Page 33 of Carved in Ruin

I stand, smoothing down the front of my coat, and make my way to the exit. Outside the lecture hall, a small table is setup with snacks and drinks. My head feels light, and I pause, scanning the spread. A small chocolate bar catches my eye. I pick it up, unwrapping it as I lean against the table.

“I noticed.” a voice says, pulling my attention.

The professor from earlier is standing there, sliding a slice of cheesecake onto his plate. Up close, he looks older, maybe mid-40s, with faint lines around his eyes that only make him more attractive. His dark hair is neatly combed, his jaw sharp and clean-shaven. He’s handsome in a composed, self-assured way that’s rare.

My brows furrow at his words. “Excuse me?”

“That tear,” he says, gesturing vaguely as he adjusts his plate. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen physics move someone to tears.”

I blink, then laugh lightly. “Oh, no, that wasn’t—” I cut myself off. I can’t tell him I was crying at my life. “I just really love physics,” I finish lamely, the corner of my mouth quirking upward.

“Clearly,” he says, his tone teasing but kind. “It’s refreshing. Most people don’t think beyond the equations on the board. It’s rare to see someonefeelit.”

“Well,” I reply, glancing at the half-unwrapped chocolate in my hand, “it’s… always been a passion of mine. I just haven’t had much time for it lately.”

“That’s a shame,” he says. “The world needs more people with passion for the subject.”

I shrug, feeling oddly seen under his gaze. “Life gets in the way, I guess.”

“Doesn’t it always?” He smiles, then sets his plate down and pulls a card from his pocket. “Here.”

I hesitate before taking it, the smooth cardstock cool between my fingers. His name and contact information are printed in neat, minimalist lettering.

“If you ever have questions about anything—physics or otherwise—don’t hesitate to reach out.”

“Thank you.”

“May I?” he asks, gesturing toward my phone.

It takes a moment for me to realize what he’s asking. I hand it to him, and he punches in his number before pressing something. His phone rings in his pocket, he has my number now. Smart.

“There,” he says, handing my phone back. “Now you can’t lose it.”

I tuck the card into my coat pocket, feeling a faint smile tug at my lips. “Thanks… um—”

“Elliot,” he supplies, extending a hand.

“Mila,” I reply, shaking it briefly.

“Nice to meet you, Mila,” he says. Then he picks up his plate, nods once, and disappears into the crowd.

I watch him go. It’s not often someone speaks to me like that—unguarded, as if I’m just another person in the room. For a fleeting moment, I feel almost… ordinary. I like it.

The deep rumble of Anatoly’s voice behind me startles me, making me jump.

“Rafael won’t like this,” he says.

I don’t bother turning around. “I don’t care,” I reply. My hands slide into my pockets, seeking warmth.

We walk in silence toward the car, my boots crunching against the gravel, his heavier steps following just behind. The quiet stretches until he speaks again.

“You know he’ll burn the world down if you actually call him.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “He should focus on his future wife,” I say, my tone clipped. “I’m just his sister-in-law. He shouldn’t care what I do.”

A low growl rumbles from him, sharp and animalistic, and I stop abruptly, spinning to face him.

“So sensitive when Layla comes up, are we?” I taunt, raising a brow.

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