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“Do you always just pop up like that in the dark,” I say, crossing my arms, “or is this some kind of special intimidation tactic?”

A slight smile crosses his lips. “If I wanted to intimidate you,” he says calmly, “you wouldn't be talking.”

“Confident much, Mister Caldwell?”

"Lucid actually,” he replies.

I look away first, walking past him. “Let’s make this quick.”

When we sit down at the table where his jacket is lying, I realize that nothing is on it, no files, no papers. “Let's keep it simple,” he says, adjusting his glasses and pushing the chair back so I can sit next to him. Simple, coming from him? I'm not entirely convinced.

“A game,” he says.

He leans back against the edge of the table, his arms folding loosely across his chest.

I narrow my eyes at him, unsettled by how calm he looks. “What kind?”

“I make an observation about you.” His dark blue eyes stay on me.

I let out a sigh that sits between disbelief and amusement. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“That hardly seems fair, don’t you think?”

A soft look touches his expression. “I never said it would be, Miss Vitelli.”

There’s something about the way he holds my gaze that makes it feel less stressful and more of a challenge. “And then?” I ask, waiting for him to explain the next step.

“If it’s true, I get a point. Then we switch. If you make a correct observation, that’s a point for you.”

I cross my arms, trying to ignore the strange curiosity settling beneath my ribs. “And if I lose?”

His eyes flicker over my face for the briefest moment before returning to my neck. “You work with me.”

I tilt my head. “And if I win?”

For the first time, he seems to hesitate, then his mouth curves into a confident smile. “I’ll let you finish your year without bothering you with this.”

“I’m a very good liar,” I say. “Who’s to say I won’t tell you you’re wrong every single time?”

He doesn't reply immediately, he watches me, long enough that I become aware of every blink of his eyes and everything they land on.

Then slowly, his tattooed arm moves between us, the veins along his hand pulsing as his fingers curl around the base of my chair, between my legs. He pulls it closer, until the chair shifts and I’m turned fully toward him, our knees brushing now.

Then he settles back, shoulders relaxed, legs falling open as he makes room for me.

“If we’re going to play,” he says, resting his forearms on his knees, “I expect my student to have enough integrity to answer honestly.”

I hold his gaze as I lean back. “Why would I make this easier for you?”

His eyes don’t leave mine, "You wouldn’t even if you tried.”

My eyebrows furrow as I tilt my head slightly. “And why is that?”

“Because I’d know.”

A small laugh escapes me as I speak again, “That sounds suspiciously vague.”