodologically rigid. You've clearly built your entire worldview around structured theoretical frameworks. Which is fine. Admirable, even. But it makes you defensive when someone suggests the framework might be incomplete."
"I'm not defensive."
"You're very defensive. Which is interesting. Usually people who are that organized are more-" He paused. "-secure."
"I am secure."
"In your methodology, maybe. In everything else?" He shrugged. "Jury's out."
She should be offended.
"You've said rigid twice now."
"Because it's accurate."
They looked at each other.
"We have more classes together," Daeron said. "So we'll probably argue more."
"Probably."
"Looking forward to it." He turned to leave. Stopped. "You're wrong, by the way. About the predictive processing thing."
"I'm not wrong."
"Agree to disagree."
The professor called them back to the seminar.
She thought about the structural problem for the rest of the session.
***
Calla arrived early. Same seat.
Daeron arrived late. Same seat.
Calla took detailed notes. Daeron appeared to be sketching something in his notebook.
Halfway through the lecture, their professor posed a question.
Calla raised her hand. Gave a thorough, well-structured response citing three relevant papers.
Daeron didn't raise his hand. Just spoke: "That's assuming consciousness is a binary state. What if it's not?"
The discussion devolved - or evolved, depending on perspective - into another argument.
Calla argued for dimensional models. Daeron argued for… well, it wasn't clear what he was arguing for. He seemed to be arguing for the sake of arguing.
But he made good points. Infuriatingly good points.
After class, he caught up with her in the hallway.
"You prepared for that," he observed.
"For what?"
"For arguing with me. You had citations ready. That's-" He paused. "kind of flattering, actually."
"I wasn't preparing for you specifically. I was doing the reading."
"Sure. Keep telling yourself that." He pulled out a cigarette. Didn't light it - they were still inside - just rolled it between his fingers. "Library later?"
"What?"
"You're going to the library. To study. I'm going to the library. To study. We could go at the same time. Study together. Or near each other. Whatever."
"Why would we do that?"
"Because arguing in seminars is fun but I'd like to actually understand what you're talking about. And you-" He paused. "-might benefit from someone challenging your interpretations."
She should say no.
"Fine. What time?"
"17:00?"
"Okay."
"Okay." He walked away, then turned back. "Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"I know."
***
Calla had been there since 16:45. Had found a table in the psychology section. Had set up her materials - laptop, notebook, articles, color-coded tabs.
Was absolutely not watching the entrance.
Daeron arrived at 17:17. Carrying a coffee and a battered leather bag. No laptop. Just notebooks and printed articles covered in handwritten notes.
He sat across from her without asking. Set down his coffee. "You've claimed the whole table."
"You're late."
"I'm fashionably delayed."
"That's not a thing."
"It is now." He pulled out his materials. "What are you working on?"
"My thesis."
"Show me."
"What? No."
"Why not?"
"Because it's personal. Private. Not finished."
"So? I'm not going to judge you. I'm going to tell you where your methodology is rigid so you can fix it before your advisor does."
She stared at him.
He stared back. "What?"
"You're very direct."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't know yet."
They worked in silence for twenty minutes.
Then: "Your theoretical framework is solid but your operational definitions are vague."
Calla looked up. "What?"
"Your thesis proposal."
"How do you know that?"
"You left it open on your screen. I can see from here."
She angled her laptop away. "Stop reading my work."
"Stop leaving it visible. And stop using 'cultural memory' and 'collective memory' interchangeably. They're not the same thing."
"I know they're not the same thing."
"Then use them precisely. This is your thesis. Precision matters."
She wanted to be annoyed. Was annoyed. But also-
"You're right," she admitted.
"I know. It's very annoying when I'm right." He went back to his own work.
They worked for another hour. Occasionally one would make a comment. The other would respond. Small arguments. Brief exchanges.
Nothing deep. Easy.
Eventually, Calla closed her laptop. "I should go."
"Okay." He didn't look up from his notes. "Get home safe."
She left.
***
The apartment was small. One room that served as bedroom, living room, and study. A kitchen alcove. Bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. But it was hers. And it was affordable. Barely.
Calla sat at her desk - a cheap IKEA thing positioned by the window - and stared at her laptop.
A notification. Instagram.
Calla frowned at it for a moment before opening the message from someone called… 7x114tg80.
The first line made her pause. No greeting. No punctuation to speak of. Words running into each other in a way that felt careless rather than hurried. Her first thought was that it had to be either a child… or someone using speech-to-text and not bothering to correct it.
She read it again.
do you have the pdf for tomorrow’s class
Calla stared at the screen, unimpressed.
It took her a second longer than it should have to check the account.
The profile was unremarkable at first glance. No full name. No real picture - just something indistinct, a landscape or a shadow or an attempt at one. But the numbers did not match the anonymity. Too many followers. Too few people followed in return. Fifteen.
She recognized the pattern.
Daeron. Of course.
Calla leaned back slightly in her chair, phone still in hand, considering the message as if it were something faintly offensive.
She did not reply immediately.
There was no urgency in his request that required one.
Still, she sent the file in the end. A single message. No commentary.
The conversation, she assumed, would end there.
It did not.
Fifteen minutes later, another notification.
do you always study in the same place in the library
Calla looked at the screen for a long moment.
The question itself was simple. Neutral, even. But there was something in it that suggested intent - an assumption of continuation she had not granted.
She considered not answering.
Then, after a pause that stretched just long enough to be deliberate, she typed:
Yes.
She set the phone aside.
It buzzed again almost immediately.
great
A beat.
ill join you tomorrow then
Calla blinked once, slowly.
There it was again - that same effortless presumption, as if the matter had already been agreed upon, as if her answer had been nothing more than a formality he had been waiting to confirm.
She picked up the phone again, reading the next message before she could decide whether to respond at all.
you work like youre under pressure all the time
Another pause.
its motivating
Calla stared at the words.
For a moment, she did not move.
Then, very carefully, she locked her phone and set it face down on the desk.
She would go to the library tomorrow. Of course she would. Routine was not something she altered lightly.
If he chose to appear, that was his decision.
***
After the seminar - where they argued - they went to the library again.
This time she brought him coffee. He looked surprised.
"You remembered my order."
"It's not complicated."
"Still. Thank you."
They worked for three hours. Argued. She made him laugh twice. He made her almost-smile several times.
And then he said: "This is nice."
"What is?"
"This. Working together. Arguing. It's-" He paused. "I missed this. When I was gone. Having someone to argue with who's actually smart enough to argue back."
She didn't know what to say to that.
He didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his reading.
***
Calla was in the library when her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Unknown: its daeron. got your number from Sarah hope thats not weird
She stared at it.
Unknown: is it weird
Unknown: its probably weird
Unknown: anyway blackwood mentioned a paper in mondays seminar and i cant find it anywhere. you said you had it?
She saved his number.
Which paper?
Daeron T: the bowlby
I have it. I can send you the PDF.
Daeron T: youre a lifesaver
I know.
Daeron T: confident.
You asked for the paper.
Daeron T: see you wednesday?
Obviously. We have class.
Daeron T: i meant library after but yes also class
Yes. Library after.
Daeron T: good bring coffee
I'm not your assistant.
Daeron T: no youre my very intelligent classmate who happens to make better coffee choices than i do
Flattery won't work.
Daeron T: noted ill bring you coffee instead
I didn't say that.
Daeron T: too late. already decided. youre getting coffee wednesday whether you want it or not
Fine.
Daeron T: fine
He didn't text again.
She stared at the conversation for five minutes.
***
She was getting coffee - the cheap one, always the cheap one - when she heard:
"God, Calla is so fucking intense. She corrected Professor Hartmann in seminar yesterday. Just corrected him. In front of everyone."
"She's brilliant though."
"And ridiculous."
Calla paid. Took her cheap coffee. Turned around.
The two girls saw her. Faces went-
Pale.
"I prefer the term 'exacting,'" Calla said pleasantly. "But 'ridiculous' works too."
She walked past them. Didn't look back.
At their usual table, Daeron was already there. Reading. He looked up when she sat.
"You okay?"
"Fine. Why?"
"You look-" He paused. "-annoyed."
"I'm always annoyed."
"Fair point." He went back to his reading. Then: "I heard them too. The Ice Queen thing."
"Everyone's heard it."
"Does it bother you?"
"No."
"Liar."
She looked at him sharply. "Excuse me?"
"It bothers you." He said it certainly. "Not the nickname itself. But what it represents. That people are scared of you instead of respecting you."
How did he-
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Maybe." He pulled out his phone. Typed something. Showed her.
His contacts. Her name changed to ice emoji and a crown.
