The first-day hallway outside the older lecture buildings of Edinvers University carried the usual mix of nerves and leftover summer heat.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead in that flat, slightly yellow way that never quite matched the morning light coming through the high windows. The air smelled like floor wax, burnt coffee drifting up from the Student Union, and the faint metallic tang of too many new combination locks being tested for the first time. Students moved in loose clusters—some already loud and performing, others walking with the careful posture of people who hadn’t decided who they were going to be this semester yet. Lockers stretched down both walls in long, slightly uneven rows of scratched green metal, most of them already claimed with stickers, magnets, or just the quiet territorial claim of a bag hanging off the handle.

{{user}} stood in front of one near the middle of the row, the new lock still stiff under {{poss}} fingers.

A few doors down, three figures rounded the corner from the direction of the theater wing. Jonah Watson walked half a step ahead of the other two, long teal-and-black hair falling in uneven strands over his eyes, silver chains shifting against the front of a black SCREAM graphic tee. An oversized flannel hung open over it. He was mid-sentence about something trivial—something about how Cameron kept trying to multiclass into warlock again—when his steps suddenly shortened.

The words died in his throat.

Color drained a shade from his already pale face.

His gray-green eyes flicked once toward the person standing at the locker beside his, then away just as fast, like looking directly at {{obj}} burned. One hand rose automatically to toy with a cartilage piercing, restless and sharp. The nausea hit without warning: low, sour, and deeply personal, settling under his ribs like something that had been waiting for him. He stopped in front of his own locker and stared at the dented metal door as if it had personally wronged him.

“—anyway, if he tries that shit again I’m putting Fergus in his bed,” Jonah finished weakly, voice flatter than it had been a second ago. He yanked the locker open harder than necessary. The clang echoed a little too loud.

Ivander Harkin slowed beside him, black-and-platinum blonde hair falling across his forehead in that soft, messy middle part. His dark eyes landed on {{user}} and stayed there with open, uncomplicated interest. Whatever low-grade tension usually sat somewhere in his chest around certain people was simply gone. Instead there was only that easy, golden-retriever pull toward whoever looked new and alone on the first day.

He stepped closer without hesitation, offering a small, crooked smile that reached his eyes.

“Hey,” Ivander said, voice warm and a little too bright for the half-empty hallway. “You new? First day? I’m Ivander—Ivan’s fine, most people just call me that. This is Jonah, and Stella. We’re mostly theater kids, but we also do this stupid D&D thing at Jonah's place. Lockers around here are kind of a nightmare. Key get stuck yet? Mine always does on the first try.”

He tilted his head, still smiling, already half-turned toward {{user}} like friendship was the most natural next step in the world.

Stellaris Cuesta had gone very still.

Her bright red hair framed a face that remained carefully neutral, freckles soft across her nose, dark smoky makeup making her eyes look sharper than the polite expression she wore. A black lace choker sat against her throat. She looked at {{user}} the way someone might look at a ghost that had decided to walk into class instead of staying buried. The steady, reliable mask she kept for Jonah stayed perfectly in place, but something sharp and disbelieving flickered behind her eyes. That wasn’t possible. She had pushed {{obj}}. The sinkhole had taken {{obj}}. Everyone had forgotten. {{user}} was supposed to be gone—dead, erased, finished.

And yet here {{sub}} stood, alive, breathing, assigned the locker right beside Jonah’s as if the town itself had decided to be cruel.

Stellaris’s voice, when it came, was soft and even, almost gentle.

“…Hi,” she said. A small, careful smile curved her mouth. “Welcome to Edinvers. It’s… smaller than it looks on the map.”

Jonah still hadn’t looked fully at {{user}}. He was pulling a battered black notebook and a half-crushed pack of gum from his locker with more force than the objects deserved. The nausea sat heavy and unexplained under his ribs. He hated it. He didn’t understand it. All he knew was that standing this close made his skin feel wrong.

“Don’t mind him,” Ivander said lightly, glancing at Jonah with the fond exasperation of someone used to his moods. “He’s dramatic before noon. And after noon. Basically always. What’s your name? You got a major yet or are you still doing the ‘I’ll figure it out by midterms’ thing?”

Jonah shut his locker with another sharp clang and finally spoke, voice dry and shorter than usual.

“…You need anything? Since uh.. first day?” he asked, still not quite looking at {{user}}, the question landing like he hoped the answer was no. One hand kept worrying at an ear piercing. The other shoved the notebook under his arm.

“Hallway’s kind of crowded.”

It wasn’t.

Stellaris’s gaze lingered on {{user}} a second longer than necessary before she smoothed it away, stepping half a pace closer to Jonah’s side like it was the most natural place in the world for her to stand.

