A sharp jolt of unease clung to me like a shadow. The memory of Eric's last text echoed in my mind, echoing with disappointment and anger. The classroom's light felt harsh against my skin, amplifying the knot of worry in my stomach—classes dragged by in a slow, aching crawl, especially math. Even the ticking of the clock felt louder than the teacher's voice. I tapped the keys of my laptop lightly.
Art history offered an escape—dim lighting. Cool air. Dusty slides of paintings that barely held the room's attention. I slipped into the back row, my sketchpad hugged to my chest, the weight of the day draped over me like a soaked coat.
I let myself exhale.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the door creak open. A breeze slipped in with it, barely noticeable, except something in me shifted like I'd felt it. I turned my head without meaning to, as if gravity had suddenly changed direction.
It was him. Tristan walked in like he hadn't rushed, calm, unreadable. He had his hands in his pockets. His hair fell slightly over his eyes, and something about his posture, relaxed but purposeful, pulled every ounce of my attention to him.
Without a glance at anyone, he made his way to the row by the windows and sat down near the back, where the slanted afternoon light pooled across the floor in pale streaks. His face stayed mostly in shadow, but I could still see the outline of his jaw, the curve of his lip as he pulled a sketchpad from his bag and flipped it open.
Not a laptop. Not notes.
He was drawing.
He moved like it came naturally, like his hand knew what it was doing long before his mind caught up. I didn't mean to stare, but it was impossible not to. I couldn't see what he was sketching, but the way his pencil moved, quick and smooth, was almost hypnotic.
He looked untouchable. Not in an arrogant way. Just separate. Like the world had tried to rough him up, and he'd quietly stepped back from it without a fight.
I swallowed hard, trying to look away. But something about the space around him, the quiet he carried like a shield, felt like a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
A few more students slipped in, quiet and half-asleep, drifting to whatever empty seats they could find.
Professor Aldren shuffled a stack of papers on the desk with the kind of tired efficiency that suggested he'd done this a hundred times, and hated it a little more each year. He was tall, maybe mid-fifties, with wire-framed glasses perched low on his nose and a cardigan that looked like it had lived through several academic revolutions.
"Alright," he said, voice flat but somehow still carrying through the low hum of settling students. "Welcome to Survey of Western Art History. This is not the class where you'll learn to draw. If that's what you're looking for, you're in the wrong room, and I won't be offended if you quietly leave."
A few people laughed awkwardly. No one moved.
Professor Aldren tapped the podium once, and the projector flickered to life behind him. A slide blinked into focus: SYLLABUS – ART 105, FALL SEMESTER. Beneath it, his name was typed in all caps: PROF. MARLON ALDREN.
"We'll be starting with the usual suspects, cave paintings, Egyptian tomb art, and Greek sculpture. We move forward chronologically from there. If you like dusty old things, you'll be thrilled."
My laptop remained closed on the desk in front of me. Across the room, he tilted his head slightly, as if interested. Or pretending well.
"You'll have three major exams," Aldren continued, pulling up another slide. "A midterm paper. Weekly reflection journals, which, yes, I do read, and a final that will ruin your winter break if you wait until the last minute."
A few groans rolled through the lecture hall.
I tried to focus, but the words slid past me like mist.
The quiet around him still lingered. Like he wasn't just listening, he was absorbing. He tapped his pencil twice on the side of his sketchpad, then started drawing again. I caught the faint motion out of the corner of my eye and couldn't stop wondering what filled that page. My fingers twitched with a familiar urge, and I bit my lip, trying to hold back the curiosity that gnawed at me. Just as I shifted in my seat, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a pair of wings taking shape, detailed yet ethereal, as if they belonged to a creature caught between reality and dreams. In that moment, I felt my pulse quicken—an unsaid promise to take flight matched only by the shadow of a smile I couldn't quite suppress. But could I escape from the reality that kept trying to tether me down? What kind of world was he building in graphite while the rest of us sank into syllabus despair?
"…and attendance," Professor Aldren added, glancing meaningfully around the room, "isn't technically mandatory. But if you fail the class, don't come crying to me about how you 'had stuff going on.' We all have stuff going on. Art is made from it."
That made me look up.
