Dangerously yours

Elena — This Isn't Safe

I tell myself it doesn't matter.

Whatever happened in that club two nights ago — whatever that moment was, that look, that strange pull I didn't fully understand — was just that. A moment. The kind that only exists in loud music and dim light, that feels more significant than it actually is because everything does in that kind of atmosphere.

Real life doesn't work like that.

Real life is early mornings and deadlines. Lecture halls that smell faintly of dust and ink. Professors who move too fast through slides and the constant, quiet pressure to do well. To not waste the opportunity I fought so hard to get.

So I focus. Or at least, I try to.

"Elena?"

I blink. My professor has said my name twice, I realise, "Yes?"

A pause. A faint smile from the front of the room. "Would you like to share your thoughts, or should I assume you disagree with everything I've said?"

A few students laugh. I straighten in my seat and push past the embarrassment.

"I don't disagree," I say, steadying my voice. "I just think the model ignores how unpredictable people actually are. You can't always calculate decisions based on logic when emotions are involved."

He tilts his head. Considering.

"And yet, systems rely on predictability," he replies. "Without it, there's no structure."

I hold his gaze for a second. "Maybe that's the problem."

A longer pause this time. More thoughtful, "Interesting," he says, and turns back to the board.

The class moves on. I barely hear the rest of it. Unpredictable.

My mind pulls up the image I've been trying to ignore all morning. Dark eyes. Steady. Watching me like he had already decided something I hadn't been consulted on.

Luca.

I look down at my notes like they can anchor me back into something normal. They don't. This isn't my world, I remind myself. And whatever he is, he doesn't belong in mine.

By the time I get back to the apartment, the quiet has settled in.

Too quiet.

I drop my bag by the door, slip off my shoes, and glance around the living room. No music. No voices. No one is arguing over something stupid or laughing too loudly for no reason.

Strange.

I walk further in and pause when I hear something from the kitchen. Low voices. Tense. "Elena's back," one of my roommates says quickly, and I hear the shift immediately — the way a conversation changes shape when it doesn't want to be heard.

I step into the doorway.

All three of them are there. Too still. Too aware, "What?" I look between them. "Why do you all look like that?"

"No reason," one of them says. A little too fast. "We were just talking."

"About?"

Another glance passes between them. Then a shrug. Casual. Force

"Nothing important."

I don't push it. Not yet. But I notice, I always notice.

Later, I'm cross-legged on my bed, laptop open, notes scattered around me the way they always are when I'm pretending to study.

I'm not reading. My eyes keep drifting to my phone. It's been silent all day. Which shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter. I pick it up anyway, unlocking it before I can talk myself out of it.

Nothing. No message. No missed call. No anything. I put it back down.

"Why do you care?" I mutter. I don't. I can't. That would be stupid.

Dangerous, in a way I can't fully name.

Because there's something about him that doesn't feel normal. Not in a dramatic way, not in a way I can point to and say, " This is wrong. Just off. Like a puzzle piece that doesn't fit, but you can't see why until you step back far enough.

I haven't stepped back yet. That's probably the problem.

The knock comes just after ten.

I frown, push myself off the bed, and walk toward the living room. One of my roommates is already halfway to the door, but I get there first.

"I'll get it."

I don't know why I say that. I don't know why my chest tightens slightly as I reach for the handle.

I open it.

Luca.

Standing there like he has every right to be. I blink once, caught off guard despite everything I told myself earlier.

"How did you—?"

"Hi," he says, cutting me off. Calm. Steady, like always. I stare at him for a second, then step out into the hallway, pulling the door halfway closed behind me so my roommates can't hear.

"You can't just show up here," I say, keeping my voice low.

"I didn't just show up."

"That's exactly what you did.

He tilts his head slightly, studying me in that quiet way that makes me feel like I'm being read without permission.

"I asked around."

My eyes narrow, "That's not better."

"It worked."

I let out a short breath and fold my arms."You're unbelievable."

"Not really."

A pause.

Not uncomfortable. Just charged.

I become aware of how close he's standing. The way the hallway light catches the sharp lines of his face. The quiet confidence in the way he carries himself — as the world adjusts around him, not the other way around.

It irritates me a little too much.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

He doesn't answer immediately. And for the first time since I met him, there's something almost uncertain in the silence that follows.

Then—

"I wanted to see you."

Simple. Direct. No performance. That catches me off guard more than anything else could have. I search his expression for something — anything — that would make it easier to dismiss. I don't find it.

"That doesn't make sense," I say. Softer than I mean to.

"Why not?", "Because you don't know me."

"I'm trying to." I hesitate.

That pull again. Subtle. Unwanted. Real, I shake my head slightly, as I can physically push it away.

"You don't even know if I want that."

His gaze doesn't leave mine.

"If you didn't," he says quietly, "you could've closed the door already."

My breath catches. Just for a second, because he's not wrong.

And I hate that.

I straighten slightly, pull together something that resembles composure.

"Or maybe I'm just being polite."

"Are you?"

The question sits between us. Too close. Too honest.

I exhale slowly, tighten my grip on the edge of the door.

"This isn't safe," I say. The words come out before I can stop them. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just true. His expression doesn't change.

But something in his eyes does. "Safe," he repeats. Like he's testing the word.

"Yes."

A beat. Then, quieter — more certain: "You don't belong in whatever world you're in. I can tell. He holds my gaze for a long second.

"You're right," he says.

I don't expect that. The agreement throws me, and before I can respond, he steps back slightly — just enough to shift the moment, to put a breath of distance between us.

"But I'm here anyway."

I watch him. My chest tightens in a way I don't like, because I understand now what he's actually saying. That's not reassurance. That's a warning.

And the worst part?

I'm not sure I want to listen.