“Hey, good morning, Penny. How are you?”

From behind the reception desk of the student union, Nick rose warmly to his feet, tilting his head in greeting.

The university I attended prided itself on hosting some of the finest student organisations in the country, spanning every faculty and field. Nearly half of the school’s administrative operations relied on the student union, and some graduates even chose to remain after earning their degrees, working as full-time union staff for a rather generous monthly salary.

Nick Adamson was one such fixture. His hair was a tumble of natural auburn curls, his face dusted with fine freckles. Short and sturdily built, he possessed an uncanny knack for reading people, along with just the right measure of playful flamboyance, which made him immensely popular in the union. He was the first friend I made on campus, and thanks to his extensive network, my early attempts at socialising had been spared a great deal of unnecessary trouble.

“Can you help me find the one in charge of the student records database—” I rested my hands on the counter that stood at shoulder height, pausing a moment as I searched for a name. “—Wilson?”

“Wilson…? He’s been called away by Professor Tristan. Apparently, he’s under investigation for altering student attendance records without permission.”

Nick dropped back into his chair with a shrug, clicking his pen idly and flashing me a quick wink. “You’d better send him a very fine gift.”

“All right, all right.” I raised a hand in mock surrender. “Don’t give me that *I’m-about-to-prosecute-you* look—I haven’t skipped a single class today.”

He gave a lopsided grin that did little to suggest belief.

“I’m truly happy for you.”

I ignored the deliberate note of doubt in his voice, glanced around to make sure we were unobserved, then leaned across the counter and lowered my voice. “I need to look up Ian Lys Arthur McCoy’s file. Since Wilson’s not here, I’m betting that *you*—the incomparable Nick—can find someone to help me.”

As expected, the direct and unvarnished flattery hit its mark. Nick tossed his pen onto the open registry book, reached for the telephone, and brought the receiver to his lips.

Half an hour later, I was seated in a swivel chair inside a small office, mouse in hand, idly scrolling through a web page while regaling Nick with the latest dramatic developments between Arthur, Matthew, and myself.

“Judging by his family income report, he shouldn’t need to hold down this many temporary jobs.”

I switched to the desktop, opened a blank document, copied each of his listed workplaces, and pasted them in before continuing on to the next section of his file. “Oh… wait, wait—he went to the same secondary school as I did. How is it I have no memory of him at all?”

Nick glanced at the screen, then quickly shifted his gaze back to me, urging, “You were just saying the alarm went off—what happened after that?”

At the student dorms, smoke alarms were tripped every other day—most often by cigarettes or overzealous cooking. Open flames were a rarity. In the beginning, I used to trail down with the crowd to investigate, but by now I barely spared them a thought. I only jumped at the first peal of the alarm, then pinched my ear against the ringing, phone still in hand, waiting for him to continue.

“And then—”

“He ran off?” Nick cut in eagerly before I could finish, guessing at his own conclusion.

“I wish he had.” Reluctantly tearing my attention from Arthur’s file, I dredged up yesterday’s events. “As we were heading downstairs, we ran into Matthew. What could I say? I had to tell him Arthur was there to fix my plumbing…”

I sighed at the memory, tapping my temple lightly with a curled finger.

“In the end, he shoved me at Matthew and walked away without a backward glance. Clearly, in his eyes, Matthew is far more captivating than I’ll ever be…”

Nick muffled a laugh behind his hand. “You must have been under so much pressure.”

“How could I not be?” I countered, lowering my voice. “You know I’m hopeless with people like him… But he’s Matthew’s best friend, and—let’s be honest—with a face like that and a body to match, what was I supposed to do?”

“You truly are a shallow woman,” Nick remarked with unvarnished bluntness.

“Yes, I am shallow—hence my desire to sleep with him.”

I admitted it without the faintest trace of shame, then turned back to the screen, eyes fixed on that dizzying cascade of English letters. “Not bad… look—thank heaven he isn’t a Christian, and there’s no ‘purity ring’ on his finger.”

Some details—like past medical history or criminal records—were beyond the student council’s authority to access. Still, I doubted Arthur suffered from any deep-seated ailment or bore the stain of an arrest record, so I let the matter rest, quelling my curiosity and printing the information I had already copied to a document. I read it again and again.

From the council’s meticulous archives, I learned that his employment contract with the student dormitories was about to expire. Yet last night, he had submitted a renewal request. Perhaps it was nothing more than habit, though I preferred to believe he was making preparations for the day I would win him over.

…Of course, for now, my only triumph was securing his phone number, saved in my contacts under the name *“Ian Reiss・Arthur・I Want to Sleep with Him.”*

To be perfectly honest, I still could not fathom what went on in Arthur’s mind. Clearly, the elegant web of theories in psychology and behavioral science—so deceptively simple, yet profoundly intricate—did not always apply to him. Which was why, after leaving the student council, I took the tram to the Sociology Building on Campus C to consult Professor Brayden J. Tristan—America’s foremost psychologist, and my academic advisor here.

