​I hauled the last cardboard box up the narrow staircase of the off-campus building, my forearms burning with that sharp, satisfying ache of finally doing something entirely for myself. The stairwell smelled exactly like the margins of Aldridge University—the heavy scent of old, water-damaged oak, faint industrial lemon cleaner, and the greasy, comforting undercurrent of takeout from the third-rate noodle places that stayed open past midnight.

​With every step, the box shifted, the sharp corners of my hardcovers digging through the cardboard into my ribs. It was a physical weight, but it was a calculated one.

​This was it. My junior year reset.

​Aldridge University’s housing lottery had actually come through after fourteen months of bureaucratic begging: two bedrooms, one decent bathroom, a kitchen with real laminate counter space, and rent that wouldn’t require me to live on instant noodles and prayers. After two years of surviving the cinderblock containment of the sophomore dorms—where the walls were thin enough to hear your neighbor change their mind—this felt like structural freedom.

​I pushed open the door with my hip and stepped inside.

​Sunlight poured through the living room windows, slicing through the dim air and catching on golden dust motes that swirled lazily in the heat. Jess’s things were already everywhere in the best, most chaotic way possible. A bright turquoise knit throw blanket was tossed carelessly over the back of the secondhand couch; string lights were half-hung along one wall, trailing down like copper vines; and a ridiculous number of mismatched throw pillows—velvet, linen, tassels—were currently fighting for dominance on the floor.

​The space felt warm. Open. Effortlessly hopeful. It belonged to someone who hadn't spent the last two years of her life learning exactly how to build walls out of silence.

​I claimed the smaller bedroom on the left. It was a tight squeeze, but it had a wide sash window that overlooked the quiet, tree-lined street below and just enough square footage for my desk and my books. I shoved the window up until the old frame groaned, letting the early September breeze roll in.

 It carried the distant, familiar symphony of campus opening up for the fall—the high-pitched laughter of freshmen moving into the quads, the rhythmic click of bike tires on pavement, and someone’s bass-heavy playlist floating from an open window down the block.

​For the first time since my brother Caleb packed his bags for his fellowship in New York, my shoulders dropped an inch.

​This year was going to be clean. Focused. Inviolate. Mine.

​I unpacked slowly, treating each item like a small, quiet ritual. My clothes went into the narrow chest of drawers—mostly oversized cashmere sweaters that were three sizes too big, rigid straight-leg denim, and exactly three silk slip dresses I owned for the rare nights I allowed myself to dress up and pretend I didn't mind being looked at.

​My books came next. I didn't just stack them; I curated them. I lined them along the wide wooden windowsill in careful, uniform towers, categorized by era and intensity: Sylvia Plath, Jane Austen, a few slim volumes of contemporary poetry I returned to only when the world felt too loud to interpret. Each spine was a small, physical reminder that I could control the narrative. I could choose exactly which stories I let inside my head.

​I was arranging my desk—aligning my laptop until it sat perfectly centered on the wood, color-coding my notebooks by course weight, and dropping my black-ink pens into an old, cracked ceramic mug—when my phone buzzed against the desk.

​Jordan: Heard you got the top floor. Let me know if you need me to come over after my pre-law seminar to move the heavy stuff. Proud of you, Maeve. This place is yours.

​A quiet, steady wave of relief washed over me. Jordan. Steady, decent, predictable Jordan, who called exactly when he said he would and never pushed past the invisible boundaries I kept locked tightly behind my ribs. He was an anchor in a harbor that didn't have storms. I typed back a quick, warm response, then set the phone face-down.

​The front door banged open, rattling the loose brass hardware.

​“Maeve? Tell me you beat me here!”

​Jess’s voice bounced down the short hallway like it had springs attached to it. I stepped out of my room just as she rounded the corner, her arms loaded to the chin with brown paper grocery bags, her wide, infectious grin splitting her face.