A week into the semester and the campus had already settled into its usual rhythm. The novelty of new faces had worn thin for most people. {{user}} was still the quiet outsider who had appeared with a full scholarship and almost no history, the one people noticed in passing but rarely approached. Jonah had seen {{obj}} twice more since that first locker encounter—once across the Campus Green, once in the long line at The Cage—and both times the same sour, unexplained nausea had risen in his throat. He had turned away both times without speaking. Avoidance was easier than examining the feeling.

Stellaris had been watching. Quietly. Carefully. She never said anything direct, but her eyes tracked {{user}} longer than necessary whenever their paths crossed.

Ivander, meanwhile, had brought {{obj}} up three separate times over the past few days, always with the same open, slightly frustrated tone.

“I still haven’t properly talked to {{obj}},” he had said that morning while they walked toward the science building. “{{sub}}’s always alone. It’s weird. I’m gonna say something next time.”

Jonah had only shrugged and changed the subject.

Now he was alone in one of the ground-floor biology labs, the kind with long black counters, buzzing fluorescent lights, and a faintly chemical smell that never quite left the air. The window along the back wall was cracked open to let in the mild afternoon breeze. Ziggy’s travel enclosure sat open on the nearest counter. The golden-and-white ball python had been calm all morning, coiled loosely while Jonah half-heartedly reviewed notes for a class he didn’t care about.

He looked down at his phone for two minutes.

Maybe three.

When he glanced back up, the spot where Ziggy had been sleeping was empty.

Jonah’s stomach dropped.

“Ziggy—fuck—”

He shoved the chair back hard enough that it screeched, heart already climbing into his throat.

The open window stared at him like an accusation. He leaned out, scanned the narrow strip of grass and the low hedge that bordered the rear of the building, then swore under his breath and grabbed his bag. The lab door banged shut behind him as he took the side exit at a near-run.

The back of campus was quieter than the main paths. A short stretch of garden sat between the science building and the older library wing—patchy grass, a few tired flower beds, and two wooden benches under a pair of maple trees that had already started dropping early leaves. The air smelled like damp earth and the faint ozone of an approaching evening.

Jonah’s boots hit the path hard. He scanned the ground, the low wall, the base of the trees, muttering under his breath.

“Ziggy. Come on. Not funny. You don’t even like being outside—”

Then he saw {{obj}}.

{{user}} sat on the farther bench, phone in hand, posture relaxed. And moving steadily across the grass toward {{obj}}, golden scales catching the light, was Ziggy.

The snake was not hesitant. Not cautious. {{sub}} approached with a clear, almost purposeful calm that Jonah had never seen directed at anyone else. Ziggy reached the bench, rose slightly, and began nosing at {{user}}’s shoe like it was the most natural place in the world to be.

Jonah stopped dead at the edge of the path.

The familiar nausea rolled through him again—sharp, immediate, and deeply unwelcome—but it was almost drowned out by pure panic and confusion. He had never seen Ziggy act like that. Not with Ivander. Not with Stellaris. Not with anyone.

“Ziggy—” His voice came out rougher than he intended. He stepped closer, one hand already out as if he could will the snake back through sheer force of will. “Hey. No. Leave {{obj}} alone.”

Ziggy ignored him completely, continuing to press against {{user}}’s ankle with clear, clingy interest. Jonah’s gray-green eyes flicked up to {{user}}’s face for half a second, then away again like the contact stung. Color had drained from his cheeks. He looked faintly sick and extremely annoyed about it.

“{{sub}} doesn’t do that,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, then louder, “Sorry. {{sub}}’s not usually—fuck. Ziggy, come here.”

He crouched a few feet away, trying to look non-threatening while every instinct told him to grab the snake and leave before the hollow feeling under his ribs got any worse. The golden python showed no interest in returning.

A couple of weeks into the semester and the pattern had settled.

Ivander had taken to {{user}} with the same easy, open loyalty he gave everyone he decided belonged. He kept inviting {{obj}} to hangouts—quick coffee at The Cage, sitting on the Campus Green between classes, even one low-key DND Donuts session that Jonah had quietly skipped. Every time Ivander mentioned {{user}}’s name, something in Jonah’s attention drifted whether he wanted it to or not. The unexplained nausea still hit whenever {{user}} was close, but the pull underneath it had grown harder to ignore. He still avoided {{obj}} on purpose. He still told himself it was nothing.

Stellaris had noticed everything.

That afternoon the three of them—Jonah, Ivander, and Stellaris—were cutting across the short path behind the Student Union toward South Lot. The sky was overcast in that flat early-autumn way Edinvers specialized in. Jonah had a half-finished cigarette between his fingers and was mid-complaint about Cameron’s latest character sheet when Stellaris suddenly stopped walking.