"There," he said. "Now you're literally Ice Queen. Official."
She stared at it. Then at him.
"That's-"
"Funny?" he suggested. "Accurate? A loving tribute to your terrifying reputation?"
"Mocking."
"Affectionate," he corrected. "There's a difference."
"You're ridiculous," she said.
"I know." He put his phone away. "Now let's talk about Hegel before you freeze me with your ice queen powers."
***
They'd fallen into a rhythm - meeting three times a week, library table in the back corner, two hours each session. He showed up on time now. Sometimes early.
Today he'd brought his own coffee. Expensive one from the good café. Set it down, settled in, looked at her.
"Can I ask you something?"
"You just did."
"Can I ask you another something?"
She closed her book. "What?"
"Why are you here? At this university specifically?"
"I was accepted."
"That's not what I mean." He leaned forward. "You're clearly brilliant. You could be anywhere. Why Berlin? Why here?"
She shouldn't answer. Shouldn't give him anything personal.
"The scholarship," she said. " They don't give many of those."
"Okay." He didn't look uncomfortable. Just interested. "And your research? Trauma and collective memory. Why that?"
"Because it matters."
"Specifically?"
She looked at him. Really looked. He was serious. Actually asking. Not making conversation. Actually wanting to know.
"Because," she said carefully, "cultures choose what to remember and what to forget. And those choices shape everything - politics, identity, how people treat each other. Understanding that matters. Being able to intervene in that process matters."
"Intervention," he repeated. "You want to change how societies remember trauma."
"I want to understand it well enough that maybe I can help people process it better. Collectively. Not just individually."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then: "That's ambitious."
"Is that a criticism?"
"It's admiration."
***
It was raining. Pouring. She didn't have an umbrella - stupid, she should have checked - and she was standing under the library overhang trying to decide if she could run the ten blocks home without everything in her bag getting soaked when-
"Need a ride?"
Daeron. Of course. Standing there with a car. Not a nice car. Just a car. Which at university in Berlin was unusual enough.
"I'm fine."
"You'll be soaked in thirty seconds."
"I'm fine."
He looked at her. Really looked. Then: "Okay. But I'm going your direction anyway. Prenzlauer Berg, right?"
She stared. "How do you know where I live?"
"You mentioned it. Two weeks ago. When you were talking about your neighborhood having good Turkish food."
He'd remembered.
"It's not weird," he added quickly. "I just- I pay attention when you talk."
She should say no. Should maintain distance. Should...
"Fine," she heard herself say.
The car was older. Used. Not flashy. And when she got in, she noticed books in the back. Empty coffee cups. A jacket that looked worn. None of the pristine expensive shit she'd expected.
"Your car?" she asked.
"My car," he confirmed. "Bought it used. My father offered to buy me something new. I said no."
"Why?"
He pulled into traffic. "Because then it would be his car. Not mine."
She understood that.
They drove in silence.
***
They were in the library. Their usual table. Working.
Calla looked up from her laptop. Found him watching her.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing. You bite your lip when you're thinking."
"I do?"
"Yeah. Left side. Constantly."
She touched her lip. "I didn't know that."
"You also organize your highlighters by color before you start working. And you always drink your coffee in exactly four sips before setting it down."
"You're very observant."
"Only with you." He went back to his notes.
She stared at him. "Why only with me?"
"Because you're interesting. Most people aren't."
They both went back to work.
***
21:48 7x114tg80
home safe?
21:47 calla.y
Yes. Why?
21:48 7x114tg80
just checking. its late. berlin can be weird at night
21:49 calla.y
I can take care of myself.
21:49 7x114tg80
i know you can im asking anyway
21:50 calla.y
I'm home.
21:50 7x114tg80
good. sleep well calla
21:51 calla.y
You too.
21:51 7x114tg80
probably wont but thanks
21:52 calla.y
Why not?
21:53 7x114tg80
never sleep well. comes with the brain chemistry
21:54 calla.y
You don't have to tell me that.
21:54 7x114tg80
i know. im telling you anyway. seems relevant if were going to keep doing this
21:55 calla.y
Doing what?
21:55 7x114tg80
being friends. or whatever this is
21:56 calla.y
We're friends?
21:56 7x114tg80
i think so. arent we?
21:57 calla.y
I don't usually have friends.
21:58 7x114tg80
me neither. were both terrible at it. perfect match
21:58 calla.y
That's not how friendship works.
21:59 7x114tg80
how does it work then?
22:00 calla.y
I don't know. I've never really had one before. Not like this.
22:01 7x114tg80
like what?
22:02 calla.y
Where I actually want to talk to the person. Where they challenge me instead of just agreeing. Where I look forward to seeing them.
22:03 7x114tg80
yeah. me too
22:03 7x114tg80
so were friends
22:04 calla.y
I suppose we are.
22:05 7x114tg80
good. because youre the only person i actually want to talk to lately and that would be sad if it was one-sided
22:06 calla.y
It's not one-sided.
22:06 7x114tg80
good. okay. im going to try to sleep now. probably fail but try
22:07 calla.y
Good luck.
22:07 7x114tg80
thanks. see you friday
22:08 calla.y
See you Friday
She stared at the conversation.
They were friends.
She had a friend.
The thought made something warm spread through her chest.
***
22:31 7x114tg80
random question
22:32 calla.y
Yes?
22:32 7x114tg80
whats your favorite book
22:33 calla.y
Why?
22:33 7x114tg80
because we're friends and i realized i dont know. seems like something i should know
22:34 calla.y
"The Unbearable Lightness of Being."
22:34 7x114tg80
kundera. interesting choice
22:35 calla.y
You've read it?
22:35 7x114tg80
of course. im pretentious and intellectually insufferable. reading kundera is basically required
22:36 calla.y
What's yours?
22:36 7x114tg80
"Hunger" by Knut Hamsun.
22:37 calla.y
Basic
22:37 7x114tg80
im a basic person
22:38 calla.y
Are you?
22:38 7x114tg80
sometimes. arent you?
22:39 calla.y
Sometimes.
22:41 7x114tg80
what else should i know about you?
22:42 calla.y
Like what?
22:42 7x114tg80
i dont know. everything? favorite food. what you wanted to be as a kid. what music you listen to when youre sad
22:43 calla.y
That's a lot of questions.
22:43 7x114tg80
you dont have to answer. im just curious
22:58 calla.y
Fresh bread with butter. My grandmother used to make it feel like something special. I wanted to be a painter. And I listen to nu metal when I'm sad.
23:00 7x114tg80
painter makes sense but nu metal
23:01 calla.y
What about it?
23:01 7x114tg80
i was expecting something austere and devastating not nu metal
23:02 calla.y
It's devastating in its own way.
23:02 7x114tg80
thats not the argument you think it is
23:03 calla.y
It works. That's enough.
23:03 7x114tg80
im genuinely shocked
23:04 calla.y
You recover quickly.
23:04 7x114tg80
im trying
23:07 calla.y
Sometimes. What about you? What did you want to be?
23:07 7x114tg80
a musician. guitarist. had a terrible band for about six months when i was sixteen my father hated it
23:08 calla.y
Why?
23:08 7x114tg80
because music wasnt useful. wasnt going to lead anywhere. he wanted me to study something practical. economics. law. something respectable
23:09 calla.y
But you chose psychology.
23:09 7x114tg80
i chose what interested me. he was not pleased
23:10 calla.y
Do you regret it?
23:10 7x114tg80
no. yes. sometimes. its complicated
23:11 calla.y
Most things are.
23:11 7x114tg80
true
23:12 7x114tg80
still not over the nu metal
23:12 calla.y
You'll survive.
23:13 7x114tg80
barely
23:13 7x114tg80
what do you even listen to
23:14 calla.y
The usual.
23:14 7x114tg80
thats not an answer
23:15 calla.y
It doesn't need to be.
23:15 7x114tg80
im choosing to believe its something extremely embarrassing
23:16 calla.y
You're welcome to your assumptions.
23:16 7x114tg80
i will hold on to my shock for a while
23:17 calla.y
You do that.
23:17 7x114tg80
im going to try to sleep. probably wont work but
23:18 calla.y
Try anyway. I'll see you tomorrow.
23:18 7x114tg80
you will. and ill bring coffee
23:19 calla.y
You don't have to.
23:19 7x114tg80
i know. im doing it anyway
23:20 calla.y
Thank you.
23:20 7x114tg80
you're welcome. good night calla
23:21 calla.y
Good night.
***
She shouldn't have come. Departmental mixer. Friday evening. The kind of forced socialization that made her skin crawl. But Daeron had mentioned it and here she was. Standing alone with wine, watching the room with the detached interest she applied to most social gatherings. Observing. Cataloging. Not participating.
