Not here to fall in love

Alayah woke with a dull ache in her neck, the dim morning light filtering through slatted blinds, turning the small bedroom into a cage of pale gold.

For a moment she lay perfectly still, listening to the silence—then the slow, uneven breathing of someone else drew her attention.

She glanced sideways. There, sprawled across half her bed, one leg flung over the tangled sheets, was a woman she didn't quite remember.

Brown hair, lipstick smeared, cheeks flushed with the satisfied arrogance of someone who thought they'd conquered something wild.

She was naked, of course. Of course. Alayah, by contrast, wore nothing but a pair of shorts and the black tank top she'd pulled on after showering off the sweat from the boxing match the night before.

She studied the girl's sleeping face for a heartbeat, then snorted softly. "You can stop pretending, you know," she drawled, rolling onto her back, arms behind her head. "I know you're awake."

A beat, and the girl cracked one eye open, sheepish and hopeful. "I thought you'd stay longer."

Alayah grinned—a quick, sharp thing, all teeth and no warmth. "I already did you a favor by not waking you at sunrise." She stretched, flexing her arms so her tattoos rippled in the sunlight. "Time to go, sweetheart. Big day ahead."

The girl pouted, pulling the sheets higher. "You're cold, you know that?"

Alayah laughed, deep and shameless. "Yeah, but you didn't mind last night." Not that she'd done more than let the girl climb on top, make some noise, and pretend it was a great cosmic moment.

It was always the same: her body could give pleasure, sure, but there were limits to what she offered. Especially here, in this mortal world, where the truth beneath her skin—her demonic inheritance, the cock she never flaunted—would only break the mood or start a very different conversation.

She wasn't about to get naked and risk having to explain why her anatomy didn't quite match the pretty assumptions mortals made. That was a can of worms for another night, or another life.

She slid out of bed, the girl's gaze following her, hopeful and a little confused. "You—uh, you don't want breakfast?"

Alayah was already tugging on a pair of sweatpants, shaking her head. "I don't do breakfast. Not with company, anyway. Door's that way."

The girl lingered, sighing, but finally gathered her things and dressed quickly, casting one last longing look over her shoulder. Alayah smirked and waved her off.

"Thanks for the fun. Try someone else next time. You might get lucky."

The door clicked shut, and silence returned. Alayah let out a long, satisfied exhale. It wasn't that she didn't like sex—she liked the game, the build-up, the heady spark of seduction, the raw hunger in someone else's eyes.

But letting them past the surface? That was another matter. She'd learned long ago that pleasure was best handled with one foot out the door, especially when your body was designed for confusion and scandal.

She hit the shower hard, scrubbing away the scent of sweat and perfume, letting the water run ice cold.

She traced the ink on her arms, the symbols and marks of her demon heritage, each one earned, each one a story that didn't need retelling.

Rings—silver, iron, obsidian—slid onto her fingers, each knuckle adorned with something sharp or wicked.

She dressed quick: department uniform—crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled high to show her tattoos, charcoal trousers fitted to her lean hips, a narrow belt, no tie.

She left the top buttons undone, collar wide open, skin bare to the morning.

The rings stayed, of course. They always stayed. She considered eyeliner, then laughed at herself and just ran a hand through her wild black-and-white hair.

She looked dangerous, she thought, but also sharp enough to cut glass.

Her phone buzzed on the table. She picked it up with a lazy swipe. Notifications: three from last night's girl (already muted), two from someone at the club, one from her demon sponsor reminding her not to "embarrass the bloodline" in front of mortals. She scoffed and scrolled past, deleting the lot.

On the way out, she dropped last night's handful of crystals into the archive. None were lust, not really—just admiration, envy, hunger, a pinch of infatuation, and more than a little jealousy.

All good fuel for the game. The archive shimmered, catalogued, absorbed. Points tallied in her mind's eye.

The air outside was already thick with heat and the faint perfume of blooming trees. She walked slow, owning the street with every step.

Students eyed her as she passed: men, women, a spectrum of curiosity and hunger and something else—intimidation. She let the attention roll over her, enjoying the low-level hum of desire and awe.

She made a stop at a corner bakery, choosing a croissant and a black coffee, devouring both with the wolfish hunger of someone who knew that sustenance was fuel, nothing more.

She sat at a metal table, sipping her coffee, eyes narrowed at the parade of mortals wandering past. Some girls stared outright, nudging each other and giggling, and Alayah flashed them a feral grin, just to see them blush and look away.

Eventually, she shouldered her bag and made her way to the math building. The campus was quieter here, the crowd thinner but sharper, students with tired eyes and quick hands clutching notebooks full of equations.

The building itself was modern, all glass and steel and faintly humming with the nervous energy of people who solved problems for pleasure.

Her department was smaller—just a hundred, most of them hunched over laptops or muttering about statistics.

As she walked in, conversation slowed, paused, shifted. She recognized the effect—her presence always did this, turned heads, spiked pulses, made rivals bristle and would-be lovers swoon.

She made her way to a seat near the back, where she could see everyone and nothing could sneak up behind her. She stretched out, ankle on knee, arms folded.

Her tattoos and rings drew even more stares—here, in this orderly, precise world, she was an anomaly. A living, breathing equation no one could solve.

A girl two rows down leaned back and asked, with a smirk, "You new here? Or just too cool for the undergrads?"

Alayah smiled, slow and wolfish. "Master's program. Don't worry, I don't bite unless you ask nicely."

The girl flushed but didn't look away. A few others snickered, admiration and challenge in equal measure.

One of the boys glanced at her, sizing her up, then looked away quickly when she met his gaze.

She liked math. She liked the certainty, the elegance, the promise that everything, eventually, could be solved if you were clever and ruthless enough.

The professor swept in a man with a shock of white hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and an accent as sharp as his chalk. He surveyed the room, and his eyes lingered on Alayah, but he didn't pause.

"Welcome, mathematicians and masochists," he began, setting off laughter. "Let's see who survives."