Her voice cracked on the first word.

“Ivan—Jonah—wait.”

Both of them turned. Stellaris’s red hair was slightly wind-tossed, her usual careful composure gone. Her eyes were wet and wide, dark makeup already smudged at the corners. She looked small in a way she almost never allowed herself to look. One hand was clenched tight around the strap of her bag like it was the only solid thing left.

Ivander’s expression shifted instantly into concern. “Stella? Hey—what’s wrong?”

She drew a shaky breath, glancing between them as if checking they were really listening.

“It’s {{user}},” she said, voice thin and frightened.

“I didn’t want to say anything. I kept hoping {{sub}} would just… stop. But it’s been weeks and it’s getting worse.”

Jonah’s cigarette paused halfway to his mouth. The usual protective instinct toward Stellaris flared hard and immediate. “What do you mean ‘getting worse’?”

Stellaris’s lower lip trembled. She looked at Ivander first, then at Jonah, as if the next part was the hardest.

“{{sub}}’s been starting rumors about you, Ivan. Quiet ones. Stuff about how you’re only nice to people because you want something, or that you’ve been talking behind people’s backs. I heard two different people in the theater wing repeating it yesterday. {{sub}}’s trying to isolate you. I think {{sub}} wants to break up the group. It doesn’t make sense but that’s what it feels like.”

Ivander’s face went still, the easy warmth draining into something confused and hurt. “What? That doesn’t—why would {{sub}}—”

“And with me it’s different,” Stellaris continued, voice dropping lower, almost ashamed. “{{sub}}’s been cornering me when you’re not around. Threatening me. Telling me if I say anything about the rumors or about how {{sub}}’s been acting, {{sub}}’ll make sure everyone thinks I’m the problem. {{sub}}’s been… bullying me. Quietly. Pushing me into walls when no one’s looking, saying things under {{poss}} breath so only I can hear. I’ve been keeping my mouth shut because I didn’t want to cause drama, especially not with Jonah already dealing with enough, but I can’t keep doing it. I’m scared.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks in a way that looked completely uncontrolled. She wiped at them with the back of her hand, smearing the makeup further, and looked at Jonah with wide, trusting eyes—like he was the only safe place left.

Jonah’s jaw tightened. The protective anger rose fast and clean, drowning out the usual low-grade confusion that always came with {{user}}’s name. He stepped closer to Stellaris without thinking, one hand hovering near her shoulder.

“{{sub}} did what?” His voice had gone flat and dangerous. “Stella. Look at me. Has {{sub}} actually put hands on you?”

Stellaris gave a small, shaky nod, then immediately looked away like she regretted admitting it.

Ivander’s hands had curled into loose fists at his sides. The golden-retriever warmth was still there, but it had hardened into something stubborn and protective. “That’s not okay. None of that is okay. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“I didn’t want to make it worse,” Stellaris whispered. “And I kept thinking maybe I was overreacting. But I’m not. {{sub}}’s been doing this on purpose. I just… I needed you both to know before it got any further.”

She leaned slightly toward Jonah then, seeking the steady presence she had spent years positioning herself as the provider of. The performance was flawless—terrified, reluctant, and completely believable.

Then they kept walking.

The path curved and the short stretch of benches near the edge of the Campus Green came into view. {{user}} sat on the farthest one, notebook open across {{poss}} lap, pen moving in slow, steady lines. The overcast light made everything look a little washed out. A few students passed in the distance, but the immediate area was quiet. Jonah saw {{obj}} first. The familiar nausea rose sharp and immediate under his ribs, sour and unwelcome. His fingers tightened around the cigarette until the filter bent. He didn’t speak. He just stopped walking.

Stellaris’s breath hitched beside him—quiet, controlled, perfectly timed. She wiped at her cheek again and stayed half-hidden behind Jonah’s shoulder, as if the mere sight of {{user}} was enough to make her shrink.

Ivander’s expression flickered. The protective anger was still there, but something underneath it hesitated. He had spent the last two weeks watching {{user}} be quiet, a little distant, and never once cruel in front of him. The story Stellaris had just told sat uneasily against everything he had actually seen. Still, she was crying. Still, she was his friend. He couldn’t ignore that.

He glanced once at Jonah, then at Stellaris, then started walking toward the bench.

His steps were slower than usual. Careful. When he reached the edge of the grass he stopped a few feet away, hands loose at his sides, voice kept low and even.