Aldren paused like he hadn't meant to say it so sincerely and then cleared his throat.
"Anyway. Let's begin."
Professor Aldren launched into his usual first-day routine, syllabus, grading policy, and expectations, his voice low and steady like background static.
I tried to listen. Really, I did. I even took out my pen with purpose, underlining ART 105, FALL SEMESTER on the syllabus, like that would anchor me to the moment. But something kept tugging at the edges of my focus.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him, sitting by the window, fingers idly spinning a pencil between them, not writing anything down. The morning light slanted across his desk, catching in the soft strands of his hair and casting faint shadows beneath his cheekbones. He looked utterly at ease, like he didn't need to prove he belonged here. Like he already knew how this would all play out.
I blinked and turned back to the syllabus. Tried to care about attendance policies. Tried to focus on the slide projected at the front of the room.
But my eyes kept drifting back like gravity. Or maybe curiosity.
I forced my attention back to Professor Aldren.
He continued, "If you have any questions about the syllabus, feel free to reach out during office hours. Now, let's talk about the first reading assignment…"
I risked another glance.
He was already looking at me.
Our eyes locked, just for a second, but it was enough. Enough to feel something jolt through me, sharp and hot, like I'd touched a live wire. His expression didn't shift, didn't flinch. Just calm, steady, and curious.
I dropped my gaze instantly, my face flooding with heat. My heart picked up like it was trying to race ahead of whatever that was, whatever he was. I stared hard at my laptop, pretending to focus, but the words blurred into nonsense.
Professor Aldren cleared his throat, flipping a page in his syllabus. "For next class, please read the chapter on prehistoric cave paintings from Art Through the Ages. Please focus on the symbolism and techniques used by early humans, as well as the significance these artworks had in their cultures. We'll be discussing these in detail, so make sure you come prepared."
Every so often, I'd feel it, that tug.
I'd glance up, and there he was. Eyes already on me. Not bold. Not creepy. Just curious. Gentle. It caught me off guard every time.
When I smiled, I didn't mean to. I didn't even realize it until he looked away, and my chest felt strangely warm. Like being noticed, really noticed, for the first time in forever.
I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of how stiff I was sitting, as if Eric could see me. As if I was being watched. I glanced back at Tristan. He wasn't looking this time. Just sketching in his sketchpad, head tilted like he was listening to something far more interesting. But something about the space around him, the quiet, the lack of pressure, felt like a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. And that made me feel even worse.
I had a boyfriend. One who told me he loved me. One who said, "You're lucky someone puts up with you," as if it were a favor. The chair beneath me creaked slightly, the pressure against my back reminding me of another time, another night, where everything felt different. I remembered a night we walked back from a party. His grip on my wrist was tight, insistent as he pulled me away from my friends. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through the laughter, snapping like a warning, 'You think it's funny to ignore me?' The chill of his words seeped into my skin, lingering long after his fingers had loosened when we were finally alone.
But I stayed because it was easier than fighting. Easier than being alone. And maybe, deep down, I thought I deserved it.
But Tristan, he hadn't said a word to me. And still, in one quiet glance, he made me feel more like myself than Eric had in months.
I looked back down at my laptop. You're not cheating. You're not doing anything wrong. You just noticed someone. But guilt still coiled in my stomach like smoke because noticing felt like remembering. Remembering what it felt like to be safe.
The second the Art History lecture ended, I was already halfway out the door, clutching my bag like a lifeline as the last slide still flickered across the screen behind me. I dug my phone out of my bag and froze for a moment.
5 missed messages – Eric
My stomach tightened. I didn't feel it the whole time I was in class. I fumbled to unlock the screen, my heart picking up its pace as I read through the texts.
Eric: Where the hell are you? Are you ignoring me now? You said you'd check in today.Unbelievable.You can't even be decent enough to send a single text?
I winced, thumb hovering.
Me: Sorry, I was in class. My phone was on silent. I didn't see your messages until just now.
I hit send, even though the apology felt sour in my throat. I hadn't done anything wrong. And yet, I still felt like I had.
Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then again.
I headed down the steps of the college building, gripping the cold metal railing with one hand. The sky was overcast, gray, and humid, pressing down like a weighted blanket.