​Jess Rivera looked precisely like sunshine in human form. She was a solid five-foot-five of unbothered, vibrant energy, with warm olive skin, a round face, and the kind of big, expressive brown eyes that made you feel instantly seen, even if you were trying very hard to hide in the corner of a room. Her dark, tight curls were clipped half-up with a bright yellow barrette today, the rest bouncing wildly around her shoulders with every step she took. She wore a cropped white tee with tiny daisies embroidered along the hem, high-waisted light-wash jeans, and chunky platform sneakers that gave her an extra, literal bounce. A delicate gold star necklace rested against her collarbone, catching the afternoon light. Everything about her felt loud, open, and effortlessly friendly.

​She dropped the bags onto the kitchen counter with a theatrical, lung-collapsing sigh and immediately began unpacking—a carton of milk, three different brands of sugary cereal, sparkling waters, and enough instant ramen to survive a minor apocalypse.

​“You’re actually real!” She flashed me a bright smile, her eyes crinkling. “I was half-convinced you’d ghost me at the last second and I’d end up rooming with some weird bio major who collects exotic tarantulas and names them after Greek philosophers.” She pulled out a green bottle with a cheap, shiny gold foil top. “I grabbed us basics. And cheap champagne for later because moving day deserves bubbles, even if they’re fifty percent sugar and guaranteed to give us a headache by midnight.”

​I found myself smiling back before my defenses could flag the emotion. “Thanks, Jess. This is... really nice of you. You didn't have to get all of this.”

​She waved her hand dismissively, her curls dancing. “Please, we’re in this together now.

 Junior year war buddies. I’m Communications, you’re English Lit, right? We’ll balance each other perfectly. I’ll make chaotic, highly questionable late-night study snacks, and you’ll remind me that books exist outside of five-second TikTok summaries.”

​We fell into an easy, natural rhythm after that. She dragged me into her bedroom to show me her absurd, borderline-hoarder collection of ceramic mugs (“Each one has distinct emotional value, Maeve, don't judge me”), and I helped her balance on a shaky kitchen chair to hang a large Starry Night print above the living room couch. We talked about safe, surface-level things—the best coffee shops that didn't burn their espresso, the worst dining hall horror stories from our freshman dorms, and how she wanted to plan large-scale music festivals after graduation. She asked about my literature courses with genuine curiosity, not the polite, glazed-over version most people offered when you told them you read for a grade.

​By late afternoon, the apartment felt more like a home than anywhere I’d lived since my parents’ divorce had turned my childhood house into a quiet, sterile war zone of divided assets. We collapsed onto the secondhand couch, our shins covered in a light layer of gray dust, the string lights glowing softly against the unpainted walls even though the sun was still hovering above the horizon.

​Jess cracked open two sparkling waters with a sharp clink of metal and handed me one. “To new beginnings, exceptionally good rent, and not murdering each other over whose turn it is to take the trash down three flights of stairs.”

​I clinked my blue aluminum can against hers, the condensation cool against my palms. “I’ll absolutely drink to that.”

​We sat in a comfortable, heavy silence for a minute, the kind that didn’t feel forced or loaded with expectations. I leaned my head back against the cushion, watching the light change from brilliant gold to a bruised, twilight purple across the ceiling.

​Then Jess shifted, her platforms scraping against the linoleum. She looked a little sheepish, her fingers twisting the gold star at her throat.

​“So… I should probably mention something small. A tiny logistics detail.”

​I didn't move my head, but my eyes tracked her body language. The sudden shift from open to guarded was a dialect I spoke fluently. “What kind of detail?”

​“My friend needs a place to crash for a couple of weeks,” Jess said, her words rushing out a little too fast, a little too casual. “His housing transfer got completely screwed up by the administration—athletic dorm stuff, a total paperwork nightmare involving some mold spike in the varsity facilities. He’s totally desperate. He offered to chip in an extra third of the rent and cover utilities for the month just for the trouble. It’s literally just the couch until his new slot clears up. Is that… okay with you?”

​I took another slow sip of my water, letting the cold liquid settle. A random guy crashing on our couch for fourteen days wasn't ideal. I had spent two years ensuring my environment was completely predictable, and an unknown variable in sweatpants sleeping ten feet from my bedroom door didn't fit the blueprint.

​But the rent relief would take the pressure off my textbook budget. And more than that, I didn't want to start my junior year reset as the rigid, difficult roommate who couldn't handle a temporary inconvenience. I didn't want Jess to think I was fragile.