Daeron was across the room. Surrounded by people. Three women. Four now. The usual magnetism he seemed to generate without trying. She'd noticed it before - the way people gravitated toward him at these things - but had never really watched.
Blonde one - Emma from the master's program - was laughing. Touching his arm. Standard flirtation behavior. Predictable. He was smiling. That polite smile. The one he used when he was being appropriate. Not the real smile. She knew the difference. Had cataloged the differences months ago without meaning to. Polite smile: corners of mouth, no eyes. Real smile: full face, that thing he did where... She stopped that line of thought. Irrelevant.
"You're staring." Sarah. Appearing beside her.
"I'm observing," Calla corrected. "There's a difference."
"Sure. Observing. Very academic." Sarah followed her gaze. "The Daeron Effect in full force tonight."
"What?"
"That's what we call it. He walks into a room and-" She gestured at the cluster of women. "-instant gravitational pull."
"He's wealthy and intelligent," Calla said. Flat. Factual. "That's not unusual. People respond to perceived value."
"Very clinical."
"It's accurate."
"And you're completely unaffected by it."
"Why would I be affected?" Calla sipped her wine. "His social interactions are irrelevant to me."
"Right. Irrelevant." Sarah paused. "So you're not bothered that Emma just gave him her number."
"Why would that bother me?" Calla asked. Voice perfectly level.
"No reason. Just- you've been staring at them for fifteen minutes."
"Observing," Calla corrected. "I find social behavior interesting. The mating rituals of graduate students. The performance of it."
"You find it interesting."
"Yes. Not bothering me at all."
"Not at all. Then why-" Sarah gestured at Calla's hand. "-are you gripping that wine glass like you want to break it?"
Calla looked down. Her knuckles were white. She loosened her grip. "The stem is poorly designed. Structural weakness."
"Sure. Structural." Sarah laughed. "You're a terrible liar, Cal."
"I'm not lying-"
"You are. You're bothered. You just won't admit it."
"There's nothing to admit." Calla set down her wine. "I need air."
She walked out. Into November cold. Into space. Space where she could breathe without watching him smile at other women, without seeing them touch his arm, without- stop. This was illogical. They were friends. Study partners. What he did with other women was irrelevant. Completely irrelevant.
21:47 7x114tg80
where did you go
21:49 calla.y
Outside. Needed air.
21:51 7x114tg80
you okay
21:53 calla.y
Fine. Party was loud.
21:55 7x114tg80
want to leave
"No, don't-" she started to type, but he was already there.
"You left," he said.
"I told you. Needed air."
"In November. Without a coat."
"I'm fine."
He took off his jacket. Held it out. "Take it."
"I don't need-"
"Calla." Firm. "Take the jacket."
She took it. Put it on. "Thank you," she said quietly.
"You're welcome." He leaned against the wall next to her. "Want to tell me what's actually wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong."
"You left a party early. You never leave things early. You endure them until the socially appropriate exit time. So something is wrong."
Perceptive. Too perceptive.
"The party was boring," she said.
"It was very boring," he agreed. "But that's not why you left."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you." He said it simply. "So. What's actually wrong?"
Everything. Nothing. The fact that watching Emma touch your arm made me want to-
"Nothing," she said again. "I just needed air."
He looked at her. Long look. Searching.
"Okay," he said finally. "You don't have to tell me. But if something was wrong you could just tell me. You know that, right?"
"I know."
"Good." He paused. "For what it's worth?"
"Yes?"
"I deleted Emma's number. Before I came out here."
Her heart jumped.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not interested." He said it matter-of-factly. "She's fine. Nice enough. But I'm not interested."
"Oh."
"Yeah." He pushed off the wall. "Want to get food? Our usual place? We can skip the rest of the party."
"Okay."
***
16:23 - 7x114tg80
guess what happened in seminar
16:26 - calla.y
What?
16:28 - 7x114tg80
thomas said being and time was about clocks
16:29 - 7x114tg80
CLOCKS CALLA
16:31 - calla.y
No.
16:32 - 7x114tg80
YES
16:35 - calla.y
I'm having secondhand embarrassment.
16:37 - 7x114tg80
i wanted to look at you so badly to see your face but you werent there
16:40 - calla.y
I would have died. Actual death.
16:42 - 7x114tg80
i almost laughed and had to pretend to cough
16:43 - 7x114tg80
miss you in seminars ice queen
16:46 - calla.y
I'll be back Thursday. Try not to die of secondhand stupidity before then.
16:48 - 7x114tg80
no promises
***
They'd fallen into a routine: Sundays at museums. His idea originally, but now hers too. Today: Pergamon Museum. Ancient Greek architecture. Massive stone structures built by people who'd been dead for millennia.
"It's strange," Daeron said, standing in front of the Ishtar Gate. "Thinking about all the people who built this. Who walked through this. All dead now. All gone. But this remains."
"Does that bother you?"
"No. It's comforting somehow. That things can outlast us. That we can make things that matter even after we're gone."
She looked at him. At his profile in the museum light. And thought: you matter. You matter and you don't even know it. But she didn't say it. Just- "Come on. I want to show you the Greek section."
***
"There's a Christmas party," Daeron said. Not looking at her. Focused on his notes. "Friday."
"I know."
"Are you going?"
"No. I don't do parties."
"I know." He paused. "Come with me anyway."
She looked up. "Why?"
"Because -" He finally looked at her. "- because I'm going and it'll be terrible and I want you there. Please?"
She should say no. Parties were loud and pointless and-
"Okay," she heard herself say.
His face lit up.
"Yeah?"
"Yes. But I'm leaving early."
"We'll both leave early," he said. "Together."
"Okay."
"Okay." He smiled. Real smile. Happy. "Good."
***
Calla felt ridiculous. She'd changed three times. Finally settled on a dress. Red. Simple. But it fit. Actually fit. Showed her waist. Her legs. Things she normally kept hidden under loose clothes. She'd let her hair down. Usually she wore it pulled back. Controlled. Tonight it fell past her shoulders.
Sarah had looked at her and said: "Oh. Oh. Calla, you look -"
"Stupid. I look stupid. I'm changing back -"
"You look beautiful. Shut up. Let's go."
Now they were at the party and Calla wanted to disappear. Too many people. Too loud. Everyone turning to look when she walked in.
"Is that Calla?" someone said.
"She looks so different-"
"Holy shit, she's actually gorgeous -"
Marcus from her group appeared, beer in hand. Stopped. Stared.
"Calla? What- how-" He blinked. "You look like you walked out of a Christmas catalog. A very expensive Christmas catalog. Have you always looked like this?"
Her face burned. "I look ridiculous-"
"You look the literal opposite of ridiculous. You look-” He gestured helplessly."- I don't even have words. Sarah, does she know she looks like this?"
"She knows," Sarah said. Grinning. Clearly proud. "She just doesn't believe it."
"Well, she should. Because wow." Marcus was still staring. "That dress. That hair. You could literally model. I'm serious. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Stop," Calla said. Quiet. Desperate.
"Okay, okay. But seriously. Wow." Marcus stepped aside. "Come in. Get a drink. Everyone's going to lose their minds."
They moved into the party. Every person they passed turned to look. Some stared openly. Others tried to be subtle and failed. Andreas from Cognitive Neuroscience stopped mid-conversation to watch her walk by. His mouth literally opened. Calla kept walking. Face burning. Hands shaking slightly. This was a mistake. Huge mistake. She should never have worn this dress. Should never have come. Should-
Sarah handed her a glass of wine. "Here. Drink. It'll help."
Calla took it. Drank too fast. The wine was sweet. Too sweet. Christmas wine. Mulled something. But it helped. Made her hands stop shaking. Made the staring feel… less.
"I'm getting another," she told Sarah.
"We just got here -"
But Calla was already moving. Back to the kitchen. Away from the stares. In the kitchen, she poured herself more wine. Regular wine this time. Not the Christmas stuff. Drank half of it standing there. Better. She could breathe now.
"Calla."
She turned. And felt… relief. Pure, flooding relief. Daeron. Leaning against the counter. Holding a beer. Wearing all black - no concession to Christmas at all, no Santa hat, no festive anything - looking at her.
"Daeron." It came out breathless.
"Red." He took a sip of beer. His eyes moved over her - the dress, her hair, her face - then back to meet her gaze. Something flickered in his expression. Gone too fast to read. "How appropriately festive."
"Sarah made me wear it -"
"Sarah has excellent taste. You should listen to her more often." He pushed off the counter. Moved closer. Not crowding her. Just closer. "You look different."
