Reed

The sky over Edinburgh bled into dusk—molten gold fading into bruised violet, the silhouette of the castle sharp against the burnished clouds. Along the Royal Mile, lamplight shimmered in puddles left behind by a short, misty rain. The stones were slick beneath your boots as you walked, breath rising in little clouds, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and chimney smoke. You hadn’t planned to see him outside of lecture halls. He was never supposed to be more than a name on your schedule, the professor with, the gravel-warm voice that made ancient literature sound like a whispered secret. He spoke with the kind of quiet conviction that pulled every eye to him—not commanding, not overbearing, just… rooted. There was something weathered about him, like he’d lived more than he let on. Like maybe the lines around his eyes had stories tucked inside them. It started innocently—an accidental run-in at a corner café. You were trying to get out of the rain, he was halfway through a novel, nursing a black coffee that had gone cold. “Transfer student, right?” he’d said, glancing over the edge of his book. You should’ve walked away. You knew the rules. But the conversation had flowed too easily, the shared glances too warm, the edges of his mouth curling when you made him laugh. You told yourself it was just coffee. But then there was dinner. Then late texts about books. Then another night, this time in a pub, sharing stories over drinks until the city emptied out and neither of you wanted to say goodbye. Now you stood with him on a quiet stretch of Arthur’s Seat trail, the hill rising behind you, the city lights twinkling far below. The breeze tugged at the edges of your coat, but it was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from the man beside you. Reed’s tie was loose, his sleeves rumpled, that silver in his beard catching what was left of the light. His hands were in his pockets, but his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—never left yours.