​“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said easily, my voice smooth and unbothered. “As long as he isn’t loud after midnight or eats my food without asking.”

​Jess’s entire face lit up, her eyes wide with relief. “Oh my god, you are an actual angel! I promise he’s pretty low-maintenance. He’s always at practice anyway. Honestly, you probably won’t even notice he’s here.”

​I nodded, already mentally filing the faceless stranger under the category of temporary inconvenience. After everything I’d been through—after the deliberate, quiet demolition of my seventeen-year-old self—some random varsity athlete sleeping on a couch for two weeks was nothing I couldn't navigate with a closed door and a high GPA.

​The copper string lights twinkled softly above us, casting small, warm halos against the drywall. The kitchen still smelled like fresh pine soap, cardboard boxes, and the clean slate of a new semester. I leaned back farther into the couch, letting the quiet, unfamiliar satisfaction settle deep into my chest.

​Junior year was finally beginning.

​And for the first time in my life, it felt like the stories were mine to write.

​The internship coordinator’s office had smelled like stale coffee and hot printer ink, a combination that usually signaled productive, orderly progress. I had sat across from her desk with my notebook balanced on my knee, my pen moving steadily as she listed the requirements for the Aldridge Literary Review summer program. Competitive didn’t even begin to cover it. They wanted writing samples, two faculty recommendations, a personal essay that actually meant something, and proof that I could handle real editorial responsibility under pressure.

​I needed this more than I’d needed anything in a long time.

​“A strong GPA helps, obviously,” she had said, sliding a thick packet toward me across the polished mahogany, “but we’re looking for voice, Maeve. Students who’ve lived enough to have something worth saying.”

​I had nodded, tucking the packet into my bag like it was made of glass. “I understand. I’m working on the essay now.”

​She had smiled the way adults do when they think they’re being encouraging but are actually just measuring you against a shadow. “You’re Caleb Calloway’s sister, right? An impressive family legacy here at Aldridge. He was a phenomenal editor for the Review before his fellowship.”

​I had returned the smile even though the muscles in my face felt tight, like dry leather. “Something like that.”

​By the time I left the humanities building, the late afternoon sun had softened into that golden hour glow that made the brick and ivy of campus look like a glossy recruitment postcard. I walked the familiar, tree-lined route back to the new apartment with my canvas bag slung over my shoulder, my earbuds in but no music playing—just using them as an auditory shield against the world. My mind kept turning over the internship requirements. This was my year to build something that was entirely mine. A clean, unassailable portfolio that no one could look at and summarize as Caleb Calloway’s little sister.

​The off-campus building came into view, and a small, cautious optimism settled into my chest.

Jess seemed genuinely nice. The place had good light. The rent was manageable. For once in my life, the tiles were falling into place.

​I climbed the narrow staircase, my keys already jingling in my hand, and unlocked the door to what was supposed to be my sanctuary.

​“Jess? I’m back. I grabbed those internship forms from the—”

​The words died in my throat, dry as ash.

​He was standing in our kitchen like he owned the oxygen in the room. He was leaning against the laminate counter in gray sweatpants and a faded Aldridge basketball hoodie, eating cereal straight from the box—my cereal, the knock-off honey-oat kind I specifically bought because it cost two dollars less than the name brand and didn’t taste entirely like cardboard. One of his hands held the cardboard box tilted toward his mouth, while the other was halfway to grabbing another handful.

​My body locked up completely.

​Every muscle, every breath, every fluid thought froze in a single, devastating instant. Three seconds stretched into an entire eternity. In those three seconds, the room lost fifteen degrees, and two years of carefully buried history slammed into me with the force of a physical impact. It was a seismic stillness. Memories I had locked away behind iron determination. The version of myself I had worked so hard to leave behind, threatened to break through my sternum.

​He saw me at the exact same moment.

​The cereal box lowered slowly, his knuckles tightening against the cardboard. Nate Ellison looked precisely as I remembered—six-foot-three of effortless, frustratingly magnetic presence. Dark brown hair, thick and slightly overgrown like he kept forgetting to cut it, with those natural waves that fell across his forehead when he wasn't pushing it back. He had a sharp jaw, defined cheekbones, and those light gray-blue eyes that always looked a little too intense, turning almost silver in the afternoon light pouring through our small kitchen window. His skin carried that permanent golden tan from hours on the outdoor courts, and the oversized hoodie did nothing to hide the broad shoulders and lean, functional muscle of a starting point guard.