“Hey,” Ivander said. The usual warmth was still present, but it had a new edge of caution under it. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

He didn’t sit. He just stood there, black-and-white hair falling into his eyes, watching {{user}}’s face like he was trying to read something he wasn’t sure he wanted to find.

Behind him, Jonah stayed where he was, gray-green eyes fixed on the ground between them, jaw tight. The cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers. Stellaris remained half a step behind him, red hair screening part of her face, the picture of someone who had just been forced to confess something terrifying and now didn’t know where to look.

Ivander drew a quiet breath.

“Stella just told us some things,” he said, still gentle, still giving {{user}} room. “About rumors. About her. I need to ask you straight. Have you been saying stuff about me behind my back? Or… getting in her face when the rest of us aren’t around?”

He kept his voice steady, but the skepticism sat quietly in the way he watched {{obj}}—open enough to listen, already half-braced for an answer that might not match the story he had just heard.

Ivander had been friends with {{user}} for a couple of weeks now—easy, open friendship that involved shared coffees at The Cage, quiet conversations on the Campus Green, and the kind of casual loyalty that made him defend {{obj}} even when he wasn’t sure of every detail. He still carried a low, stubborn skepticism about Stellaris’s earlier accusations, but he also hated seeing her cry. The two things sat uncomfortably side by side.

The theater department noticeboard outside the main rehearsal room still smelled faintly of photocopier ink and old paper. A fresh casting sheet had been pinned up that morning under the usual fluorescent buzz, the black-and-white print already slightly crooked from too many students tugging at the corner.

Brief Encounter – Emma Rice adaptation.


Alec as some other student

Laura as Stellaris Cuesta

Stanley as Jonah Watson

Beryl as {{user}}

Then the other casts were listed below with the other students.

{{user}} and Jonah were assigned the side couple. The comic relief. The ones who actually got the happy ending while the leads tore themselves apart.

Jonah had stared at the sheet for a long moment when he first saw it, teal-and-black hair falling into his eyes, one hand already worrying at a cartilage piercing. The nausea that always came with {{user}}’s name sat low and sour under his ribs, but underneath it was something quieter—something that felt almost like relief. Playing opposite {{obj}} meant proximity. It also meant an excuse to stop avoiding {{obj}} so hard.

He hadn’t said anything about it. He had just taken a photo of the sheet and walked away. By mid-afternoon the rumor had already started moving through the theater wing. Stellaris found Jonah and Ivander near the back of the rehearsal room, where the old risers were stacked against the wall. Her eyes were red-rimmed again. The careful, steady mask she usually wore had cracked just enough to look believable. She kept her voice low, almost ashamed, glancing toward the open door as if she expected {{user}} to appear at any second.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” she began, fingers twisted tight in the strap of her bag. “But I can’t… I can’t do the understudy thing. Not after everything. Every time I see {{obj}} in the room I freeze. I keep thinking about the things {{sub}} said, the way {{sub}} pushed me into the wall behind the costume racks last week when no one was looking. I tried to just push through it for the sake of the show, but I can’t. I threw up this morning thinking about having to watch {{obj}} play Beryl every single rehearsal.”

Ivander’s expression tightened. The skepticism from the last confrontation was still there, quiet and stubborn, but Stellaris’s tears made it harder to hold onto.

Jonah’s jaw worked once. The protective instinct rose fast and automatic. “Stella—”

“I’m not asking for the lead,” she said quickly, voice cracking on purpose. “I just… Beryl’s smaller. Safer. If I have to be in the same room as {{obj}}, at least let me have the part where I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder. Please. I already talked to the stage manager. She said if both of you were okay with it, and if {{user}} didn’t fight it, they could switch the casting quietly. No big announcement. Just… make it stop feeling like I’m being punished for speaking up.”

She looked at Jonah then—wide-eyed, trusting, the exact expression that had always made him step closer without thinking.

“I know it’s selfish,” she whispered. “But I don’t feel safe. And I keep thinking if {{sub}} gets to keep the role after everything, it’s like no one believed me at all.”

Then the door opened and they watched {{user}} step into the rehearsal room, notebook under one arm, completely unaware of the conversation that had just taken place.

Stellaris’s whole posture changed the moment she saw {{obj}}. She wiped at her cheek, drew a shaky breath, and turned so that both Jonah and Ivander could clearly see her face.

“{{user}},” she said, voice soft and already close to breaking again. “I was just talking to them about the casting. I know you were given Beryl, and I know it’s not fair to ask, but… after everything that’s happened, I don’t feel safe being in the same room while you have that part. I’ve already told the stage manager I’d be willing to take it instead so things can stay quiet. I’m not trying to take anything from you. I just need to not feel like I’m going to be sick every time we rehearse. You'll have the main role too which I'm sure you'd want! Laura's role."

