Chris comes over in the evening. He's freshly showered, smelling of mint shampoo, and he's wearing a grey jumper that makes his blue eyes look bright. Emma lets him into the flat since my hands are filled with raw chicken, and I tilt my face up, accepting a kiss. His damp blond hair tickles my cheek. Behind us, Emma makes a retching noise.

"Do you mind?" She frowns. "This is a public space."

Chris smiles. It's the sort of smile that I love — the conspiratorial one, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar — and my stomach flips over. Even now, a year later, I can't believe how lucky I am.

A large part of me suspects that Chris is only with me because I cook a damn good lemon chicken, but you know what? I'll take it.

"I missed you." He kisses me again. "And your cooking."

"Whoa," Emma says, holding up a hand. "Slow down, Casanova." She grabs a packet of crisps off of the counter, shielding her eyes as she backs out of the kitchen. "Okay. Safe to resume, now."

I put Chris to work chopping onions to keep him from distracting me, but he still kisses my neck each time that he passes by. By the time that we're eating, my whole body feels like a live wire. Chris, on the other hand, is totally consumed by food. It's only been a week, but I forgot how much that boy can eat. He's like a cow with four stomachs.

I make a mental note to buy a second chicken just for him next time.

Or, alternatively, a sharper knife so that I can fight him for the last piece.

Chris does the washing up. I lean against the counter, listening to him recount a story about one of the other boys on the rugby team, half a watermelon, and some firecrackers. He's halfway through the story when I realize that he's saying my name.

"Sorry." I blink. "What were you saying?"

"Everything okay, babe?" Chris cups my chin with soapy hands, frowning as he examines my face. "You look tired."

"It's the presentation," I lie. "It's tomorrow."

And the fact that I inhaled half a river yesterday.

I want to tell Chris about what happened. I really, really do. But Chris is also six-foot-four and a competitive rugby player. I don't like Harry, but I'm also pretty sure Poppy would kill me if Chris throttled him to death with his bare hands.

"Let's go to bed." Chris's face softens. "I'll stay with you, if you want."

Warmth unfurls in the pit of my stomach. I press my hand to his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat through the wool of his jumper, a steady drumbeat under my palm. Being with Chris is like wearing my favorite pair of jeans: it's soft and cozy and comforting. And I never, ever want to give him up.

Slowly, I press my hand under his jumper. Chris's skin is fever hot to the touch, and he shivers as I trace a slow circle over his heart.

"You know what?" I kiss his jaw. "Maybe I'm not that tired after all."

"You're not?"

"No." I lift his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. "But you'll need to make sure it stays that way."

I can feel Chris's heartbeat like a staccato under my fingers. His jaw is working, and his hand wraps reflexively around my hip, his fingers digging into the bone. Heat pools in my stomach. I love that I have this effect on him. I can feel how much Chris wants me, the full length of him straining against his jeans, but what I love most of all is that even now, when we haven't seen each other in days, Chris would let me go to sleep if I wanted to. Even though he's turned on. Even though I'm teasing him.

And I am teasing him.

"Liv." He groans as my hand drifts further down. "Please."

I smile. "Unless you're too tired?"

Chris's eyes darken. A moment later, I'm swept off the ground, and then we're careening towards my room, a tangle of legs and arms and teeth. And not for the first time today, I think about how lucky I am to have Chris.

To be loved unconditionally.

I wake up with a pinching feeling in my chest.

I frown, pressing my hand over my sternum. It feels like a tiny pin is being repeatedly stuck into the fleshy underside of my heart. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's definitely annoying. And it's the last thing that I need three hours before my presentation.

Next to me, Chris is sleeping soundly, one hand pillowed under his rumpled blond hair. I pause. Should I wake him? But, no; he's still exhausted from his tournament. And besides, the pinching is probably just nerves.

I dress quickly, pulling on black jeans, a white silk blouse, and a checked jacket. I'm hopping up and down in the hall, trying to wriggle in to my boots, when Poppy emerges from the kitchen carrying a steaming mug of tea and a banana.

She cocks her head. "Is this some sort of interpretive dance?"

"Shut-up."

"The Slinky Snake?" Poppy suggests. "The Leaping Lizard?"

