Chapter 110

Abigail tapped the end of her pen against her notebook, the smirk still tugging at her lips. She couldn’t resist. Sliding her phone back into her lap, she angled it under the desk and typed quickly.

Abigail: Babe… I smirked at her and she literally tripped over her own sentence 😂 I think I broke the professor.

She hit send, fighting the urge to laugh out loud when she remembered the exact look on Ms. Shields’ face.

Not even thirty seconds later, her phone buzzed in her hand. Emma, of course.

Emma: Good. Just remember, she might get to look, but I’m the one who gets to touch 😘

Abigail bit back a grin, her chest going warm. Her thumbs flew again:

Abigail: You’re damn right. You’re the only one I want looking at me like that.

Another buzz.

Emma: You better finish class before you make me drive down there and kiss you stupid in front of everyone.

That one made Abigail laugh under her breath. A couple of students glanced her way, but she ducked her head like she was rereading her notes. Her grin lingered, though. Emma had a way of turning even the weird tension of her professor’s attention into something light, grounding.

She slid the phone face-down on her notebook, lifted her chin again, and met Ms. Shields’ gaze across the room. This time, instead of smirking, she just let the corner of her mouth twitch like she was hiding a private joke.

And in a way, she was—because only she and Emma knew what was really running through her mind.

The lecture kept rolling—scales, intervals, the basics of building harmony—but Abigail wasn’t catching half of it. Not when she could feel Ms. Shields’ gaze flicking her way every few minutes. She tried to keep her eyes on her notes, but she didn’t need to look up to know when it was happening. The weight of it pressed in like the bassline of a song, steady and unshakable.

She wasn’t the only one picking up on it.

The guy a seat over leaned across the space between them, just enough that his words wouldn’t carry further than her ear. He had a half-zipped hoodie, earbuds dangling from his pocket, and a pair of drumsticks sticking out of his bag like a calling card.

“Yo,” he muttered, his tone low but edged with amusement. “I think the professor’s into you.”

Abigail’s pen paused mid-scribble. Slowly, deliberately, she finished the chord symbol she’d started, underlined it twice, then tapped the tip of her pen against the notebook. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Instead, she smirked—small, crooked, the kind of smile that said I already know.

The guy gave a quiet chuckle under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “For real, though,” he whispered, leaning back in his chair.

Abigail kept writing, letting the silence do all the talking.

Inside, though, her thoughts were far from quiet.
Great. So it’s not just in my head. Other people are picking up on it too. Fantastic.

Her sneaker started tapping against the tile floor, a rhythm out of sync with the lecture but perfectly matched to the energy thrumming in her chest. She let her smirk deepen just a fraction, imagining the look on Emma’s face when she shared this later.

Emma wouldn’t just roll her eyes—she’d fire back something sharp, playful, and possessive. Probably with about three heart emojis and a “She can look all she wants, but she doesn’t get to touch.”

The thought alone warmed Abigail’s chest, softening the edge of the weird attention she was under.

She leaned back in her seat, casual as anything, and scribbled a half-drawn guitar in the margin of her notes.

Yeah, she thought, lips quirking up again. Emma’s gonna love this story.

The scrape of chairs and shuffle of backpacks filled the room as students filed out, chatter echoing down the hall. Abigail took her time packing up her notebook, already sensing it—Ms. Shields’ eyes on her again.

“Abigail,” Ms. Shields said lightly, her voice cutting through the noise. “Could you stay a moment?”

Abigail slung her bag over her shoulder and approached the front, her steps steady, though she already braced herself for… something.

Up close, Ms. Shields smiled—polished, but not enough to mask the slight pause before she spoke. “You carry yourself differently. Confident. Like you know people are watching. It’s… captivating.”

The last word slipped out like a note she hadn’t meant to play. Her lips pressed together, and she cleared her throat, turning to stack a pile of sheet music as if the movement could erase what she’d just said. “Sorry. That was… unprofessional. I meant—focus like that is valuable here.”

Abigail’s smirk flickered for just a second, but she kept her expression neutral, not giving away the little spark of amusement—or the fact she’d already decided Emma was going to love this story.

“Got it,” Abigail said simply, giving a polite nod before turning to leave.

Once the hallway swallowed her up, she pulled her phone out and typed fast:

Abigail: Baby… she literally just told me I was “captivating” and then backpedaled so fast I thought she was gonna fall over. 😏

It only took a beat before her phone buzzed.

Emma: CAPTIVATING?? Oh, she’s bold bold. 😂

Another buzz, another message:

Emma: Don’t forget—you’re only captivating to ME. She can trip over her own words all semester if she wants.