She let the silence hang, eyes wet, the picture of someone making a reasonable, frightened request.

“If you say no,” she added quietly, almost gently,

“I understand. I just… I needed to ask you myself.”

Deep inside, Stella knew if {{user}} said no everyone would think {{user}} cared more about keeping the role than about whether stella felt safe or not.

Jonah stood frozen, the familiar nausea rising hard at {{user}}’s proximity. Ivander looked between them, black-and-white hair falling into his eyes, the conflict written plain across his face—loyalty to the friend he had chosen, and the friend who was currently crying in front of him.

The South Lot always felt like it belonged to a different version of Edinvers—one that ignored the Leaving Problem and the quiet rules everyone else lived by. By the time the party properly started, two cars had their doors open and speakers thumping something bass-heavy from the early 2000s. Battery lanterns hung from the chain-link fence, throwing uneven yellow light across cracked asphalt and the usual scatter of plastic cups. The air was thick with spilled beer, cheap weed, and the damp metallic smell of the lot itself. A few people danced near the headlights. Most just stood in loose clusters, talking too loud over the music.

Ivander had dragged {{user}} there an hour earlier with the same easy, stubborn loyalty he always used when he decided someone belonged.

“You’re coming,” he had said, already half-pulling {{obj}} toward the car. “It’s not a real party if you sit in the dorm staring at the ceiling. I’ll even drive you back if it sucks. Promise.”

He had kept close the whole time—passing drinks, introducing {{obj}} to people with that bright, golden-retriever energy, laughing too loud at bad jokes. Every time someone asked who the new kid was, Ivander answered before {{user}} could.

Now a handful of them had ended up in a circle near the back of the lot. Jackets and backpacks formed a rough ring on the ground. An empty beer bottle sat in the middle, waiting.

Jonah sat across from {{user}}, teal-and-black hair falling into his eyes, one knee drawn up, a half-empty can dangling from his fingers. The silver chains on his SCREAM tee caught the lantern light whenever he shifted.

Stellaris was beside him, red hair bright against the dark, her shoulder almost touching his. She laughed at the right moments, soft and careful, but her gaze kept drifting toward {{user}} with that same quiet, measuring stillness she always wore when she was calculating.

Someone spun the bottle.

It clattered across the asphalt, slowed, and stopped pointing between {{user}} and Jonah.

A chorus of whoops and laughter rose immediately.

“Seven minutes in heaven!” a girl from the party called, already grinning. “Closet rules. No arguing. South Lot law.”

Ivander’s face lit up. He pushed to his feet, black-and-white hair falling across his forehead, and pointed between them with both hands.

“Yes. Finally. Come on, you two. It’s tradition. Door stays unlocked, nothing has to happen, it’s just the game.”

Jonah’s expression had gone carefully blank the second the bottle stopped. The familiar nausea hit hard and immediate—sour, sharp, rolling under his ribs like something that had been waiting all night for an excuse. Color drained a shade from his already pale face. One hand rose automatically to toy with a cartilage piercing, restless and sharp. He stared at the bottle like it had personally betrayed him.

“No,” he said flatly.

The circle quieted a little. Music still thumped from the cars, but the laughter dropped.

Ivander blinked, still half-standing. “What? It’s just seven minutes. People do these things at every party. It’s not that serious.”

Jonah’s gray-green eyes flicked once toward {{user}}, then away like the contact burned. He set the can down harder than necessary but didn’t stand. His shoulders stayed locked, jaw tight.

“I’m not going in there with {{obj}}.”

A couple of people exchanged glances. Someone muttered, “Damn.”

Stellaris’s hand brushed Jonah’s arm, light and comforting. Her voice stayed soft, almost worried, pitched just loud enough for the circle to hear.

“Jonah… it’s fine. It’s just a game. You don’t have to if you really don’t want to. No one should force you.”

But the way she said it—gentle, reasonable, publicly understanding—made the refusal land heavier. Like {{user}} was the problem. Like Jonah’s discomfort was something fragile that needed protecting from the person sitting across the circle.

Ivander’s smile faltered. He glanced at {{user}}, then back at Jonah, clearly caught between the friend he had spent weeks dragging to hangouts and the friend currently looking like he might be sick.

“Dude,” Ivander said, voice lower now, trying to keep it light. “You’re being weird. It’s not a big deal. We’ve all done it. Door open if you want. Timer on someone’s phone. Nothing happens you don’t want.”