"Everyone keeps saying that-"
"Because it's true. The dress. The hair. Very-" He paused. Took another sip. "-noticeable. Hard to miss."
"I hate it. Everyone's staring -"
"Of course they're staring." He said it casually. Like commenting on the weather. "You're six feet tall in a red dress with your hair down. You look-" He stopped. Drank more beer. "-never mind."
"Look like what?"
"Nothing. Doesn't matter." He gestured with his beer toward the main room. "Want to stand somewhere less Christmas-y? You look like you're about to flee. Very deer-in-headlights. Festive deer."
"Yes. Please."
"Come on." He started walking. She followed. Through the party. Past the stares. Past Andreas who was still watching her. Past Marcus who grinned knowingly. They found a spot by the windows. Away from the worst of the decorations. Away from most of the crowd.
"Better?" Daeron asked.
"Much."
"Good." He held out his beer. "Try this. It's terrible. Appropriately terrible for a Christmas party. Very cheap. Very authentic."
She took it. Sipped. Made a face.
"Told you. Tastes like poor life choices and regret." He took it back. Drank from the same spot her mouth had been. Didn't even pause. "Very festive."
They stood there. Close. Closer than they needed to be. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. Smell him - cigarettes and something else, something that made her want to -
She drank more wine. Her own glass. Fast.
"You're drinking quickly," he observed.
"I need to. Everyone's looking at me -"
"Let them look."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one in a red dress being stared at like- like some kind of -"
"Christmas decoration? Festive ornament?" He smiled. Small. "You do match the color scheme. Very coordinated."
Despite everything, she almost smiled. "You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help. I'm trying to distract you. Is it working?"
"Maybe."
"Good." He reached out. Casual. Easy. Touched her necklace. Simple silver chain. Small pendant. His fingers lifted it slightly. Examining it. "This is pretty. Haven't seen it before."
She couldn't breathe. His fingers were right there. Against her collarbone. Warm. She could feel the heat of them through the thin chain.
"My- my mother gave it to me. Years ago."
"Suits you. Simple. Elegant." He let it drop. His hand didn't fall away immediately. Stayed there. Near her throat. Near her skin. "Very you."
Then his hand did fall away. Like nothing had happened.
She drank more wine. Finished the glass.
"Want another?" he asked.
"I should probably stop-"
"That wasn't the question. Do you want another?"
She nodded.
"Yes. Then you should have another. Stay here. Don't move. I'll get it."
He left. Came back two minutes later with wine for her. Another beer for himself.
"Here." He handed her the glass. Their fingers touched. Longer than necessary. "Drink. Relax. Ignore everyone else. They're all boring anyway."
"You can't know they're all boring-"
"I can and I do. Trust me. I've talked to most of them. Boring." He took a sip of beer. "You, on the other hand. Not boring."
"How do you know I'm not boring?"
"Because I've spent approximately-" He paused. Pretended to calculate. "-sixty hours with you in the past three months. In the library. At seminars. Walking to the U-Bahn. If you were boring, I'd know by now."
"Sixty hours?"
"Approximately. Could be more. I didn't keep exact track. But… a lot of hours. Many hours. Enough hours to know you're not boring."
She stared at him. "You counted?"
"I pay attention. It's one of my few redeeming qualities." He drank more beer. "Want to play a game?"
"What kind of game?"
"Every time someone stares at you, we drink. Should get us both very drunk very quickly."
"That's not a game-"
"Sure it is. Look- Andreas is staring right now. Drink."
She drank.
"See? Fun. Educational." He drank too. "Oh look. That girl. She's also staring. Drink again."
Calla laughed. Daeron's entire expression changed. Just for a second. Something warm in his eyes.
"There it is," he said. Quiet.
"There what is?"
"That laugh. The real one. Not the polite one you do in seminars. The actual laugh."
"I don't have different laughs-"
"You absolutely do. The polite one is very -" He demonstrated. Quiet. Controlled. "- corporate. Professional. The real one is -" He gestured at her. "- surprised. Like you didn't expect to find something funny but you did."
"You pay too much attention -"
"Impossible. There's no such thing as too much attention." He paused. "Not when it comes to you."
Her heart did something complicated.
***
"-and then Marcus tried to argue that Freud was still relevant to modern psychology. At which point I had to inform him that Freud was basically - and I quote - 'a cocaine-addicted Victorian pervert with daddy issues who accidentally invented talk therapy.' Blackwood almost choked on his coffee."
Calla laughed. "You didn't say that in seminar-"
"I absolutely did. Ask anyone. It was glorious. Marcus turned purple. Blackwood had to take a five-minute break to compose himself."
"That's- you can't just say things like that -"
"Why not? It's true. Freud was - objectively - a mess. Brilliant mess. But still a mess." He drank more beer. "We're all messes. Some of us are just more honest about it."
A guy from Developmental Psychopathology approached. Smiling at Calla. "Hey, you're Calla, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm Tom. I just wanted to say… you look really beautiful tonight -"
"She knows," Daeron said. Not looking at Tom. Looking at his phone. Bored. "You're the-" He paused. Pretended to count. "-eighth person to tell her. Very observant. You can go now."
"I was just-"
"Being polite. Yes. Very noble. She appreciates it. You can leave now."
Tom looked at Calla. "Is he serious?"
Calla looked at Daeron. He was scrolling through his phone. Completely unbothered.
"Apparently," she said.
After Tom left, she turned to Daeron. "You can't just dismiss people like that-"
"I absolutely can. Watch me do it again. It's very easy." He finally looked up from his phone. At her. "You didn't want to talk to him anyway."
"How do you know -"
"Because you get this expression. When someone's boring you. Very polite. Too polite. Painfully polite. I've seen it in seminars. When someone makes a bad argument. You were wearing it just now. With Tom."
He was right. She hadn't wanted to talk to Tom at all.
"That's still not the point -"
"What is the point?"
"The point is - you're being - territorial. Possessive. Making people leave -"
"Yes. And?" He said it calmly. Like it was obvious. "I want you to myself. I don't want to share your attention with-" He gestured vaguely at the party. "-them. Is that a problem?"
Her heart was pounding."I don't know."
"Let me know when you decide. In the meantime-" He reached out. Touched her necklace again. Like he had earlier. Casual. Easy. His fingers warm against her skin. "-I'm staying right here. With you. Unless you want me to leave?"
"No."
"Good. Because I wasn't going to anyway. But it's nice that we agree."
His hand lingered. On her necklace. On her skin. Then dropped away. Like nothing. Like that touch hadn't just burned.
She drank more wine. Finished the glass.
"Want another?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I'll get it. Don't move. Don't talk to anyone. Especially not Tom. He looks like he might try again."
Daeron came back. Two drinks. Handed her the wine.
"Here. Last one. After this we're switching you to water."
"I'm fine -"
"You're drunk. Not very drunk. But drunk. I can tell because you're-"
Someone bumped into Calla from behind. Wine sloshed in her glass.
"Careful-" Daeron steadied her. Hand on her elbow. "You okay?"
"Fine. Just-" She looked around. Too many people. Too much noise. "-crowded."
"Want to sit?"
"Yes. Please."
He guided her through the crowd. Hand on her lower back. Warm through the silk. Possessive in a way that made her chest tight.
They found a small couch in the corner. Only room for two. She sat. Grateful. These heels were killing her. She crossed her legs. The dress shifted. Rode up slightly where the fabric had been sitting against her thigh.
Just enough to show lace. Black lace. The stockings she'd bought two weeks ago and almost not worn tonight, had stood in her apartment for fifteen minutes holding them, thinking too much, this is too much -
She felt his attention shift. Felt it like a physical thing - the weight of his gaze dropping from her face to her legs, to the place where black lace met pale skin, to the delicate pattern of the stockings against her thigh.
The conversation around them continued. Someone laughed. Music played. The party existed. But in their corner by the window, everything had stopped. She didn't move. Didn't adjust the dress. Didn't cross her legs the other way to hide what he was seeing. Just let him look. And he looked. Three seconds. Five. Long enough that her skin went hot under his gaze, long enough that her breath came shallow, long enough that she felt-
Everything she'd been pretending not to feel for months. Everything she'd buried under ice queen composure and perfectly articulated arguments about Kant and late-night texts that never quite said what they meant.
She wanted him. She wanted him. Wanted his hands on her. Wanted to know what his mouth tasted like. Wanted to pull him into some dark corner and-
She'd never wanted anyone before. Had never understood what other people meant when they talked about desire, about need, about that pull toward another person that made you buy black lace stockings. Made you wear them to a party. Made you sit there and let him look and feel your entire body go-
His eyes met hers. And she saw it. Saw everything he was feeling reflected back - want and need and hunger and something darker.