Eric: Convenient. You always have an excuse lately.
My jaw clenched. I didn't reply. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't spark something worse. I tucked my phone deep into my shorts pocket, as if that could quiet the buzzing echo of him still crawling under my skin.
The walk to Kari's friend's house wasn't long, maybe fifteen minutes, but it felt like a mile for every thought that chased me. I passed a bakery, and the scent of cinnamon and yeast made me pause for half a second, then keep moving. I didn't have time to stop. I didn't have time to think. The neighborhood shifted slowly as I turned onto the residential street. Quieter. Trees leaning over cracked sidewalks. Bikes left on lawns. Porch swings creaking lazily in the breeze.
I spotted Kari's friend's house a block away, pink flamingos in the front garden, a crooked wreath on the door. I took a deep breath and forced my face into something neutral. Something that wouldn't make Kari worry. Because I couldn't let her see this shadow in me, not when she still believed I was strong. Not when I needed to start believing it, too.
I leaned against the warm metal fence outside Jess's house and shot a quick text to Kari:
I'm outside and in a hurry.
A few seconds later, her head popped out of a second-story window."I'll be right out!"
My breath caught.
Her hair, once bleached blonde and tangled with glitter clips, was now jet-black, pulled into a tight, high ponytail. Thick eyeliner ringed her eyes in smudged defiance.
"Oh no…" I muttered, swallowing hard. I didn't want to see the rest of her.
But I didn't have to wait long. The front door swung open, and there she was, striding toward me like she'd just stepped out of my own middle school yearbook. A ghost from a past I hadn't asked to revisit. A universe that used to be mine.
She beamed up at me like nothing was different.
"I feel like I'm looking at thirteen-year-old me," I muttered under my breath.
"Come on, it's not that bad," She looked down at her all-black outfit and bit her lip. "I like it."
It was worse than I imagined. Gone was the glitter and neon. In its place: one of my old band tees, too big on her, layered over a mesh-sleeve top, painted-on black jeans, and platforms she could barely walk in. Her nails, once pink and sparkling, were chipped and matte black.
I stared at her for a second, unsure whether to laugh or lecture. Her grin didn't falter. Her brown eyes sparkled with something I hadn't seen in a long time. Contentment. And just like that, the irritation fizzled. Maybe this wasn't mimicry. Maybe it was something else. Curiosity. Connection. Maybe this was the start of something new between us. I let out a soft laugh and gently patted her head.
"Alright, it's not that bad. Just... a lot to take in."
"You'll warm up to it," she said, nudging my arm.
"So, how was college?"
"It was okay," I said with a shrug.
"Mostly syllabus stuff. Deadlines. We kept it short."
She raised an eyebrow. "Did you see Eric?"
"Yeah… for like a minute." I sighed.
The memory flared, his breath sharp with alcohol, excuses falling apart in real-time. And then, those crimson eyes again, somewhere in the blur of noise.
"Mom and Dad don't like him, you know."
"I know."
It wasn't just them. It never was.
Something in my expression must've shifted, because she pivoted quickly.
"Did you meet anyone cool?"
"A couple of girls from Math were nice. Chloe already dragged them into the group chat. One guy tried flirting with Lizzie, and Chloe turned into a tomato."
Kari giggled. "And Lizzie probably had no idea, right? Just feeding into it like always?"
"Exactly." I laughed, remembering the way Chloe nearly fell off her chair.
"Oh!" I added. "I didn't meet him exactly, but there was this guy with really cool red contacts. I kinda want some."
"That's awesome! You should get blackout ones," she said brightly. "Like the guy from The Blight, when he transforms near the end?"
I looked down at her, startled. "That would actually be amazing."
We started walking, and I could feel the edges of my smile softening into something more real. Something I hadn't felt in a while. Maybe having Kari look up to me wasn't as annoying as I thought. Maybe she wasn't just trying to copy me. Maybe she wanted to be closer. To understand me. I imagined late-night movie marathons, blasting Rob Zombie, painting each other's nails black in messy layers, hunting for weird old boots in forgotten thrift stores. Something shared. Something ours.
This is a good change. My smile widened. I like this idea.