​Objectively unfair. Dangerously familiar.

​Jess appeared from the hallway, her curls bouncing wildly, completely oblivious to the tectonic shift happening in her kitchen.

​“Oh good, you’re home!” Jess beamed, her eyes darting between us. “Maeve, this is Nate. The friend I told you about? His housing thing is a total disaster—some black mold issue in the varsity suites—so he’s crashing on the couch for a couple of weeks. Nate, this is Maeve—my amazing new roommate who was cool enough to say yes to the extra body.”

​Nate’s jaw flexed, a sharp muscle ticking just beneath his ear. He set the cereal box down on the counter with deliberate, agonizing care, never breaking eye contact with me.

​“Maeve,” he said.

​Just my name. Low. Rough. Like a warning he was giving to himself more than a greeting to me. The sound of it in his mouth after two years cracked a microscopic fault line right through the center of my chest.

​“Absolutely not.”

​The words left me flat and cold, dropping like stones before I could even think to soften them for Jess’s sake.

​Jess blinked, her bright energy faltering as she looked between us. “Wait… what?”

​I took one step forward into the apartment, gripping the strap of my canvas bag like a lifeline, using the heavy textbooks inside to anchor myself to the floorboards. “This isn’t happening. He can’t stay here.”

​Nate’s shoulders straightened, instantly adopting that familiar basketball posture—tall, broad, unfairly composed even when cornered in a space he didn't belong in. “It’s two weeks, Maeve. Maybe three until the athletic director signs the transfer. I’ll pay extra rent.”

​“I don’t care what you pay.” My voice stayed low, but the edge sharpened until it was surgical. “Find somewhere else.”

​Jess’s big brown eyes were wide now, her hands coming up to twist the gold star necklace at her throat as she watched a match she didn't have the playbook for. “Okay… hold on. You two know each other?”

​Nate didn’t answer right away. He just kept looking at me, his silver-blue eyes searching my face with an expression I refused to decipher.

​I answered for him, keeping my gaze locked on his face so he could see the absolute lack of give in my eyes. “He’s my brother’s best friend. Caleb’s best friend.”

​Jess’s mouth formed a small, stunned “O.” “Wait, Caleb Caleb? The one in New York on the fellowship? That’s your brother?” She turned to Nate, her brows furrowing. “Ellison, you never mentioned you knew Maeve.”

​“Didn’t realize she was the one moving in here,” Nate said tightly. His hand flexed at his side, his fingers twitching against his sweatpants as if he wanted to reach for something, anything, to break the proximity.

​I let out a sharp, humorless laugh that cut through the kitchen's thick air. “And I didn’t realize my new roommate’s ‘low-maintenance friend’ was Nate Ellison. Small world. Still not happening.”

​“Maeve.” There it was again—my name spoken like a tether and a threat at the same time. He took half a step forward, his massive frame shifting into my peripheral vision, but he cut himself short when I visibly tensed, my fingers whitening against my bag strap. “Look, I get it. But my options are limited. The athletic dorm transfer fell through completely and the temporary housing list on campus is full. I can sleep on the couch. I’ll stay out of your way. You won't even know I'm here.”

​“Stay out of my way?” I repeated. The words tasted bitter, like iron. “You don’t know how to stay out of anyone’s way, Nate.”

​Jess shifted uncomfortably from the edge of the linoleum, her platform sneakers scraping softly against the wood. “Um… should I… give you two a minute to sort this out?”

​“No,” I said, my voice clipped, at the exact same moment Nate muttered, “It’s fine.”

​We glared at each other across the small kitchen island. The silence stretched again, heavy and suffocating with the weight of everything we weren’t saying—everything we couldn't say with Jess standing three feet away. Our mutual dislike was a mystery the campus accepted as a personality clash, and I intended to keep it that way. No one was supposed to know what lay beneath the foundation.