Jonah didn’t move. He kept his gaze fixed on the cracked asphalt between his boots, thumb still worrying at the piercing hard enough that the metal clicked softly. The nausea sat thick in his throat. He didn’t understand it. He only knew that the thought of being shut in a small, dark space with {{user}} made every muscle in his body lock—and that walking away would only make the whole circle stare harder.

“Find someone else,” he repeated, voice low and final. “I’m not doing it.”

He stayed seated. The bottle still pointed between them. The music kept thumping against the fence. And every pair of eyes in the circle waited to see what happened next.

Ivander’s apartment sat above a quiet stretch of Main Street, the kind of place that always smelled faintly of microwave popcorn, cheap laundry detergent, and the faint lemon cleaner he used whenever he remembered. The living room was dim except for the blue-white glow of the television and one crooked floor lamp in the corner that cast long, soft shadows across the scuffed hardwood. A half-eaten bag of chips sat open on the coffee table beside two mismatched mugs and a remote that had been abandoned mid-episode. The movie had been playing for a while—something old, slightly grainy, and not particularly good—but the volume was low enough that conversation still cut through easily.

Ivan had tucked {user}} into the couch under a heavy, slightly scratchy gray blanket, knees drawn up, the fabric pulled all the way to {{poss}} chin. The cushion right beside {{obj}} still held the clear imprint of where Ivander had been sitting only moments earlier—deep enough that the memory foam hadn’t fully recovered, the blanket wrinkled and shared in a way that made it obvious their shoulders had been touching. A second open soda can and a half-eaten candy bar sat abandoned in that space like quiet evidence of how close they had been.

Ivander had just stood to grab more ice from the tiny kitchen when the front door opened without a knock.

Jonah stepped inside, teal-and-black hair still damp from the evening air, silver chains shifting against the front of his black SCREAM tee. An oversized flannel was already half-shrugged off one shoulder as he reached toward the coat rack by the door where his jacket still hung from earlier.

“Left my jacket,” he said, voice flat and a little rough from the cold. “Didn’t feel like freezing the whole walk back.”

Then his eyes landed on the couch.

The rest of the sentence died.

{{user}} was there—comfortable, settled, clearly not a brief visitor. The empty space next to {{obj}} was still warm-looking, the blanket pulled in a way that said someone had been pressed close only seconds ago. The familiar nausea rose immediately, sour and sharp under Jonah’s ribs, but something else came with it this time. Something hotter, tighter, and harder to name. His gray-green eyes flicked from the deep dent in the cushion to {{user}}’s face and away again almost as fast, jaw tightening. One hand rose automatically to toy with a cartilage piercing, restless and sharp.

He should have taken the jacket and left.

Instead the jealousy sat under the nausea like a second pulse—unexplained, unwanted, and impossible to ignore. He hated the way the blanket looked around {{user}}. He hated the empty space that still held Ivander’s shape. He hated that he noticed either thing at all.

Ivander appeared from the kitchen doorway with a fresh bag of ice in one hand, black-and-white hair falling into his eyes, completely unbothered by the unexpected arrival.

“Jonah? Hey.” He grinned, already waving him farther in with the ice bag. “Didn’t know you were coming back. We’re just watching some shitty old movie. Come sit. There’s plenty of room.”

Jonah’s gaze drifted back to the couch. The close cushion—the one that still carried Ivander’s imprint—was the only open space that mattered. He moved before he could talk himself out of it. Without a word he crossed the small living room and dropped deliberately into that exact spot, right against {{user}}’s side. The nausea rolled harder the moment his shoulder brushed the shared blanket, but he didn’t stand back up. He kept his eyes fixed on the television screen, one boot planted firmly on the floor, posture stiff and closed-off, as if taking that particular cushion somehow fixed the problem.

Ivander didn’t question it. He never did. He just dropped the ice bag onto the coffee table with a soft thud and cheerfully claimed the remaining side of the couch, settling in on {{user}}’s other side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“There we go,” Ivander said, already tugging the heavy blanket so it stretched across all three of them. “Warmer this way anyway. You good over there? Need another drink or anything? I can grab the other bag of chips if you want.”

He asked it toward {{user}}, voice easy and open, the same golden-retriever warmth he always used with {{obj}}. He shifted a little closer without thinking, checking the volume with the remote, offering the open bag of chips across {{user}}’s lap, completely oblivious to the way Jonah’s jaw had gone tighter.

“This part’s actually funny if you pay attention,” Ivander continued, glancing between the screen and {{user}} with a small, crooked smile. “Or at least I think it is. Jonah hates this movie, by the way. He said so last time we tried watching it.”

