The next night I stayed late again. Not because my thesis needed it. I could have finished at home. But I kept thinking about Rafe. The way he moved in the empty hall. The quiet nod he gave me. That rag in my bag still smelled like him when I pulled it out that morning.

I set up in the same spot. Front row center with my laptop open, but my eyes kept checking the clock. Around eleven, I heard the wheels squeak down the hall. 

The door opened. 

There he was, pushing the bucket, same uniform, same steady focus.

He saw me and paused for a second. Then he...