​I could see the exact moment Jess started piecing things together—not the actual history, but enough to realize this wasn’t simple roommate awkwardness. Her usual bright, sunshine energy dimmed into a cautious, sharp curiosity.

​“So… you only know each other through Caleb?” she asked carefully, her eyes lingering on the tight line of my jaw.

​“Yeah,” Nate answered before I could, his voice dropping into a professional cadence. “We’ve… crossed paths over the years.”

​“Crossed paths,” I muttered under my breath. The sheer understatement of it burned. I dropped my canvas bag onto the secondhand couch and crossed my arms tightly over my chest, pulling my oversized sweater around me like armor. “This is my apartment too, Jess. I just moved my things in. I’m not doing this for the next month.”

​Nate ran a heavy hand through his dark hair, pushing the waves back from his forehead only for them to fall right back into place. “I’ll pay a full third of the rent, Maeve. Groceries. Utilities.

Whatever you want. I’m not here to make your life harder.”

​Too late for that, I thought, the words pressing against the back of my teeth.

​I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell Jess that if he stayed, I would leave. I wanted to grab my carefully arranged boxes of poetry and Didion and walk out. But the practical, accounting-minded part of me—the part that had spent two years learning how to survive quietly and build safety out of spreadsheets—knew I needed this rent split if I was going to afford the unpaid internship at the Review. I needed stability more than I needed the immediate satisfaction of throwing him out into the September afternoon.

​Jess looked genuinely torn, her gaze dropping to the floor. “Maeve… I’m really sorry. I swear I didn’t know you two had issues. If it’s really that bad, I can tell Marcus to find him another couch—”

​“It’s not issues,” I cut in quickly, my voice leveling out into a practiced, academic calm. “It’s just… complicated. Because of Caleb. They’re close, and I don't want campus rumors getting back to New York.”

​Nate’s eyes flickered at my brother’s name, a shadow passing behind the silver-blue. Good. At least some part of him still remembered what loyalty was supposed to feel like.

​I exhaled slowly through my nose, forcing my shoulders down, reclaiming the absolute control I had spent the morning celebrating. “Two weeks,” I said, looking directly into his eyes. “Maximum.

You touch my food again without asking and you’re on the street. You stay on your side of the apartment. You don’t speak to me unless it is absolutely necessary for logistics. And when Caleb comes back for winter break, this never happened. We do not exist to each other.”

​Nate studied me for a long, silent beat. Something unreadable and ancient passed behind his eyes—a flash of that guilty look he usually hid behind his invincibility. Then, he nodded once.

​“Understood.”

​Jess let out a high, nervous laugh, desperately trying to cut through the remaining tension. “Okay! Great. A truce. We’re all adults here. This is fine. Totally fine.” She snatched the honey-oat cereal box from the counter and shook it lightly to check the volume. “Who wants pizza? My treat. We can celebrate the... unique new roommate situation.”

​Neither of us answered her.

​I picked up my canvas bag from the couch and headed straight for my bedroom without another syllable. As I closed the door behind me, the wood clicking into the frame, I leaned my back against it. My eyes snapped shut, and my heart hammered violently against my ribs like a trapped bird.

​Two years of perfect distance—two years of successfully pretending Nate Ellison didn’t exist—had just collapsed in the span of ten minutes. And the absolute worst part was the way my body had reacted the second he said my name. The way the air in the kitchen had felt charged, heavy, and electric.

​I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until I saw stars against the dark.

​This year was supposed to be clean.

​It already wasn’t.

Practice had been brutal. Coach ran us through defensive conversion drills until my quads felt like poured lead and my lungs burned with the dry flavor of copper. Senior year. Team captain. Starting point guard. The stakes were no longer theoretical; the professional scouts were starting to circle the court more regularly now, clipboards braced against their ribs, eyes sharp and unblinking. This was supposed to be my year—the one where the thousands of hours I’d logged in empty gymnasiums finally paid off. First-round draft buzz. A real, solid shot at the league. I’d spent four years making sure Nathaniel Ellison was a brand name people remembered for the right reasons. Invincible. Consistent. Unshakeable.

​And now the fucking university housing office had decided to test the structural integrity of that entire plan.