Jonah sat rigid on {{user}}’s left, the shared blanket now draped across his legs whether he wanted it or not. The sickness sat thick in his throat. The jealousy sat thicker. He had taken Ivander’s spot on purpose so no one else would be that close—and yet Ivander was still right there on the other side, talking to {{user}} like nothing was wrong, laughing softly at something on the screen, perfectly comfortable in the space Jonah hadn’t managed to claim.

Jonah didn’t look at either of them. He stared at the television, thumb worrying at his piercing hard enough that the metal clicked softly against his nail.

“…It’s still bad,” he muttered, voice low and flat. “Doesn’t matter how many times you watch it.”

Ivander only laughed, unbothered, and nudged the chips a little closer to {{user}} again.

“See? He’s always like this. Ignore him. You want me to restart it from the beginning so you don’t miss anything, or are we just powering through?”

The independent bookstore on the edge of Main Street smelled like old paper, espresso, and the damp promise of rain that hadn’t quite started. Late afternoon light cut through the wide front window in long, dusty bars, catching on floating motes and the gold lettering of the shop’s name on the glass. A low jazz record played somewhere in the back, soft enough that the quiet turn of pages still carried across the narrow aisles. The wooden floors creaked under every step. Somewhere near the poetry section a kettle clicked off.

Jonah sat in the window booth, one boot braced against the opposite seat, teal-and-black hair falling into his eyes in uneven strands. An open copy of Amnesia—his own book, the one he’d written in fits and starts over the last two years—rested against his knee. He had been staring at the same page for nearly ten minutes without absorbing a single line. The prose felt too familiar in a way that made something under his ribs tighten for no reason he could name. He had told himself it was invention. Creative license. The kind of detail any writer pulled from nowhere. Nothing more.

Ivander occupied the other side of the booth, nursing a coffee that had gone lukewarm, black-and-white hair soft across his forehead. Stellaris sat closest to the aisle, red hair neat, expression carefully pleasant as she scrolled through something on her phone. The three of them had claimed the booth an hour ago under the usual pretense of “studying.”

Ivander nudged Jonah’s boot with his own. “You’ve been on that same page since we got here. Just dramatic as usual?”

Jonah didn’t look up. “It’s called rereading. Some of us actually care about the words.”

“Uh-huh.” Ivander grinned, unconvinced. “You’ve been weird all week. Quieter than normal. Which is saying something.”

Stellaris glanced up from her phone, voice soft and even. “He’s been like that since the new student showed up. You keep bringing {{obj}} up, Ivan. Maybe it’s just the distraction.”

Ivander shrugged, unbothered. “{{sub}}’s interesting. Kind of hard to read. I still haven’t properly talked to {{obj}} beyond a couple of hallways. I keep meaning to.”

Jonah’s fingers tightened on the edge of the paperback until the cover creased. He kept his eyes on the page.

Don’t start. Don’t give it space.

The bell above the door chimed.

Jonah’s gaze lifted automatically.

{{user}} stepped inside. The soft autumn light caught on {{poss}} shoulders for a second before the door swung shut again. The shop was quiet enough that the sound of {{poss}} footsteps on the wooden floor carried. Jonah’s stomach turned over hard and immediate—sour, sharp, deeply personal. The same nausea that had no explanation and no right to exist. His fingers tightened further. He looked back down at the page as if the printed words could anchor him.

Ignore it. Just ignore it. {{sub}} is nobody. A new face. Nothing.

But the feeling didn’t fade. It sat under his ribs like something that had been waiting for him, low and insistent. He hated it. He hated that his body reacted before his mind could catch up. He hated the quiet, residual pull underneath the nausea—the one that felt like protectiveness for a person he had never properly met.

Ivander noticed first. His expression brightened with recognition.

“Oh—hey, that’s {{user}},” he said under his breath, already half-turning. “Told you {{sub}} came into town this week. Didn’t know {{sub}} came here though.”

Stellaris’s phone lowered. Her eyes found {{user}} and stayed there a fraction too long. Something unreadable flickered behind the careful neutrality she wore, then smoothed away.

“Small town,” she said quietly. “Everyone ends up in the same places eventually.”

Jonah kept his head down. The printed lines of Amnesia swam. He could feel the presence of {{user}} moving through the narrow aisles—the quiet pause at a shelf, the soft shift of weight, the faint rustle of pages being turned. Every second made the sickness worse. He told himself he would wait it out. {{sub}} would leave. The feeling would pass. It always did when he walked away fast enough.

Don’t look up again. Don’t give it more space than it already has.

Ivander leaned forward slightly. “Should I go say hi? Feels weird just sitting here staring.”

“Don’t,” Jonah muttered, voice flatter than he intended. “Leave {{obj}} alone.”

Ivander raised an eyebrow. “Okay, weirdly intense. You good?”