A few days slipped by as subtly as changing tides. The world moved, yet everything felt suspended. A bruise appeared on the edge of my phone case, a silent testament to moments of carelessness—or maybe not. Friday came with the weight of routine, each day blending into the next. It was just enough time to slip back into the illusion of normalcy: wake up, go to class, pretend everything was unchanged. But beneath it all, something was shifting, restless and unsettling. This time, I found myself skipping tracks on my playlist more often. The songs I used to love felt wrong, hollow, like echoes of a place I'd left behind.
Eric's texts escalated, his patience thinning with every unanswered message. It started with simple questions, then evolved into veiled accusations. I sensed him growing frustrated, a storm building on the horizon. Where are you? Why didn't you answer right away? Who were you with? His words were like the distant rumbling of thunder, ominous and hard to ignore.
Every message felt like a trap. Each time I didn't reply quickly enough, my pulse would spike, and my breathing would hitch into sharp, shallow gasps. My fingers would turn icy with sweat, a taste of panic slipping in as if a cold vice gripped my chest tighter with every new notification. The follow-up messages came louder, meaner. If I texted back right away, he'd accuse me of being defensive. If I waited too long, I was ignoring him. My chest felt tight, and the constant tension thrummed through me like a low-grade fever, leaving my muscles aching and tense. The physiological response left me exhausted by the end of each interaction, but there was no winning.
Then the calls started, and voicemails were left when I didn't answer. Initially, his voice was sweet, almost apologetic. Then angry. Then back again, begging me to 'just pick up, please, baby.' I stopped listening after the fifth one, feeling my resolve ebb away with each button press, my body caught in a relentless loop of vigilance and dread.
I knew I should leave him. God, I knew. I even drafted the message.
I can't do this anymore. I'm not happy. I need space. Please don't contact me again.
But I couldn't send it because I didn't know what he'd do. Would he show up at my house? Would he cry? Would he snap?
I hated not knowing. I hated having to think about it at all.
So instead, I just floated. Went to class. Nodded along. Took notes with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking. And somehow, through all that, art history became the only thing I could still breathe in.
The moment I noticed Tristan, a subtle shift occurred. The tension in my shoulders released, and I felt my chest expand with a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. He was there again, in the same spot next to the windows. Black hoodie, headphones resting on his collarbones, that unreadable expression on his face like he was always thinking about something darker than the rest of us could see. For just that fleeting moment, the anxiety and strain receded, allowing tranquility to seep in. It was enough for me to cling to that brief sensation of ease amidst the turmoil.
But when I risked another glance, he was still watching me. And for a second, the world felt quieter.
Then the guilt rushed in. Thick and sour and immediate. This wasn't cheating. But it was something. Something that made me remember how it felt to be curious. To be wanted and not just claimed. When was the last time anyone looked at me without ownership? I left class without saying a word to him. Just grabbed my stuff and booked it. Fast. But the whole way out, I could feel his eyes trailing me. Not in a creepy way. Not like Eric. Like he saw me. Really saw me. And for the first time in a long time... I didn't want to disappear.
"That guy Jimmy was totally eyeing me today," Lizzie gushed, her pastel-pink hair fluttering in the breeze as we stepped out of her car. "His smile was just unbelievable, you know? Like, seriously! I couldn't even tell if he was flirting or just naturally charming. It was mesmerizing."
Chloe trudged beside me, visibly unimpressed, letting out a long sigh of defeat. "Honestly, Lizzie, the way you talk about these guys, it's like you're in a soap opera or something. You always get so swept up."
Shattered, the premier alt club in the city, loomed before us. Its onyx brick exterior stood out like a bruise against the bland stretch of brown buildings lining the street. A massive blood-red neon sign flickered with a sharp hiss, casting an eerie pulse of light on the pavement. I took a deep breath, scanning the line behind us and noting the exits in case the night took an unexpected turn. One of my favorite bands thumped through the walls, the sound bleeding into the air each time the bouncer cracked open the heavy front door.
My phone buzzed inside my signature Dead Girl purse.
Eric: Where are you?
I typed fast and hit send:
Chloe, Lizzie, and I are in line for Shattered.
Chloe groaned the moment she saw the screen. "Ugh, don't tell him we're here. He's just going to hover again. That's all he ever does, hover and guilt you. You can never just have fun."