I yank on a boot, pausing to give her an exasperated look. "You really love reptiles this morning, don't you?" For the first time, I notice that Poppy is dressed in a lacy white dress and heels. Her dark hair is pulled back in a sleek chignon, and I raise an eyebrow.

"Tea with the Queen today?"

"Just my mother." Poppy winces. "Theo, Harry, and I are driving home for the weekend."

Well. At least that means I won't have to stare at Harry's condescending smirk as I discuss kelpies through the ages. Still, I frown.

"It's a Monday."

"I know," Poppy sighs. "Who puts their engagement party on a Wednesday?"

I almost drop my second shoe. "Bates is engaged?"

"Not Harry," Poppy says. "His older brother. Teddy." She takes a sip of her tea. "You seem awfully interested, though."

"I'm not," I say, although I can't help but be disturbed that Poppy is right; I do, oddly, seem to care. It must be a cruel side-effect of saving his life. I pluck the banana out of Poppy's hand, ignoring her protests as I bite into it. "Will you tell Chris I've gone to class when he wakes up?"

"Oh." Her expression clears. "You have that presentation today, right?"

"Don't remind me." I polish off the banana, tossing the peel into the bin. "I'm going to stop at Costa and get myself a coffee on the way. To calm my nerves."

Poppy raises an eyebrow. "Caffeine is a stimulant. You know that, right?"

"Coffee is my best friend," I say, opening the door. "Don't insult her like that."

Poppy sticks her lower lip out, standing in the door frame as I descend the short flight of steps to the pavement. All around us, Edinburgh's grey mist wraps around my body like soup, nestling in the folds of my wool scarf. "I thought I was your best friend."

"Maybe someday," I call, and Poppy makes an uncharacteristically rude gesture as I climb into the car.

The pinching is growing worse.

I park the car by George Square Park, rubbing at my chest. It feels like two elastic bands are wrapped around my heart, becoming tighter each time that I breathe. I'm tempted to pull a sickie, but then I give myself a mental shake.

No.

My presentation isn't graded, but Professor Tilney — Noah — doesn't know me that well yet. If I skive today, he'll think that I couldn't be bothered to put one together. And I'll have wasted six hours in the library formatting a photo of a kelpie.

I'm doing this.

I swallow the dregs of my cappuccino. Then I kick the car door open, wincing as my chest twinges. I check my watch as I ascend the steps of the medieval history building, passing framed photos of famous alumni. 8:55am. I'm early.

Anna is the only other student to arrive ahead of schedule. Her red hair is pulled into a topknot, and there's a pencil stuck through the side of it. She offers me a piece of fruit chewing gum as I deposit my books on to the table, but I shake my head. I already feel like I might pass out; I don't want to choke on chewing gum, too.

At the opposite end of the table, Noah frowns. "Are you alright, Ms. Campbell?"

"Fine."

"You look a little..." He hesitates. "Well. You're feeling okay though?"

I nod, but Noah looks unconvinced. He's dressed in a black turtleneck today, with a pair of thick black-framed glasses sitting on his nose. With his blond hair and dark shirt, Noah looks a bit like Chris, actually. A Chris that had tumbled into a preppy clothing catalogue and spent a lot of time in old libraries.

Noah climbs to his feet. "Do you need to use my laptop?" He must have seen my blank look, because he clarifies. "For your presentation?"

I shake my head. "I brought my own."

Noah offers me a USB cable. I focus on plugging the end of the cord into my laptop socket, trying to calm my breathing. My vision has gone a funny color. Black dots swim at the corner of my eyes, and I can hear a faint ringing in my ears. My chest feels like it's on fire. I'm dimly aware of Noah saying my name, and I blink.

"Yes?"

"Maybe you should sit down." His blue eyes are concerned. "You look really pale."

The sides of his face have begun to stretch in weird ways. I feel hot and cold all over, like I've been plunged into a pit of lava and then arctic water. My hands are still holding the USB cord, but they no longer feel like they're attached to my arms. My lungs are being crushed, pressed into a tiny, tiny box inside of my body.

"Ms. Campbell?"

I can't breathe. Anna's chair scrapes back.

"Livvy?"

I feel my legs give way. And then I'm falling sideways, tumbling towards the blackness that opens up to swallow me. Someone is shouting — a hoarse male voice — but it sounds like it's coming from inside of me, crawling through my veins and blood and bones. And just before I black out, I realize who it is.

Harry Bates.