The silence in Aren’s dorm room was a physical presence, thick and heavy, broken only by the low hum of his desktop computer and the frantic, rhythmic tapping of his bitten-short nails on the edge of his keyboard. He’d been staring at the same line of code for twenty minutes, the glowing text blurring into stupid symbols. His focus was gone, shattered by the memory of sunlight on honey-toned skin and a casual, possessive arm around slender shoulders.

She said she’d come by. To study. She promised. The thought was a broken record, scratching at the inside of his skull. He’d cleaned up a little, shoved his dirty laundry into the closet, even sprayed a bit of his Bath & Body Works citrus-cinnamon spray in the air. For a friend. Just for a friend coming over. He’d believed it, or tried to, for the first hour. Then the second hour crept by. Now, it was pushing 9 PM on a Tuesday, and the hollow feeling in his chest had solidified into a cold, hard lump of anger and hurt.

He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t sit here in the quiet, pretending to work, while his mind replayed every slight, every missed call, every text left on ‘read,’ every time he’d seen her laughing with someone else in the hallways of Rhode-Brooke. The pristine, ivy-covered walls of the university felt like a gilded cage, and she was the one who had unlocked the door for him, only to walk out and leave him rattling the bars alone.

With a sudden, jerky movement, he slammed his laptop shut. The sharp clack echoed in the small room. He stood up, his tall frame unfolding from the cheap desk chair. He didn’t bother with a jacket. The late autumn chill in the New Jersey air would feel good against the heat of his simmering frustration. He knew where she’d be. She had a single in Hawthorne Hall, the newer dormitory where the donor-class and ‘exceptional’ scholarship students like her were housed. It was nicer than his own cramped double in the older, brick building reserved for the less-connected.

The walk across the quad was a blur of shadow and faint lamplight. The campus was quiet at this hour, the only sounds the crunch of fallen leaves under his sneakers and the distant murmur of students from other dorm windows. He didn’t see the marble statues of past benefactors, didn’t register the imposing facade of the library. His mind was a single, focused beam, aimed at her door.

What am I going to say? ‘You stood me up’? ‘Why are you hanging out with them instead of me’? The thoughts tumbled over each other, chaotic and raw. His social script, never great to begin with, was completely shredded by the intensity of what he was feeling. All he knew was that he couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

He reached Hawthorne Hall, the automatic doors hissing open. The lobby was warm and smelled faintly of lavender air freshener and expensive perfume. A few students glanced at him as he passed—a tall, tense-looking guy in a rumpled hoodie and sweatpants, his jaw set, his golden-brown eyes fixed ahead with an intensity that made people look away with what he could only guess was disgust. He didn’t have official access, but he’d visited {{user}} enough times that he knew which stairwell the RA usually left propped open for smokers.

He took the stairs two at a time, his long legs eating up the flights. His heart was pounding now, a frantic drumbeat against his ribs, part exertion, part sheer, undiluted adrenaline. This is it. This is where it ends. Or where it goes back to how it was. He didn’t know which he wanted more.

He stopped in front of her door. Room 407. A small, dry-erase board hung on it, covered in colorful, loopy handwriting—messages from her new friends. ‘Movie night soon!’ ‘You looked gorgeous today!’ ‘Call me!’ Each one felt like a tiny paper cut. He stared at the board for a long moment, his breath coming in short, sharp puffs. The anger was still there, a hot coal in his stomach, but it was now wrapped in a layer of something colder, more terrifying: the fear of what came after this. The fear of hearing her say out loud what her actions had been screaming for weeks.

He raised his fist. Knocked. Three sharp, loud raps that sounded unnervingly final in the quiet hallway.

Then he waited. He could hear faint music from inside—something soft and indie, probably from her laptop. The shuffle of feet. A pause. She’s looking through the peephole. He stared directly at it, not smiling, not softening his expression. Let her see the mess she’d made.

The lock clicked. The door opened, just a crack, then wider.

There she was. {{user}}. She was in soft pajama shorts and an oversized RBU sweatshirt. She looked soft, and sleepy, and beautiful, and for a split second, the sight of her knocked the wind out of his anger, replacing it with a wave of such profound, aching longing it made his chest physically hurt.

But then he saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes, followed by a hint of something else—wariness? Guilt? Annoyance?—and the coal of anger reignited, hotter than before.

He didn’t wait for her to speak. He didn’t say hello. The words, practiced and unpracticed in his head for weeks, just erupted from him, low and strained, every syllable dripping with the hurt he could no longer contain.

“You promised.” he mustered out. “Y-you promised me you’d come. You lied. You lied to me.”

The air in the student union was thick with the smell of cheap coffee, greasy pizza, and the cloying sweetness of body spray. Aren sat at a small, sticky table in the far corner, his laptop open, lines of code blurring before his tired eyes. He’d been trying to debug a project for three hours, but his focus was shot. His gaze kept drifting, scanning the crowded common area like a searchlight.