"I know," I muttered. "But if I don't tell him and he finds out, I'll get the usual lecture about how I'm a terrible girlfriend… and probably cheating."
"That's not normal, Winter. That's control," she snapped. "It's abuse, and I don't know why you put up with it."
Lizzie's eyes softened. She nodded slowly. "My cousin was killed by her boyfriend. It started just like that. Controlling, isolating... little stuff at first."
Her words landed like a punch to the ribs.
Killed. By her boyfriend. It started like this.
A chill ran through me despite the warm night air. Could it really get that bad? Could Eric ever hurt me? Would I let it get that far?
I shivered just thinking about it, and before I realized it, I leaned closer to Chloe. "Do you think Eric could..." I hesitated, the words catching in my throat, "get that bad?"
The question sounded small and fragile as it left my lips, but Chloe's eyes widened slightly, her immediate concern a testament to the gravity of my unspoken fears.
The line crept forward, and I tried, really tried, to push the awful thoughts out of my head. The ones about Eric. About what he might do if things got worse. If he ever lost control.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't do that. And if he did… I'd leave. Wouldn't I?
I swallowed hard. The words felt hollow. Useless. The drinking was supposed to be just a stress thing, but it wasn't stopping. It was getting worse. Louder. Darker.
"Winter!" Chloe's voice snapped me back. She stood a few feet ahead, flashing her ID at the bouncer.
The bass from inside Shattered thumped against my chest like a second heartbeat, the air vibrating with energy and heat. My palms were slick with sweat. I forced my legs to move.
Martis stood at the entrance like always, towering, inked from neck to knuckles, every inch of him intimidating except for the faint kindness in his eyes when he saw me.
"I hope your trip was fun," he said, his voice deep but familiar.
"It was great," I lied, forcing a smile so stiff it hurt my cheeks.
He nodded and stamped the back of my hand with the familiar red skull: under 21.
As I stepped inside, the noise hit like a wave: bass, bodies, strobing lights, and I tried to lose myself in it. But the anxiety clung to me like smoke. No matter how loud it got, it wasn't enough to drown out the voice in my head.
What if it doesn't stop? What if this is just the beginning?
The music hits like a fist, deep bass thudding through my chest, vibrating up my spine, like a second heartbeat echoing through the chaos. We push through the packed entrance and straight into the heat. Sweat-slicked skin brushes mine as we weave between bodies. Perfume, smoke, and the metallic tang of fog machine chemicals swirl in the air, thick and suffocating. My lungs tighten. I can't tell if it's the haze or the tension wrapping around my ribs like a corset. The floor trembles beneath us with every bass drop, syncing with my pulse, a reminder of each heartbeat marked by the relentless rhythm. Somewhere above, the giant chandelier rattles from the vibration, crystals like teeth.
A burst of fog shoots from a machine near the raised dance floor, swallowing dancers in a sudden, ghostly shroud. The whole club looks like it's underwater, people flickering in and out of visibility like spirits. The DJ, dressed like Dracula, slams a beat so hard I flinch. His grin is wide, fanged, and manic under flashing lights.
The bar is chaos incarnate. Shouts compete with the music. Glass clinks, bottles clatter, blood-red and electric-blue drinks slide across the counter. A girl dressed like a broken doll throws her head back and laughs too hard, knocking into Chloe. Lizzie grabs my wrist, grounding me.
I cling to my Dead Girl purse like it's an anchor.
My phone hasn't buzzed again. The screen, dimly lit with a low battery bar, seemed to taunt me with its silence. The absence of any new message from Eric felt like a tightrope between relief and dread. Maybe it's a good thing. Maybe it's not. I swallow hard. The floor feels unsteady beneath my boots. My heart's racing, hands clammy. The noise, the lights, the fog, it's too much, but I keep moving, eyes locked on the back of the club like it's a finish line. Just get through tonight. Just breathe.
We finally reach the booth we always claimed, with black satin seats and a red wooden table glowing faintly under the flickering red lights. I slide in, smoothing my skirt and trying not to stick to the vinyl.
Lizzie shouts something over the pounding bass. I lean in, straining to hear.