​I cursed under my breath as I climbed the final flight of narrow stairs to the apartment, my heavy leather duffel bag slung over a shoulder that already ached from fighting through three screens during scrimmages. “Two weeks, my ass,” I muttered into the empty stairwell. The varsity dorm transfer was a bureaucratic nightmare of red tape, lost work orders, and athletic department excuses. Couch surfing in my best friend’s little sister’s off-campus apartment wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured the first chapter of my senior season kicking off. It felt small. It felt exposed.

​I turned the key quietly and stepped inside, bracing for the impact of the air.

​The living room was dim, the copper string lights Jess had hung casting faint, amber halos against the unpainted drywall. The only real illumination came from the kitchen—a cold, sharp bar of fluorescent light that spilled across the linoleum. Jess was apparently out; she’d mentioned some communications club mixer this morning before I left for early film study.

​But Maeve was here.

​She stood at the laminate kitchen counter, her phone pressed tightly to her ear, her back partially turned to me. Even at five-foot-six, she somehow managed to command the entire square footage like a low-pressure system packed into a slender frame. Her dark chocolate brown hair fell in thick, loose waves just past her shoulders, a few stray strands tucked behind a small, pale ear. She was wearing that massive, oversized cream sweater—the kind that slipped off one collarbone to reveal a sliver of warm ivory skin—and straight-leg denim that made her legs look long and lean.

​She was the kind of pretty that snuck up on you from behind. Not the girl who stopped a room by entering it, but the girl you couldn't look away from once you realized she was there.

​“Yeah… I miss you too,” she said softly into the receiver, her voice dropping into a register I hadn’t heard in two years. “Love you. Night.”

​My stomach twisted, a hard, physical knot forming just beneath my ribs. Jordan Hayes. Mr. Pre-Law. Mr. Safe Harbor. The guy who probably had a pristine driving record, owned an ironed suit, and never fucked up a single line of his life. I hated him on sight, and I’d only seen the back of his head once from thirty yards away across the quad. I hated how easily that love you rolled off her tongue, like a habit she was proud of keeping. I hated that it existed at all.

​She ended the call and set the phone face-down on the counter. I let my duffel bag drop onto the floor by the couch, the heavy leather hitting the wood louder than necessary.

​Maeve turned instantly, and the temperature in the kitchen dropped fifteen degrees before her boots even cleared the island. Those deep olive-green eyes narrowed into dangerous slits the second they landed on my face.

​“You’re still here,” she said flatly.

​“Shockingly, yes.” I walked past her into the kitchen, keeping a strict foot of clear air between my shoulder and hers, and pulled the fridge door open. I grabbed a cold plastic water bottle, using the chill of it to steady my hands. “Housing situation is still a disaster. Trust me, Calloway, I’m as thrilled about the couch layout as you are.”

​She crossed her arms over her chest, pulling that heavy knit sweater tight around herself like armor. The fabric slipped a fraction further off her shoulder. I forced my eyes up to her face, refusing to let my gaze linger anywhere else.

​“Jess isn’t here,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation of space.

​“Nope. Just me.”

​The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, vibrating with the ghost of a phone call she didn't want me to have heard. I couldn’t help myself. I leaned my back against the counter, twisting the plastic cap off the water bottle with a sharp, mechanical crack. “So. Jordan, huh? Sounds serious.”

​Maeve’s expression didn’t shift a millimeter, but I saw the precise moment her shoulders locked. “That’s none of your business.”

​“Relax. Just making conversation.” I took a long, slow drink, my eyes tracking her over the rim of the plastic bottle. “The guy must be a saint. Perfect boyfriend material. Bet he never uses your mugs or touches your honey-oats without submitting a request in writing.”

​Her eyes flashed. There it was—the storm waking up behind her pupils.

​“You know what?” she said, her voice dropping into that low, surgical cadence that always felt like a razor blade sliding through silk. “Let’s get one thing perfectly straight, Nate. You don’t get to comment on my life. You don’t get to make observations. You don’t even get to look at me longer than it takes to check if the hallway is clear. Those were the conditions.”

​“I agreed to the conditions,” I shot back, matching her cold, level register as I set the water bottle down on the laminate. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to pretend you’re a ghost while I’m living out of a duffel bag ten feet from your room.”