They stared at each other. Neither speaking. Neither moving. The party a distant noise. The world reduced to-
"I need-" His voice came out rough. Wrecked."-drinks. I need to get drinks. Do you want wine?"
She could barely form words. "Yes."
"Okay. I'll-" He stood too quickly. "-I'll be right back."
He left. Moved through the crowd like he was escaping something. And she sat there. Heart racing. Face hot. Feeling want like she'd never felt want before. Feeling need. Feeling alive. In a way that was terrifying. In a way that made her understand why people did stupid things, made terrible decisions, destroyed their lives for this. This feeling.
She stood. Unsteady. The room too bright. Too loud. She needed space. Needed a moment to breathe. The bathroom. She'd go to the bathroom. Splash cold water on her face. Get the ice queen back.
***
The bathroom door was closed. She could hear voices inside - male voices, laughing - but she needed this, needed to get away from the party, from the heat in her face, from the want that was still coursing through her body like-
She'd wait. Just stand here until they left and then-
The door opened. Two men stumbled out. She recognized them vaguely - master's students, not from her program, too drunk, barely registering her presence as they moved past. She went in. Locked the door. Leaned against it. Looked at herself in the mirror. Face flushed. Eyes too bright. Lips parted like she'd been running.
Not Ice Queen Calla. Not the scholarship student who controlled everything. Just a woman. A woman who wanted… wanted Daeron Targaryen to put his hands on her. Wanted to know if he'd be rough or gentle. Wanted to find out what sounds he'd make. Wanted-
The bathroom door rattled.
"-occupied," she called out. Voices outside. Male voices. Drunk. Loud.
"-fuck, sorry-"
"-was talking about Daeron-"
She froze.
"-and that ice bitch-"
She should leave. Should open the door. She couldn't move.
"-did you see her tonight-"
"-that dress-"
"-those fucking legs-"
Crude laughter.
"-probably already fucking her-"
"-you think-"
"-definitely-"
No. She needed to leave.
"-probably has her on her knees-"
"-with that mouth-"
"-those lips-"
"-perfect for-"
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't-
"-bet she's a freak-"
"-rich boy with daddy issues and pills-"
"-they're perfect for each other-"
Laughter. Louder now. Drunker.
She opened the door. Walked out. They saw her. Faces going white.
"Calla-"
She walked past them. Face blank. Ice queen face.
Down the hall. Through the party. Past people talking, laughing, drinking. Past the corner where Daeron was standing with drinks in his hands, looking for her. She kept walking. Out the door. Into December cold. Into air that felt like knives. She had no coat. No scarf. Nothing. She walked. Fast. Heels clicking on pavement. Berlin at night. Cold. Empty.
Her phone started ringing. His name on the screen. She let it ring. It rang again. Again. Again. She turned it off. Kept walking.
***
She got home on muscle memory. Up the stairs. Into her apartment. Door closed and locked behind her. Stood in the dark. Breathing. Her phone - still off - was heavy in her hand. She turned it on. The screen lit up. 17 missed calls, 26 text messages. All from him. She scrolled through them with hands that were shaking.
23:41 - 7x114tg80
where did you go
23:43 - 7x114tg80
calla please answer
23:45 - 7x114tg80
are you okay did something happen
23:47 - 7x114tg80
im worried please just tell me youre okay
23:49 - 7x114tg80
CALLA
23:52 - 7x114tg80
i dont know what happened i dont know if i did something wrong but please just let me know youre safe
23:54 - 7x114tg80
please
23:56 - 7x114tg80
if you dont answer in five minutes im calling the police
23:59 - 7x114tg80
CALLA PLEASE
00:01 - 7x114tg80
im serious about the police
00:03 - 7x114tg80
answer me right now or im calling them
00:05 - 7x114tg80
ANSWER ME
She should answer. Should tell him… What? That she'd heard two drunk men fantasizing about him fucking her? That she'd fled because she couldn't face him after hearing that? Her fingers moved across the screen.
00:17 - calla.y
I'm home. I'm fine. I felt dizzy. Needed to leave.
00:17 - 7x114tg80
DIZZY
00:18 - 7x114tg80
YOU FELT DIZZY AND YOU DIDNT TELL ME
00:18 - 7x114tg80
you just LEFT
00:19 - 7x114tg80
you didnt say anything you just disappeared and i thought
00:19 - 7x114tg80
i thought something happened
00:20 - 7x114tg80
i thought someone hurt you
00:20 - 7x114tg80
i thought you were lying somewhere and i didnt know where you were and i couldnt help and
00:21 - 7x114tg80
WHY DIDNT YOU TELL ME
00:23 - calla.y
I didn't want to bother you.
00:23 - 7x114tg80
BOTHER ME
00:24 - 7x114tg80
calla if youre unwell if youre DIZZY if something is WRONG thats not bothering me
00:24 - 7x114tg80
thats something I NEED TO KNOW
00:25 - 7x114tg80
you dont just leave
00:25 - 7x114tg80
you dont just disappear into the night without a coat without telling anyone
00:26 - 7x114tg80
what if something happened
00:26 - 7x114tg80
what if you collapsed
00:26 - 7x114tg80
what if someone
00:27 - 7x114tg80
you TELL ME when youre not okay
00:27 - 7x114tg80
you dont just vanish
00:29 - calla.y
I'm sorry.
00:31 - calla.y
Im fine. I just need to sleep.
00:32 - 7x114tg80
youre not fine
00:32 - 7x114tg80
you LEFT A PARTY ALONE FEELING DIZZY IN DECEMBER WITHOUT A COAT
00:33 - 7x114tg80
thats not fine
00:33 - 7x114tg80
thats the opposite of fine
00:35 - calla.y
I'm home. I'm safe. I just need to sleep.
00:41 - 7x114tg80
fine
00:42 - 7x114tg80
but were talking about this
00:43 - 7x114tg80
you cant just disappear on me
00:44 - 7x114tg80
you cant just leave without saying anything
00:45 - 7x114tg80
we're friends calla
00:45 - 7x114tg80
friends dont do that
00:46 - 7x114tg80
friends tell each other when theyre not okay
00:48 - calla.y
I know. I'm sorry.
00:52 - 7x114tg80
okay
00:55 - 7x114tg80
are you really okay
00:56 - 7x114tg80
really truly okay
00:58 - calla.y
Yes. Really. Goodnight.
01:01 - 7x114tg80
goodnight calla
01:03 - 7x114tg80
im still angry with you
01:05 - calla.y
I know.
01:07 - 7x114tg80
okay good as long as you know
01:09 - 7x114tg80
sleep well ice queen
She set down the phone. Looked at herself in the small mirror by her door. Still in the dress. Still in the stockings. Black lace that he'd stared at. That she'd worn because some part of her had wanted him to look. Had wanted him to want. Had wanted-
She reached down. Pulled them off. Slowly. The lace catching slightly on her skin. She threw them across the room. Didn't care where they landed. Changed into sleep clothes. Washed her face. Removed the makeup she'd carefully applied hours ago thinking… What? That tonight would be different? That tonight something would-
She got into bed. Turned off the light. Lay there in the dark. And thought about the way he'd looked at her. The hunger in his eyes. The way her entire body had responded - immediate, overwhelming, undeniable. And then she'd heard them. Heard what people thought. Heard the crude fantasy of what he did to her, what she let him do, how they'd-
She pulled the blanket over her head. Tried to sleep. Failed.
***
The Christmas holidays had come and gone, leaving the city quieter and her thoughts louder, and she realized the shift had solidified somewhere in those cold December weeks, amid empty streets and the distant echo of carols.
Now it was New Year's Eve, and she was still here, lying in her own bed, the city outside alive with fireworks and celebrations while she stayed wrapped in silence and thought about him.
Her phone buzzed. Her heart did something stupid.
02:35 - 7x114tg80
happy new year ice queen
02:37 - calla.y
Happy new year. Are you somewhere loud?
02:38 - 7x114tg80
some party in Neukölln. terrible. hiding on a balcony thinking about leaving.
02:41 - 7x114tg80
Why did you go if you hate parties?
02:44 - 7x114tg80
i don't know.
02:45 - 7x114tg80
wish I'd stayed home.
She should say goodnight. Should…
02:51 - calla.y
Do you want to come over?
She sent it. Stared at the message. What- what had she just…? She'd never invited anyone over. Not once. Her apartment was her space, her sanctuary, the place she could be herself. Not Ice Queen Calla. Not the scholarship student who had to be perfect. Just… her. And she'd just invited him.
02:52 - 7x114tg80
to your place?
02:53 - calla.y
Yes.
02:54 - 7x114tg80
ive never been to your place.