"I said, it feels nice to be back, right?" she beams, her voice barely cutting through the roar of conversation and relentless beat.
I nod, even though my ears are still ringing. The bass vibrates through the floor, up my legs, and into my chest like a second heartbeat.
And then, just as I'm starting to adjust, a sudden shift.
The song fades, its sharp electronic edges trailing off like smoke. A slower track creeps in, eerie and melodic, with deep synths and haunting vocals that echo off the walls like whispers. The crowd's energy changes; bodies on the dance floor slow down, swaying more than thrashing. The fog thickens around the floor, curling around boots and heels like ghost fingers.
It's easier to hear now. I exhale without realizing I was holding my breath.
"Much better," Chloe murmurs beside me, her voice no longer needing to compete with the sound.
My heartbeat slows with the tempo. For a moment, it's easier to think.
"I missed our girls' nights a lot," I said, my voice soft with warmth.
But the moment slipped as my gaze snagged on a familiar face a few booths away.
He was watching me, not just looking. Like I was something distant and fragile, his lips, full and slightly parted, curved into the faintest smile. And his eyes, those crimson eyes, glowed like embers in the dim light, locking me in place.
Then, so subtly it was almost imperceptible, he tilted his head just a fraction, like acknowledging an unspoken understanding between us. In that tiny gesture, the space between us seemed to shrink, and the air felt electric.
The world seemed to blur around the edges.
A slow heat bloomed in my chest, spreading through my limbs. Butterflies, no, something heavier, stirred in my stomach, unsettling and electric.
I couldn't look away.
"What's wrong?" Chloe's voice cut through the noise, sharp and worried.
Both girls followed my gaze.
"Oh, him," Lizzie said, her smirk laced with mischief, and maybe a little pity.
"Go talk to him!" Chloe said, her eyes bright with hope.
"I'm fine," I said, but my voice cracked. The lie tasted bitter and heavy.
"Come on, he obviously likes you," Chloe pressed.
"I'm with Eric," I whispered, the words feeling like a weight dragging me down.
Chloe made a frustrated noise. "I wish you weren't."
"Same," Lizzie muttered, folding her arms like she was guarding herself against disappointment.
"Okay, we're going to get food. Talk to your admirer, he's just waiting for us to leave," Chloe said, nudging Lizzie as they slid out of the booth.
I watched him shift, his eyes flicking away the moment our gazes met. My chest tightened. I should go talk to him. I want to. But Eric's voice echoed in my mind, his anger, his jealousy, the nights I stayed awake with tears burning my cheeks.
The fear gnawed at me. Could I risk it? Could I really leave all that behind?
"But guys…" I started, my voice trembling.
"We'll get you a Duchess!" Lizzie called over her shoulder.
But all I felt was the ache of being stuck between what I knew and what I wanted.
My admirer rose slowly as the girls slipped away, moving like he had all the time in the world, unhurried, composed, magnetic. His crimson eyes locked onto mine, the color so vivid. Not costume-party red, something deeper, richer. Like wine spilled across snow, they didn't blink. Just watched. Felt.
The table jostled unexpectedly as someone bumped past, spilling a drink across the surface. The surprise rippled through the air between us, an unspoken challenge. I reached first, steadying the table, my heart racing with the abrupt shift. Tristan's eyes met mine, not with surprise, but with a slow, knowing smile. He leaned forward, unfazed, as if the disruption had only been a test of patience. In that moment, it was clear who held the calm amid the storm.
He slid into the seat across from me without asking, like he belonged there. The air shifted, thickened like the room held its breath just for us.
He grabbed a few napkins from the dispenser and mopped up the spilled drink, smiling slightly as he did.
"I'm Tristan," he said. His voice was low, smooth, touched with something unplaceable. His lips curved into a faint smile as he offered his hand, with long fingers and black nail polish chipped just slightly. Cool rings kissed his knuckles. Everything about him screamed effortlessness, but none of it felt fake.
I hesitated, then reached across the table. "I'm Winter," I replied, our fingers meeting.
His hand was cold, not unpleasant, just... jarring like dipping into a still lake under moonlight. A shiver flicked up my spine, but I didn't pull away.
Maybe I didn't want to.