​“You’ve been here twenty-four hours and you’re already taking up all the air, eating my food, and eavesdropping on my personal calls,” she said, her voice sharpening with every syllable. “That’s not staying out of my way.”

​“I wasn’t eavesdropping. You were standing in the middle of the common space talking loud enough for the varsity squad down the block to hear how much you love your lawyer.” The words came out with more of an edge than I intended, a bitter, rough tone that tasted like copper. I didn't pull it back. “Must be nice. Having someone that… reliable.”

​Maeve took a single step closer. Even with my height advantage, the sheer, icy gravity of her presence shrunk the distance between us until the air felt heavy. “You don’t know the first thing about reliable, Nate. And you definitely don’t possess the right to judge it.”

​I set the water bottle down harder than necessary, the plastic crinkling under my grip. “I’m not judging anything. I’m just pointing out the obvious. You’ve got your perfect little universe set up here, haven't you? Pristine GPA. The internship applications. The boyfriend who probably brings you specific flowers and remembers the exact date you met. Must be exhausting keeping all that white armor so polished.”

​Her laugh was short, sharp, and entirely devoid of humor. “Armor? That’s exceptionally rich coming from you, Nathaniel. Mr. Golden Boy. Team captain. The university's favorite son. Walking around Aldridge like the administration owes you a living just because you can handle a basketball. Tell me—does the performance ever get tiring, or do you actually believe your own press releases at this point?”

​I felt the muscle in my jaw tighten until it ached. “This has nothing to do with me.”

​“No? Then stop inserting your commentary into my kitchen. Stop acting like you have any residual right to an opinion on who I speak to or how I choose to live. You’re on that couch because your housing transfer fell through and you have nowhere else to go. That’s it. Two weeks, Nate. Then you disappear back into the athletic circle and we go back to the only rule that matters: pretending the other person doesn’t exist.”

​The words landed like small, practiced cuts. I hated how good she was at it—never raising her voice, never showing a single crack in her own foundation while she methodically looked for mine.

​“Fine,” I said, my voice flattening into a rigid line. “Message received, Calloway. I’ll stay on my side of the cushions. You stay on your high horse. We’ll both survive the month.”

​She studied me for one final, agonizing beat, those deep green eyes searching my face for something I didn’t want her to find. Whatever she saw behind my eyes—whatever I was carrying—she dismissed it with a cool turn of her chin. She turned on her heel and walked toward her bedroom.

​“And Nate?” she called out without looking back, her hand already gripping the brass doorknob. “Stop using my cereal. Buy your own.”

​The wood clicked into the frame, loud and final in the quiet apartment.

​I stood in the kitchen for a long time after she left, the bar of fluorescent light humming faintly above my head. I looked down at the half-empty cereal box sitting on the counter. The apartment felt too small now. Too thin.

​I moved to the living room, dropping heavily onto the couch and burying my face in my hands. The leather duffel bag sat by my feet like an anchor. The non-conference opener was in ten days. The pro scouts were arriving for the home game right after that. I was supposed to be completely locked in—laser-focused on plays, on leadership, on the future I'd mapped out since my freshman year. Not dealing with this tectonic tension with Caleb’s little sister.

​I hated the housing office with every passing minute.

​Later that night, long after the apartment had gone totally dark and Jess still hadn't returned, I lay flat on the short couch, staring up at the ceiling. The amber string lights cast thin, skeletal patterns across the drywall above me. My legs hung awkwardly off the edge of the cushions because the frame was built for someone half my size.

​This was fine.

​Maeve was just Caleb’s younger sister. Someone I used to see around during summers. The fact that she had some pre-law boyfriend was entirely irrelevant to my life. The way she looked at me like I was something she wanted to scrape off her shoe was irrelevant. The way the air in the kitchen still felt heavy, thick, and electric whenever we were in the same room was… something I could manage.

​I turned onto my side, punching the thin pillow Jess had left out for me until it flattened against the armrest. Two weeks. Three at the absolute most. I’d keep my head down, dominate on the court, stay out of her path, and keep building the future I’d earned.

​It was completely fine.

​I closed my eyes in the dark and tried to believe the lie.

​It didn’t work.