02:55 - calla.y
I know.
02:56 - 7x114tg80
and you're inviting me over
02:57 - calla.y
Yes. Unless you don't want to. You don't have to. It's late. This was stupid. Forget it
02:58 - 7x114tg80
I'm leaving now what’s your address?
Oh god. Oh god.
02:59 - calla.y
You know the street. Building 3B. Third floor.
03:00 - 7x114tg80
!!!
She sat up and looked around her apartment. It was a disaster. Books everywhere. Papers covering the desk. Coffee mugs on every surface. Her bed unmade. Laundry in a pile. The tiny space that was bedroom and living room and office all at once looking exactly like what it was - a scholarship student's barely - surviving chaos.
And he was coming here. Daeron, who had money and a nice apartment (she assumed; she'd never seen it, but of course it was nice). Why had she done this?
She couldn't clean it all in twenty minutes. Couldn't… She started anyway, frantic. Putting books in stacks. Hiding the laundry. Making the bed. Washing the mugs in her tiny sink. Creating the illusion of control that didn't exist.
Eighteen minutes later, the buzzer. Her heart stopped. She buzzed him in, opened her door, and waited in the doorway listening to footsteps on the stairs.
He appeared on the landing. He was high. Pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black, that loose way he was moving, the smile that was too wide, too… unguarded.
"Hi," he said. Beamed at her. "You invited me over. I'm- I'm at your place. This is your place."
"This is my place," she confirmed. "Come in."
He came in and stood in the middle of her small apartment, looking around like he was seeing something precious.
"It's perfect," he said. "It's so you."
"It's a mess."
"It's books and coffee and-" He touched her desk. Her papers. Gentle. "-your work. Your brain. It's perfect."
He was very high.
"What did you take?" she asked.
"Don't know." He shrugged. Smile still too wide. "Someone had pills. I took some. They're good ones. Everything's soft. Warm. You're-" He looked at her. "-you're so beautiful. Have I told you that? I don't think I've told you that."
"You're high," she said flatly.
"Yes," he agreed cheerfully. "But it's still true. You're beautiful. Terrifying and brilliant and beautiful."
He moved toward her. She stepped back automatically. He stopped.
"Sorry," he said immediately. "Sorry. Too much? I'm too much. I know I'm too much. I get like this when I'm high. Affectionate. I can leave if-"
"No," she said quickly. "Don't leave. Just sit down. Please."
He sat on her couch. Small couch. He looked too big for it. Too… present. In her space. In her life.
She sat next to him. Not touching. But close.
"Water?" she offered. "Tea?"
"Tea sounds nice," he said. "You drink tea?"
"Sometimes."
"I drink tea." He said it like it was a revelation. "We both drink tea. We have that in common."
"Among other things."
"So many things." He leaned his head back against the couch. Closed his eyes. "We both hate parties. And we both think about things too much. Think about everything too much."
She made tea. Cheap tea. The only kind she had. Brought it to him. He took it like she was handing him gold.
"Thank you," he said. So earnest. So sincere. "You're so nice to me. You pretend you're not. Ice queen. But you're- you’re the nicest person I know."
"I'm not nice," she said. "People call me ice queen for a reason."
"They're idiots." He sipped the tea. "You're not ice. You're just careful. There's a difference."
Her throat went tight.
"Drink your tea," she managed.
He drank. She watched him. This boy… this rich boy who took pills at parties and showed up at her apartment at 3 a.m. and looked at her like she mattered.
"Calla?" he said quietly.
"Yes?"
"Can I tell you something?"
"You've been telling me things for the past ten minutes."
"Something true though. Something real." He set down his tea. Turned to face her. "I think about you all the time. Like all the time. In class. At home. In the clubs. Just constantly. Is that weird?"
Yes. No.
"I don't know," she said honestly.
"I think it might be weird," he continued. "But I can't help it. You're interesting. You're the most interesting person I've ever met. And beautiful. Did I mention beautiful? I definitely mentioned beautiful. But it's worth mentioning again. You're-"
"Daeron." She stopped him. "You're very high."
"I know." He smiled. Soft smile. "But it's all still true. Just saying it out loud because I'm high. But it's true."
He reached out. Touched her face. Gentle. His fingers tracing her cheekbone.
"So beautiful," he murmured. "How are you real?"
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
His hand moved to her hair. Touched it. Soft.
"I love your hair," he said. "Always wanted to touch it. So blonde. Like starlight. That's stupid. That's high-talk. But it's-" He kept touching. Gentle. Reverent. "-it's true."
"Daeron."
His hand dropped to her shoulder. Stayed there. Warm.
"You're tense," he said. "Always so tense. Like you're holding everything inside. Don't you get tired?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"You can relax," he said. "With me. You don't have to be ice queen. You can just be."
His hand moved down her arm. To her hand. He took it. Held it. Looked at their joined hands like-
"I really like you," he said quietly. "So much. And I wanted you to know. Wanted to-" He yawned suddenly. "-sorry. Wanted to tell you."
"You should sleep," she said.
"Don't want to sleep." He leaned against her. Head on her shoulder. Heavy. "Want to stay awake. With you. Want to-" Another yawn. "-talk to you."
"You can talk tomorrow."
"Promise?" He looked up at her. Pupils still blown. "Promise you'll still be here tomorrow?"
"I live here," she pointed out.
"Promise you won't regret this. Inviting me. Letting me be here."
"I won't regret it," she said. Meant it.
"Good." He closed his eyes. Still leaning against her. "That's good."
He was falling asleep. Right there. On her shoulder.
"Daeron," she said gently. "You need to lie down."
"Mmm." Not moving.
"Come on." She stood. Pulled him up. He came easily. Loose-limbed. Following her.
She led him to her bed. Small bed. Single bed. Pushed against the wall.
"Lie down," she said.
He did. Immediately. Face-first into her pillow. Then turned his head to look at her.
"You smell like books," he said. "And coffee. And you. Your bed smells like you."
"Sleep," she said.
"Will you stay?" He reached for her hand. Held it. "Please? Don't want to be alone."
"I'll be right here," she said. "On the couch. I'm not leaving."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Okay." He closed his eyes. Still holding her hand. "Calla?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you," he murmured. "For letting me in. For this. For-"
He was asleep.
In her bed. In her space.
She carefully extracted her hand. Covered him with her blanket. Stood there looking at him. He looked… young. Vulnerable. His face soft in sleep. Hair messy. Fully clothed on top of her covers.
She should... what? Wake him? Make him leave? Panic?
Instead, she turned off the light. Went to the couch. Lay down. Stared at the ceiling. And listened to him breathe.
***
She heard them before she saw them. Two students from their program. Standing by the philosophy section, voices low but not low enough.
"-Ice Queen and the Mad Prince-"
"-always together now-"
"-saw them at that exhibit last weekend-"
"-definitely fucking-"
"-has to be, why else would she tolerate him-"
Calla kept walking. Face impassive. Ice queen face. Reached their usual table where Daeron was already sitting, reading, coffee next to him and tea next to her seat because he'd started bringing her tea now, every session, remembered exactly how she took it.
"Heard that?" he asked without looking up.
"Yes."
"Mad Prince." He smiled slightly. "I like it. Very dramatic."
"It's ridiculous."
"Ice Queen and Mad Prince." He looked up. "Sounds like a fairy tale. The dark kind."
"It's gossip."
"It's accurate though." He leaned back. "You are ice queen. I am-" He gestured vaguely. "-mad. Or heading there. Prince is generous but I'll take it."
"You're not mad."
"Debatable." He sipped his coffee. "Does it bother you? The gossip?"
"No."
"Liar."
She looked at him sharply. He was smiling.
"I know you." He said it simply. Certainly. "We're friends, Calla. They can gossip all they want. We know what we are."
Friends. Right. That's what they were.
Even though he'd slept in her bed two weeks ago. Even though he'd touched her face and called her beautiful. Even though they'd started spending almost every evening together - museums, concerts, walks through winter Berlin - and she thought about him constantly and he apparently thought about her constantly and-
Friends.
"Yes," she said. "We're friends."
"Exactly." He went back to his reading. "Let them talk. Ice Queen and Mad Prince. We'll be legendary."
***
The Alte Nationalgalerie was nearly empty on a Tuesday afternoon. Just them and a few scattered tourists wandering through nineteenth-century paintings.
She'd been here before. Alone. Multiple times. But this was-
Different.
Seeing it with him. Watching him look at paintings with that intense focus he brought to everything. Reading every placard. Actually-
Thinking.
"This one," he said.
She knew it. Dark painting. Lonely painting. Tiny figure dwarfed by sky and sea and-
Emptiness.