We tried to talk, but the pounding music made it hard to hear more than fragments. Still, we leaned in close, our faces almost touching. "How long..." Tristan started, eyes flicking between mine, "...lived here?"
"Since my little sister was born," I replied, struggling to keep my voice steady amidst the din. "About fourteen years."
He moved closer, lips curving into a teasing smile. "I have a younger sister, too."
"Really?" I almost shouted, feeling the warmth of his breath against my cheek. "Around the same age?"
His nod was subtle, sharing a secret amidst the chaos enveloping us.
"Since my little sister was born," I shouted back, "About fourteen years."
"I've got a younger sister too. Around the same age."
A flicker of warmth softened his tone. That caught me off guard, made him feel real. Not just some mysterious boy with red eyes and a perfect jawline.
"I wonder if my sister knows her," I said.
He chuckled, "Doubt it. She lives in England."
"Are you from England?" I asked, curious about his flawless accent.
"My family is. I've lived here most of my life, though. I still have the ghost of it in my voice."
He smiled slightly. It felt like a secret. I caught myself staring at the curve of his mouth, the messy elegance of his hair, the way he seemed completely untouched by the chaos around us.
"Did Chloe and Lizzie tell you to talk to me?" I asked, mostly teasing, partly hoping he'd say no.
He leaned forward, elbow on the table, smirk sharpening.
"Maybe. But honestly?" His eyes skimmed from my collarbone to my lips. "I didn't need a dare to come talk to someone as beautiful as you."
The words landed with more weight than I was ready for.
Beautiful.
Not hot, not cute. Not something Eric would mutter while scrolling through his phone.
Beautiful. Like a complete thought.
I laughed, breath catching in my throat. "Wow. Lying it on thick for a guy who only just learned my name."
He shrugged, unbothered. "I could lie and say I'm smooth. But truth is... I noticed you the second you walked into college."
I looked down, fussing with a ring on my finger. My cheeks burned.
You shouldn't be enjoying this.
You have a boyfriend.
But then Tristan looked at me again, and I wanted something. Something soft. Something safe.
"I'm not used to... this," I said, my voice quieter now.
"To what?"
"To someone looking at me like I'm not already broken."
He didn't flinch. Not even a blink. But his eyes shifted, just slightly. A flicker of something passed over his expression, like he knew exactly what I meant. His thumb paused mid-circle against his ring, then resumed more slowly. Quieter.
He looked at me, steady as ever, but I saw it then, he wasn't untouched by this kind of hurt. He just carried it differently.
"You don't look broken to me," he said calmly.
The words wrapped around me like a weighted blanket, heavy and warm and impossible to shrug off.
My throat tightened. I didn't trust this kind of softness, not after what I'd come from. Part of me wanted to run. The other part, worse, wanted to lean into it. To be held like I mattered.
Would he say that if he knew the truth? If he knew the way I flinched when someone raised their voice? How easily I apologized for things that weren't my fault? How long had it been since I slept through the night without waking up gasping?
Would he still call me beautiful? Would he still look at me like this?
It felt wrong to want comfort so badly. To need someone like him when I still felt broken. Like I was using him to patch something bleeding inside me, but God, I needed it, just for a moment.
My phone buzzed against the table, screen lighting up with Eric's name. His words were already echoing in my mind, demanding attention. It was like background noise I couldn't shake.
Slowly, almost cautiously, I shifted my phone into airplane mode. For the first time in a long time, I allowed myself to be unreachable. An act so small and yet, to me, it felt immense.
Silence wrapped around us, a moment suspended.
"I don't know what you see when you look at me," I murmured, "but it can't be the whole picture."
His gaze didn't waver. "Maybe not. But I want to see the rest."
I looked at him, heart caught in my throat. My hands trembled beneath the table.
How was he not scared off yet?
How was I?
"You don't even know me," I whispered.
"Not yet," he said, smiling like the storm didn't scare him.
And for the first time in what felt like forever…I wanted to let someone try.
The moment hung between us, the club's energy a distant hum, and in the silence, I felt the chill of Tristan's ring press lightly against my skin. It was a touch, fleeting and cool, like the calm before a storm. The bass from the dance floor thrummed slowly, fading out as hopes and fears mingled like an unsung promise in the night air.