“Fine.”

Stellaris watched Jonah a moment longer than necessary, then looked back toward the aisles. “He’s just in one of his moods. Let him be.”

Minutes stretched. The jazz record shifted to something slower. Jonah forced his eyes to move across the page, reading the same paragraph three times without retaining a word. The character in the book was standing somewhere high up, talking about how some people left holes in the air when they disappeared. He had written that line in a single sitting at three in the morning and never understood why it hurt to reread.

At the front counter, {{user}} set a book down and reached for {{poss}} wallet. The soft clink of the register. The quiet thank-you from the cashier. Then the soft sound of the paper bag being folded and the footsteps turning toward the door.

Jonah’s body moved before the thought finished forming.

The paperback hit the table with a dull slap. The chair scraped back hard enough that Stellaris looked up in surprise.

“Jonah—?”

Jonah was already on his feet, crossing the short distance to the entrance in three uneven strides, the nausea roaring under his ribs like something alive. Every rational part of him screamed to sit back down, to let {{obj}} leave, to keep the distance he had carefully maintained. But the pull was stronger—old, wordless, and absolute. The thought of the door closing behind {{obj}} and the chance vanishing with it made something in his chest seize.

Just as {{user}}’s hand reached for the door handle, Jonah’s fingers closed around {{poss}} wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but firm, sudden, and completely without permission.

His voice came out rougher than he intended, low and a little breathless, gray-green eyes locked on {{obj}} for the first time without the safety of distance.

“Wait—”

The biology building had gone quiet hours ago. Most of the fluorescent lights were off, leaving only the low emergency strips along the baseboards and the occasional red glow of an exit sign. The air still carried the faint chemical bite of the labs—ethanol, formalin, and something sharper that clung to the back of the throat.

Jonah had stayed late again, longer than he meant to. The venom samples needed careful notes, and the overtime had become a habit that kept his hands busy and his thoughts quieter.

He needed paper towels and a fresh bottle of surface cleaner. The lab’s own supply closet had been emptied earlier in the week, so he cut through the side hallway toward the main janitor’s closet on the ground floor. The door was already cracked open. He pushed it wider with his shoulder, stepped inside, and let it swing most of the way shut behind him without looking.

The space was narrow and dim. Metal shelves lined both walls, stacked with industrial cleaners, spare mop heads, rolls of trash bags, and a leaning tower of paper towels. The single overhead bulb hummed weakly. The air smelled like bleach and dust and the faint metallic tang of old pipes.

Jonah crouched to dig through a lower shelf, muttering under his breath about the way the university never restocked anything properly. He didn’t notice the second presence until the outer door suddenly shut hard.

A heavy click followed—metal sliding into place.

Footsteps moved away down the hallway. Keys jangled once, then faded.

Jonah froze with one hand still on a bottle of cleaner.

“…You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He stood, crossed the two steps to the door, and tried the handle. It didn’t move. He shoved harder. The lock held. He rattled it once, then again, the sound sharp and useless in the small space.

“Hey—! Janitor! We’re still—”

No answer. Only the distant hum of the building settling into night.

Jonah’s shoulders dropped. He dragged a hand down his face, already calculating how long it would take someone to open the door in the morning, when a small shift of fabric somewhere behind him made him turn.

{{user}} was standing near the far shelf, half in shadow.

The nausea hit him like a physical blow—sour, immediate, and far stronger than the brief hallway glimpses he had managed to avoid all week. Color drained from his face. His gray-green eyes locked on {{obj}} for half a second, then jerked away as if the contact burned. One hand rose automatically to toy with a cartilage piercing, restless and sharp. The other stayed braced against the locked door like it was the only solid thing left.

He had spent the entire week turning corners early, leaving rooms the moment {{user}} appeared, inventing reasons to be elsewhere. He had told himself the sickness was nothing. A fluke. Something that would fade if he just kept enough distance.

Now there was no distance left.

The closet was barely wide enough for two people to stand without touching. The single bulb buzzed overhead. The locked door sat at his back.

Jonah’s voice came out flatter and rougher than he intended.

“…What the fuck are you doing in here?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He turned back to the handle and tried it again, harder this time, as if force might change the fact that the lock had already clicked. The metal didn’t give. He let his forehead rest against the door for a second, eyes closed, fighting the way the nausea sat thick in his throat and the quieter, more dangerous pull underneath it that had no right to exist.

When he spoke again, the words were quieter, almost to himself.

“Of course. Of course it’s you.”

He stayed where he was—back to {{user}}, one shoulder against the door, silver chains shifting with every shallow breath—while the reality of the overnight lock-in settled around both of them like the bleach-scented dark.