"It's so bleak," he said. "But also beautiful? Is that wrong? To find bleakness beautiful?"
"No," she said. "That's Romanticism. The sublime. Beauty in terror. In loneliness."
"The sublime," he repeated. Looked at her. "You studied art history?"
"A little. Undergrad. Before I focused on psychology."
"Of course you did." He smiled. "Ice Queen knows everything."
"I don't-"
"Tell me about this." He gestured at the painting. "What makes it sublime?"
So she told him. He listened. Really listened. That way he had of making her feel like like her words mattered. Like she mattered.
When she finished, he was quiet for a moment. Then:
"Do you ever feel like that?" he asked. "Like the monk. Small against everything."
"Yes," she said honestly. "All the time."
"Me too." He looked back at the painting. "Especially at night. When I can't sleep. When everything is-quiet and I'm just-there. Alone with everything I'm trying not to think about."
"What are you trying not to think about?"
He was quiet. Then:
"Everything. My father. The fact that I'm probably fucking up my degree. The fact that I take pills to feel nothing because feeling everything is-too much." He paused. "You. I try not to think about you."
Her heart-
"Why?"
"Because when I think about you I think about-" He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind. Friend thoughts."
"Daeron-"
"Come on." He moved to the next painting. "Tell me about this one. Make me smarter."
She followed. And didn't ask again.
***
"You want to go to the ballet?" He'd looked at her like she'd suggested skydiving. "Like-actual ballet?"
"Swan Lake. I have-" She paused. Admission of vulnerability. "-I've never been. To a ballet. And I've always wanted to and-" She stopped. "Never mind. It's stupid."
"It's not stupid." He pulled out his phone. "When?"
"You don't have to-"
"When, Calla?"
"Saturday. Eight pm."
"I'm buying tickets."
"Daeron, no. You don't have to pay-"
"I'm buying tickets," he repeated. Firm. "You can buy next time. Deal?"
Next time. Like there would be-
More of this.
More museums. More concerts. More-
Them.
"Deal," she said.
***
Saturday night, they sat in the Staatsoper. Good seats. Expensive seats. She'd looked up the prices and nearly had a heart attack but he'd just-
Bought them. Like money was nothing. Which for him it probably was.
The lights dimmed. Music started. And she forgot. Forgot the price of tickets. Forgot the gossip. Forgot everything except-
The dancers. The music. Tchaikovsky building and building. The White Swan and the Black Swan and the tragedy unfolding in movement and-
It was perfect.
At intermission she couldn't speak.
"You okay?" Daeron asked quietly.
She nodded. Didn't trust her voice.
"Okay." He settled back in his seat. "We can just sit."
So they sat. In silence. In the intermission lights.
Second act started. The tragedy deepened. The Black Swan seducing the Prince. The White Swan abandoned. The inevitable ending.
She was crying.
His hand found hers. In the dark.
She held on. Through the entire final act. Through the curtain call. Through-
When the lights came up, she pulled away. Wiped her face.
"I'm not usually-" she started.
"I know," he said gently. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
They walked. Along Unter den Linden. No destination. Just-
Walking.
"Thank you," she said finally. "For coming. For the tickets. For-"
"You don't have to thank me." He stopped walking. Turned to face her. "I wanted to come. I wanted to share that with you. See what you loved. Experience it together."
"Why?"
The question came out before she could stop it.
"Why?" he repeated.
"Why do you do this? Spend all this time with me. Museums and concerts and ballet. Why-"
"Because I like you," he said simply. "Because you're my friend. Because spending time with you is-" He stopped. "-it's the best part of my week. Of my life. Just being with you."
Something in his eyes-
"We should go," she said. "It's late."
"Yeah. Okay."
He walked her home. They didn't hold hands. Didn't touch. Just-
Walked.
At her building, he stopped.
"Calla?"
"Yes?"
"Do you ever think-" He stopped. Shook his head. "Never mind."
"What?"
"Nothing. Goodnight."
She watched him walk away. Disappear into the Berlin night.
***
She shouldn't have come. Had known she shouldn't come even as she'd said yes when he'd texted three days ago - Marcus's friend's birthday thing Saturday, come with me, please - had known it was a terrible idea because being near him lately was impossible.
Ever since Christmas. Ever since the stockings and his eyes on her legs and the want that had hit her like lightning. Ever since she'd understood what desire actually felt like, what it meant to want someone so badly that just sitting next to them in the library made her hands shake, made her lose her train of thought mid-sentence, made her stupid.
Three months of this. Three months of pretending they were still friends while every accidental touch felt like fire.
And now she was at this party - too loud, too crowded, too much - standing in the corner watching him talk to Marcus, watching the way his hands moved when he explained something, watching his mouth form words and thinking about… stop. She needed to stop.
"Ice Queen looks like she wants to murder someone."
Calla turned. Sarah.
"I always look like that," Calla said.
"True." Sarah sipped her drink. "But tonight you look… different."
"I don't know what you're-"
"Please." Sarah laughed. "You've been staring at him for twenty minutes. And he's been staring at you. It's excruciating to watch. Just fuck already and put everyone out of their misery."
"We're friends."
"You're liars," Sarah corrected. "You're friends the way the Titanic had a small leak. Technically accurate. Wildly misleading."
Calla looked back at Daeron. Found him already looking at her. Their eyes met across the room and… there. That thing that happened every time. That pull. That… want.
He said something to Marcus. Started walking toward her.
"I'm leaving," Sarah said quickly. "Before the tension kills me."
She disappeared into the crowd.
Daeron reached Calla. Stood close. Too close. Close enough that she could smell him. Could feel the heat of him. Could-
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
They stood there. Not speaking. Just looking. At each other. Like they always did now. Like they couldn't help it.
"This party is terrible," he said finally.
"Yes."
"Want to leave?"
"We've been here thirty minutes."
"I know." His eyes were dark, intense. "I don't care. Do you want to leave?"
Yes. God, yes. Wanted to leave this party, wanted to be alone with him, wanted to stop pretending they were friends when every cell in her body was screaming… want.
"Yes," she said.
"Okay." He took her hand. "Let's go."
They walked out into March cold. Berlin at night. Streets still busy with people moving between bars, clubs, restaurants. Normal Saturday night. Normal except… everything.
He was still holding her hand. Had held it since they'd left the party. Threaded his fingers through hers. They walked in silence. No destination. Just away. Away from the party. Away from people. Away from pretending.
"Calla," he said finally.
She stopped walking. Turned to face him. They were on some side street. Quiet. Darker. Just them and the streetlights and this.
"I can't do this anymore," he said.
He kissed her.
His mouth on hers and oh. Oh. This was everything she'd imagined and nothing like she'd imagined, because imagination was nothing compared to this. His lips were soft and firm at once. His hand came up to cup her face, gentle, reverent, like she was precious. She made a small, involuntary sound. And he responded, kissing her deeper, harder. His other hand went to her waist, pulling her closer, against him. She could feel everything - his body, solid, real, here. Her hands went to his hair, fisted in it, pulling him closer. Always closer. Never close enough.
His tongue traced her bottom lip, and she opened, letting him in, tasting him. And it was perfect. Better than perfect. It was everything. She'd been cold for so long. Ice Queen. Frozen. And now she was burning.
They broke apart, both breathing hard, staring at each other.
“Fuck,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied.
“That was-”
“Yes,” she interrupted.
“Can we-” He didn’t finish, just kissed her again.
And this time it was desperate. Not gentle. Not reverent. Just need. His hands were in her hair, her hands clutching his jacket. Both of them were starving, like they'd been holding back for months and now that they’d started, they couldn’t stop.
His mouth moved to her neck, kissing, biting. She gasped, tilting her head to give him access, to give him whatever he wanted.
“Calla,” he said against her skin, “we should- we should go somewhere.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere. I just-” He kissed her again. “-I need to- I can’t do this on a street corner.”
“Okay.” She pulled back, looking at him. His hair was messy from her hands, his lips swollen, his eyes dark: dark with want, with need, with everything she was feeling.
“Your place or mine?” he asked.
“Yours,” she said. “I've never- I’ve never seen your place.”
“Okay.” He took her hand. “It’s not far. We can walk.”
“Okay.”
***
They kissed at every stoplight. They couldn’t help it. They would stop walking and just kiss. Against walls. Against closed shop doors. Against… anything. Like they couldn’t go more than thirty seconds without this.
“We’re being ridiculous,” she said between kisses.
“Don’t care.”
“People are staring.”
“Let them stare.” He kissed her again, deeper. “I don’t care what anyone thinks. I only care about this.”
“This?”
“You,” he corrected. “I only care about you.”