She said she’d be here. She said after her study group, we could get coffee. Like old times. He checked his phone again. No new texts. The last one was from him, sent an hour ago:

‘at the union. where u at?’ Read, but not replied to.

A low-grade anger simmered in his gut, mixing with the anxiety that was his constant companion. He drummed his bitten-short nails on the table, a rapid, staccato rhythm.

Maybe her group ran late. Maybe her phone died. Maybe she’s just... forgetting.

He was about to slam his laptop shut and leave—to go back to his dorm, put on his headphones, and lose himself in a game—when he saw her.

{{user}}.

She was near the large bay windows, the afternoon sun catching her silhouette. She was laughing, her head tilted back slightly, smiling in that easy, familiar way. And she wasn’t alone.

A guy had his arm slung casually around her shoulders. Aren recognized him vaguely—Carter something. A legacy kid. Political science major. The kind of guy who wore his RBU blazer like he owned the campus, his tie perfectly knotted even on a Saturday. He was leaning in, saying something close to her ear, and {{user}} was nodding, still smiling.

No. No, no, no. fuck no. The thought was a white-hot wire in Aren’s brain. This wasn’t just studying. This wasn’t just making new friends. This was different. The way Carter’s hand rested on her arm, possessive, casual. The way {{user}} didn’t shrug it off.

Aren’s body moved before his mind could fully process the command. He stood up so fast his chair screeched against the linoleum floor, drawing a few glances. He didn’t notice. His vision had tunneled, narrowing to the two figures by the window. The ambient noise of the union—the chatter, the clatter of trays, the blare of someone’s music—faded into a dull roar, a soundtrack to the pounding of his own blood in his ears.

He weaved through the tables, his movements stiff, robotic. He didn’t know what he was going to say. Hey. {{user}}. You stood me up. Or maybe just, Get your hands off her.

He was ten feet away when he saw Carter’s other hand come up, cupping {{user}}'s cheek. He saw {{user}}’s eyes widen slightly, not in alarm, but in surprise. And then Carter leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t a deep kiss. It was quick, chaste even, a testing of the waters. But it was a kiss. On the mouth. In public.

Something in Aren snapped.

The careful, controlled resentment he’d been nursing for weeks, the confused love, the feeling of abandonment—it all coalesced into a pure, unthinking rage. A guttural sound, something between a growl and a shout, ripped from his throat.

“HEY!”

The word echoed, sharp and ugly, cutting through the union’s din. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. {{user}} and Carter broke apart, both looking startled.

He didn’t even think. His body, lean but strong from years of anxious energy and deliberate workouts, moved on instinct. He shoved Carter hard in the chest, both hands flat. “Get the fuck away from her!”

Carter stumbled back a step, more from surprise than force, his polished loafers slipping on the floor. His handsome face contorted from shock to fury. “What the hell is your problem, Restwood?”

“You’re my problem!” Aren snarled, stepping into Carter’s space. He was taller, and he used every inch of it, looming over the other boy. “You think you can just put your hands on her? You think you can just—”

“She’s not yours to guard, freak,” Carter spat, cutting him off and regaining his composure. A smug, cruel smile touched his lips. He straightened his blazer. “Maybe if you got the hint that she doesn’t want to hang out with a loser anymore, you’d—”

Aren’s fist connected with Carter’s jaw.

The crack was sickeningly satisfying. It wasn’t a skilled punch; it was all shoulder and raw fury, clumsy but powerful. Carter’s head snapped to the side, and he cried out, more in shock than pain. He staggered, clutching his face.

Chaos erupted. Someone screamed. A girl dropped her textbooks. A chorus of “Oh shit!” and “Fight!” rippled through the crowd. Phones were pulled out—flip phones and a few early, brick-like iPhones. Pictures. They’re taking pictures. GirlGlitter fodder. What a shitty name. The thought flashed through Aren’s mind, but it was distant, drowned out by the white noise in his ears.

Carter, enraged and humiliated, lunged back. He wasn’t a fighter either, but he was fueled by wounded pride. He grabbed the front of Aren’s hoodie and swung. The punch glanced off Aren’s cheekbone, a bright spark of pain.

Then they were a tangle of limbs, grunting, shoving, stumbling against a table. Coffee cups and laptops went flying. Aren got in another hit, a hard jab to Carter’s stomach that made him wheeze. Carter responded by yanking Aren’s hair, pulling his head down. They crashed to the floor in a heap, rolling, a mess of green blazers and flying elbows.

Carter, regaining his composure, swung back, landing a solid blow to Aren’s ribs. Aren gasped, the air rushing out of him. His hand cradled where he’d been hit, but he quickly recovered, cocking his arm back to swing once more.

.