I stood before the door to his private office, eyes lowered to the tips of my snow boots, and knocked three measured times. Hearing no sharp “Don’t come in!” from within, I let myself inside.

As always, his first words upon seeing me were: “We need to talk about your attendance.”

And here’s the mystery—why on earth did certain foolish English girls find his thick Upper East Side accent so alluring?

The office was exactly as it had been three weeks ago—even the half-rotten apple on the windowsill hadn’t moved. The dim, molten-silver wall sconces steeped the nineteenth-century décor in a rich, mellow glow. On the side cabinet, a pen holder contained two or three fountain pens styled like quills. The only dust-free space in the entire room was the twin rows of bookshelves lining the wall; everywhere else, including the vast walnut desk, was smothered in a sea of scattered manuscripts.

I loathed this brand of neurotic, retro-British nostalgia, yet he adored it with a passion—hardly American behavior at all.

“Delighted to see you too, dear Professor.”

I pretended not to hear him at first, nudging aside a wad of crumpled paper with my boot to clear a path, then drew out the chair opposite his desk and sat down. Only then did I continue, unhurried: “I agree with you—at least the first half. We do need to talk, but not about my attendance… And promise me you won’t ask the school to fire Wilson, the student council clerk who fixed my records.”

Then I told him the whole story about Arthur.

“That’s easy enough to diagnose. A psychological disorder triggering a behavioral one, manifesting as a rare form of expressive aphasia.”

The sunlight caught in his dark-gold hair, a brightness at odds with the shadowy twist of his nature. He leaned forward, steady in breath and gaze, and—were it not for the speck of tomato sauce clinging between his brows—his tense, serious face might have been breathtaking enough to stop my heart. “Do you know of any trauma that might serve as a trigger?”

“No,” I replied succinctly. “But I could ask.”

“Then ask—and we’ll resume this conversation when you have an answer.”

He withdrew his gaze, released the quill from his pale, slender fingers, and—without even looking—fished from the second-to-last drawer a crumpled form, which he slid toward me. “There’s a support group meeting tomorrow at the church library. I expect you to be there on time.”

In this, we were alike—no matter how chaotic the surroundings, we could unerringly remember exactly where any particular item lay.

I glared at the form as though it were a hunk of stale, mold-flecked bread.

“I am not going to any damned sex-addicts’ support group!”

It was only after I realized my voice had risen to an intolerable pitch—and my hands had shot up in agitated emphasis—that I forced a long breath and tried to smooth my tone, if not my displeasure. “Honestly, Brayden, I’m certain I have no problem in that regard…”

Why did my legal guardian persist in believing I suffered from an “addiction to sleeping with men”? And besides, that hardly qualified as a legitimate psychological disorder.

“If anything,” I said with deliberate bite, “I’d rather you found a group to treat your chronic untidiness.”

He snorted, disdain thick in the sound, and kept his finger firmly planted on the application form.

“Oh, Miss Penelope—there’s no such thing as ‘chronic untidiness.’”

“Then there’s no such thing as sex addiction.”

I clung to my argument. “I simply haven’t found the one person who could make me stay.”

He arched a brow. “Not even your boyfriend Peter?”

“Peter is my ex-ex-boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend was Matthew. And we’ve broken up.”

“I can never keep pace with your turnover rate,” he said dryly.

In fairness, my time with Matthew had not been brief. Our acquaintance began with a text—words alone, no emojis—telling me he had been watching me for years, that he’d grown to six feet tall by drinking milk daily, all because I had once mentioned in high school that I liked boys taller than the lectern. I honestly couldn’t recall whether I had truly said it—perhaps it was just an excuse to turn down some short boy’s confession.

What embarrassed me most was that he ended the message with the word “love”—far too weighty and glaring. That, ironically, was one of the main reasons I agreed to meet him. God knows, I had only wanted to make him stop pestering me.

But when I saw him in person, I discovered he was just like me—irresponsible and fond of flirtation. Naturally, we fell into a relationship, unburdened by promises or declarations, perfectly content.

…Until the first night I let him stay over, when he unceremoniously dumped me—and by the next day had taken up with the equally young and pretty Stella.

I still have that first text saved on my phone, though he changed his number after arranging our first meeting. I would never admit to it—just as I would never admit there were moments when I thought Matthew, well-endowed and skilled as he was, might be *the one*.

From my pocket, I pulled out my phone and opened the message.

At some point, the sender’s string of anonymous digits had been replaced by a name—

*“Ian Reiss・Arthur・I Want to Sleep with Him.”*

…

Without hesitation, I called Arthur. After two rings, he picked up.

“Last Thanksgiving—did you send me a text?” I asked, without preamble.