Abigail chuckled under her breath, sliding the phone back into her pocket.

The hallway spilled her out into the busy quad, voices echoing between brick buildings. Abigail walked with her phone still warm in her hand, Emma’s texts lighting up her mood like sunshine.

Instead of heading straight to her next class, she detoured to the parking lot. The familiar shape of her guitar case waited in the backseat, and just seeing it made her shoulders loosen. She grabbed it along with a granola bar from her bag, shutting the door with her hip.

The city air was crisp, humming with the buzz of campus life. She found a quieter corner near the edge of the music building—half-shaded by a line of trees, a wide stone bench tucked out of the main flow of foot traffic. Perfect.

She unzipped the case and lifted the guitar into her lap, the weight fitting against her body like an old friend. With a soft strum, the first notes cut through the ambient noise, warm and rich.

She settled into it, fingers finding chords like second nature, the granola bar forgotten beside her. Students walked by in clusters, some glancing her way, others too lost in conversation to notice. Abigail didn’t mind. The guitar was her space, her calm.

As she played, her eyes half-closed, she got the sudden, prickling sense of being watched. The hairs on her arms lifted, that subtle awareness crawling along her skin.

Her head lifted, scanning—trees, windows of the building, a few students at a distance crossing the quad. No one obvious.

She waited a beat longer. Nothing.

Exhaling, she shook it off, smirk tugging her lips. Maybe I’m just paranoid after class.

Her fingers found the strings again, sliding into a melody Emma loved, and the tension eased out of her shoulders. Whatever it was—real or imagined—it wasn’t going to stop her from playing.

The notes drifted upward, confident and unhurried, weaving into the afternoon air like they belonged there. And still… somewhere in the back of her mind, that feeling lingered, as if unseen eyes were still fixed on her.

Abigail let her fingers dance over the strings, lost in the melody. It was the song Emma always made her play late at night, soft and steady, the kind that made Emma’s eyes get misty before she laughed it off.

The sound echoed through the shaded courtyard, warm enough that a couple students slowed their pace to listen before moving on. Abigail hardly noticed them. She was in her own little bubble—until that feeling washed over her again. The weight of someone watching.

This time, when she lifted her head, she saw her.

Ms. Shields.

The professor was crossing the path just a few yards away, books hugged tight against her chest, her stride purposeful. But when her eyes found Abigail, her steps slowed. Stopped.

For a moment, it was just the two of them, the notes floating in the air like a bridge between. Abigail didn’t stop playing—she only shifted her gaze, steady and unflinching, holding Ms. Shields’ eyes while her hands kept moving along the guitar.

The professor’s expression softened, surprise flickering across her features, then something else—something like admiration. Maybe curiosity. Maybe both.

Neither of them spoke.

The eye contact stretched a second too long, enough that Abigail felt the corner of her mouth curve into the faintest smirk. It was subtle, controlled, but deliberate.

Ms. Shields blinked, cleared her throat, and adjusted the books in her arms. Without another word, she gave a small nod—something between polite acknowledgment and something deeper—then walked on, heels clicking against the stone path.

Abigail let the last chord ring out, the sound drifting into the open air. She exhaled, shoulders loosening, about to pack her guitar back up—when a familiar voice called out.

“Okay, so it was you I heard.”

Abigail glanced up to see Megan jogging over, a water bottle in one hand and her practice jersey already clinging to her.

“You play out here and expect nobody to notice?” Megan teased, plopping down on the bench beside her. “Half the campus is gonna fall in love with you if you keep that up.”

Abigail laughed softly, slipping her pick into her pocket. “I was just killing time between classes.”

“Well,” Megan said, taking a long sip of water, “you should come kill time with me. I’m heading to the gym—practice before our next game. You ever seen Columbia’s women’s team work out up close?”

Abigail raised a brow, amused. “You’re really trying to recruit me as your audience right now?”

“Absolutely,” Megan grinned, bumping her shoulder against Abigail’s. “Besides, if you hang around the gym, I’ll show you the ropes. You’ll know where everything is before your first day even really gets rolling. No wandering lost like a freshman cliché.”

Abigail smirked. “Tempting.”

Megan stood, bouncing the ball she’d been carrying like she couldn’t help herself. “Come on. Guitar girl one minute, courtside VIP the next. Let’s go.”

Abigail slid her guitar back into its case, grabbing the snack she’d left on the bench, and stood with a shake of her head. “Alright, fine. But only if you promise not to make me run drills.”

Megan flashed a grin over her shoulder as she started walking toward the gym. “Deal. Unless you want to.”