Her chest hurt. In the best way. In the way that meant feeling. Real feeling.
They kept walking, his arm around her now.
***
His apartment was expensive silence. High ceilings. Minimalist furniture. Everything precise and cold, clearly chosen by someone who’d never lived here, never existed here.
"My father," Daeron said, watching her take it in. He closed the door behind them. Locked it. "Or someone he hired. I don’t… I didn’t choose any of this."
She barely heard him. Could barely think past the want. The want that had been building for months. Since Christmas. Since before Christmas. Since always. Since the first time she’d seen him.
"Calla -" he started.
She kissed him. All the restraint she’d been holding for months gone. She kissed him like she was starving. Like she’d been starving. Like-
He made a sound. Surprised. Then he responded. Kissed her back just as hard. Just as desperate. His hands in her hair, pulling, hard enough to hurt. Perfect. She wanted it to hurt. Wanted proof this was real.
Her hands went to his shirt. Started pulling. Yanking.
"Fuck-" He pulled back, breathing hard. "Calla, wait-"
"No." She pulled at his shirt again. "No waiting. I’ve waited months. I’m done waiting."
He stopped. "I’ve never- not like this. Not with someone who matters. I don’t know if I can be -"
"I don’t care." She kissed him again. Bit his lip. Hard. "I don’t care. Just touch me."
So he did. Hands on her. Rough. Not gentle. Not careful. Exactly what she wanted.
He pulled her shirt over her head. Threw it somewhere. Then his hands on her waist. Her ribs. Moving up to-
"Fuck," he said again, staring at her. "You’re so-"
"Don’t talk." She reached for his jeans. "Bedroom. Now."
They barely made it to the bed, stumbling there, hands everywhere, mouths hungry. So hungry. Months of hunger.
His jeans came off. Hers. Underwear - both of them - gone, thrown aside, didn’t care where. Just needed to be naked. Needed nothing between them. Nothing.
He pushed her onto the bed. She pulled him down with her, and the weight of him - finally, finally the weight of him on top of her. Real. Solid. Here.
"I need -" His voice was wrecked. "-protection. I have- somewhere -"
"I’m on birth control," she gasped. "I’m clean. Are you-"
"Yes. Tested. Clean. But-"
"Then I don’t care." She pulled him closer. "I don’t care. I just need you."
He kissed her. Hard. Desperate. And his hand moved between her legs. Found her wet. So wet. Embarrassingly wet.
"Fuck," he said against her mouth. "You’re so-"
His fingers moved, circled, found the place that made her gasp. Made her arch against his hand. Made her-
"Inside," she managed. "I need- inside-"
Two fingers. No hesitation. Just there. Inside her. Moving. Finding rhythm. And she was gone. Already gone.
"Stop," She grabbed his wrist. "Stop. I’m going to- if you don’t stop-"
"Let me make you come first," he said.
"No." She pulled his hand away. "Together. I want together."
"Okay. Tell me if- anything -"
"Just do it," she said. "Please, just-"
He pushed inside. Not slow. Not careful. Just all at once. Filling her completely. And the feeling... oh. Oh god. So much better than before. Than the other times. The times that had felt like nothing. This felt like everything.
He groaned, dropped his head to her shoulder.
"Move," she demanded. "Move."
He did.
Her nails dug into his back. Both of them frantic. Like they couldn’t get close enough. Like they’d never be close enough.
"Harder," she heard herself say. "Please- harder -"
He complied. Thrust deeper. Harder. And the angle... there. Right there. That place inside that made her-
"Oh god," She couldn’t breathe. "there. Right there. Don’t- don’t stop -"
"Not stopping," he gasped. "Never, fuck… never stopping-"
His hands gripped her hips with bruising force, pulling her onto him with each thrust, using her body to find his release. And she let him. Let him take what he needed because she'd offered it, chosen it, wanted to give this. Even though she was making sounds she'd never made before - raw, animal sounds that emerged from her throat without conscious thought. Crying out with each impact because she couldn't control it anymore, couldn't maintain any pretense of composure. The Ice Queen was gone. Only Calla remained... naked and desperate and utterly undone.
His hand moved between them again. Found her. Circled. And the combination - him inside her, his fingers on her, the rhythm, the pressure, the-
She came. Hard. Harder than she’d ever… anything. Harder than anything she’d ever felt. Wave after wave of pleasure. So intense it was almost pain. She cried out. Couldn’t help it. Couldn’t control it. Control was gone. Ice queen was gone.
There was just this. This feeling. This him.
She felt him follow. Felt him tense. Heard her name - Calla, Calla - gasped against her neck. Felt him pulse inside her. Felt everything.
They collapsed together. Both shaking. Both destroyed.
"That was-" he started.
"Yes."
"Did I hurt you?"
"You did," she admitted. "A little. But I wanted it."
He lifted his head, looked at her. "You wanted it."
"Yes."
He kissed her. Soft this time. Sweet. And she felt. Felt herself falling. Deeper. Completely.
But she didn’t say it. Not yet. Too soon. Too real.
***
She woke needing water. Mouth dry. Body sore. Pleasantly sore.
Daeron was still asleep. Face peaceful. Breathing steady.
She got up carefully. Found his shirt on the floor, put it on, went to the kitchen. Poured water. Drank. Looked around his apartment in the early morning light. It was clean. Sterile. Like he didn’t actually live here.
She wandered back toward the bedroom. Noticed a door. Slightly open. Not the bedroom. Not the bathroom. A study?
She shouldn’t. Shouldn’t invade his privacy. But the door was open. Just slightly. She pushed it open.
A small room. Desk. Bookshelves. Normal except the desk. The desk was... oh.
Pills. Bottles of pills. Scattered across the surface. Some in orange prescription bottles. Some in baggies. Clear plastic bags. The kind you bought things in when you didn’t have a prescription. When you bought things from dealers.
She stepped closer, hands shaking. Read the prescription labels.
Heavy medications. Serious medications. The kind you took when you had serious things. Bipolar disorder. Severe anxiety. Things that needed - management. Real medical management.
And next to the prescription bottles... everything else. Xanax. No label. Just pills. White pills. Blue pills. Small bags of powder. She didn’t know what. Didn’t want to know.
Adderall. Lots of it. Different dosages. Ambien. Valium. Things she recognized and things she didn’t.
And at the back of the desk vodka. Nearly empty bottle. And another. And another. Three empty bottles. One half-full. All hidden here in this room. This room he never mentioned.
She stood there. Staring. Her hands shaking. This wasn’t recreational. This wasn’t just taking pills at parties. Just managing stress. Just coping. This was addiction. Real addiction. Serious addiction. The kind that needed help. Professional help. Rehab maybe. Definitely more than he’d told her.
He’d said... what had he said?
"I use to manage." "To feel less." "To function."
But this - this was more than managing. This was... This was every moment he wasn’t with her. Every night he wasn’t texting her. Every everything! He was using. Constantly. These medications - prescribed medications for serious mental illness - mixed with everything else. With street drugs and alcohol and... she was going to be sick. Actually sick.
She backed out of the room. Stood in the hallway shaking. He’d lied. Not directly. But by omission. By downplaying. By making it sound like… casual. When this was serious. This was life-or-death serious. This was mixing medications that shouldn’t be mixed. This was dangerous. He could die. Could overdose. Could take the wrong combination and just stop breathing.
And she’d thought - what? That she could save him? That her love would be enough? That... what?
She went back to the bedroom. Stood in the doorway. Watched him sleep. He looked peaceful. Beautiful. Young. Like someone who wasn’t sick.
But he was.
She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t be with someone who was actively destroying himself. Couldn’t watch him die. Because that’s what would happen. Eventually. If he kept this. He would overdose. Would mix the wrong things. Would die. And she couldn’t -
She got dressed. Quiet. Careful. Found her clothes scattered across his floor. Put them on with shaking hands.
She should wake him. Should tell him- what? That she’d found his pills? That she knew? That she was leaving?
She couldn’t. Couldn’t face him. Couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t see the person she’d made love to and reconcile that with... this. With the desk full of pills. The bottles. The everything.
She wrote a note. On paper from his desk. Her hand shaking so badly the words were barely legible.
I can’t do this. I’m sorry. - C
Then she left his apartment. Closed the door quietly behind her.
And walked out into Berlin morning. Cold. March cold. The city waking up around her.
And tried not to think about his face when he wakes up. When he finds her gone. When he reads the note. Tried not to think about the fact that she’d just had the best night of her life and the worst morning. Tried not to think about any of it.
Just walked. Away from his apartment. Away from him. Away from everything.
And felt nothing. Ice queen. That’s what she was.