Fresh Starts & First Encounters Parts 2

 

Warehouse D was exactly as advertised—a converted industrial space behind the visual arts building that looked like it hosted both art installations and small-scale rebellions. Fairy lights were strung across exposed pipes, casting a warm, golden glow over the high-ceilinged space. The air smelled of apples, cinnamon, and the faint, comforting scent of turpentine.

Indie folk music played at a volume that allowed for actual conversation. Canvases leaned against brick walls, and sculptures made from found objects dotted the space. In the far corner, someone had set up a telescope pointed at the night sky through a large, open window.

And in the center of it all, presiding over a giant dispenser of apple cider like a revolutionary queen, was Lena.

"HE CAME!" she shouted as Cole stepped through the door, causing several people to turn and look. "The tragic artist has chosen enlightenment! Naomi, mark the calendar! This is a historic moment!"

Naomi, who was arranging cookies on a plate with geometric precision, didn't look up. "Noted. One conversion to the cause. Do we get a trophy?"

Lena bounded over, thrusting a warm cup of cider into Cole's hands. "Drink! Be merry! Question authority!" She grinned, her blue streaks catching the fairy lights. "I'm so glad you came. This is the good place. The people here are... well, they're people. Not football-playing robots programmed to grunt and high-five."

For the next hour, Cole floated through conversations that felt surprisingly easy. He met 'Mateo", a music composition major with expressive hands and a laugh that filled corners. They talked about the emotional weight of minor chords.

He discussed colour theory with 'Kai', a soft-spoken astrophysics major who spoke in careful, precise sentences and had brought his telescope to "share the cosmos." Kai explained that the blue in Cole's painting reminded him of the Helix Nebula, and Cole felt oddly seen.

He even tried a gluten-free, vegan cookie that Lena assured him was "an act of culinary rebellion" and was surprised to find it delicious.

He was laughing at one of Mateo's stories about a disastrous piano recital when the door banged open.

The music scratched to a stop mid-chord.

A wall of noise and testosterone flooded in. A group of guys in Blackthorne Football jerseys stood in the doorway, looking like invaders from a different planet. They were loud, slightly sweaty, and carried the distinct scent of cheap beer and arrogance.

At their front, taller and broader than the rest, was Elan Carter.

Cole recognized him instantly—the sharp cheekbones, the icy blue eyes, the expression of someone who'd never been told "no" in his life. He looked even more intimidating in person than in the brochure, all coiled athletic power and dismissive confidence.

"Well, well," one of the football players sneered, his eyes sweeping the room. "Look what we have here. The arts and crafts club."

Lena stepped forward immediately, planting herself between the football players and her party like a general defending her borders. "Elan Carter. Your presence is lowering the collective IQ of the room and frankly, killing my vibe. Kindly remove it."

Elan's gaze didn't even flicker to Lena. It swept the room with casual disdain before landing—and sticking—on Cole.

A slow, mocking smile spread across Elan's face. It didn't reach his eyes. "What's this?" His voice was a low, cool drawl that cut through the silent room. "A little gathering for the... emotionally complex?" Cole's face burned. He could feel every eye in the room on him. He wished, desperately, that he could melt into the brick wall behind him. "Better emotionally complex than emotionally stunted," Naomi said without looking up from the book she'd picked up, her voice dry as dust.Elan ignored her completely. He took a few steps into the room, his cleats clicking on the concrete floor. His focus remained entirely on Cole. "And you. You're new." He said it like an accusation. "Let me guess... you draw pictures of your feelings? Paint your dreams? Write poetry about rain?"

A few of his teammates chuckled, the sound ugly in the quiet space. "Leave him alone, Carter," Mateo said, stepping up beside Lena, his usual cheerful expression gone. "Or what?" Elan's smirk widened. "You'll compose a sad song about it? Play a minor key really dramatically?" He laughed, a short, harsh sound. "This is pathetic. You all know the real party's across campus, right? Where people actually know how to have fun? Where the music has a beat and people don't talk about their trauma as an icebreaker?"

His eyes locked with Cole's for one more second, and in them, Cole saw something surprising—not just arrogance, but a flicker of something colder. Something like contempt. With a final dismissive look that swept the entire room, Elan turned on his heel. "Come on. The air in here is making me sentimental." He left, his teammates trailing behind him like obedient shadows. The door swung shut with a heavy finality. The silence they left behind was thick enough to choke on.

Lena was the first to break it. "Well." She brushed her hands together as if wiping off something unpleasant. "That was a masterclass in being the absolute worst." She turned to Cole, her expression softening. "You okay? Don't let that walking ego ruin your night. He's just insecure because he probably can't name three colors that aren't on a team jersey."

Cole nodded, though his hands were trembling slightly around his cup. "I'm fine." But the magic of the evening had been broken. The easy laughter felt forced now. The fairy lights seemed dimmer. Cole stayed for another thirty minutes, making polite conversation, but his heart wasn't in it. As he helped Naomi clean up cups (Lena was passionately explaining post-colonial theory to a bewildered but fascinated freshman), he noticed someone watching him from across the room. A guy leaned against the brick wall near the exit—handsome in a polished, corporate way. Stylish hair, a sharp blazer over a dark shirt, an expression of amused detachment. He'd been there all night, quietly observing. When Cole met his eyes, the guy smiled—a slow, knowing smile—and raised his cup in a small, silent toast. Cole quickly looked away, his heart doing an unexpected flip-flop that had nothing to do with Elan's intimidation.

The walk back to Magnolia Hall was quiet. The sounds of the real football party—the one Elan had mentioned—drifted across campus: pounding bass, shouting, the occasional crash. It sounded like a different world.

In Room 307, Warwick was already asleep, a massive medical textbook tented open on his chest, his glasses slightly askew. He snored softly, mumbling something about "mitochondria... the powerhouse..." Cole smiled despite himself, changing into pajamas as quietly as he could.

He slid into bed, the events of the day replaying in his mind like a disjointed film. Alison's chaotic welcome. Lena's collision. Warwick's hurricane entrance. The warmth of the art studio. The cold shock of Elan's disdain. The mysterious guy's knowing toast. 

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, lighting up the dark room.

Unknown Number: Saw you at the warehouse tonight. You looked like you could use rescuing from that particular circus. Coffee tomorrow? - Jordan

Cole stared at the message. Jordan. That must be the guy in the blazer. The one who'd watched everything, who'd toasted him after Elan left. His message was smooth, confident, slightly teasing. The exact opposite of the awkward, shy energy Cole felt radiating from himself.

Before he could overthink it—before he could draft and delete six different responses—another notification popped up on his screen.

Social Media Alert: Friend Request

The name made his breath catch in his throat.

Leo Martinez.

His thumb hovered over the screen. The past rose up like a ghost, sudden and suffocating. Leo's smile. Leo's hands. Leo's voice saying, "You're just... a lot, Cole."

He tapped the notification.

The message attached was simple: Hey Cole. Long time. Heard through the grapevine you're at Blackthorne. Small world—I'm transferring in for the spring semester. We should talk. Catch up. - Leo

Three sentences. That's all it took to make the solid ground of his new beginning feel like shifting sand.

Across campus, in a football dorm that smelled like sweat, leather, and ambition, Elan Carter lay awake in the dark. His roommate snored in the next bed. The sounds of the party he was supposedly hosting still raged downstairs, but he'd left it an hour ago, feeling restless and irritated. He couldn't stop seeing the art kid's face. Not just the fear—he was used to seeing fear. That was easy. That was power. It was the other thing. The quiet in his eyes. The stillness. Like he was observing Elan from behind glass, taking notes. Like he wasn't just scared, but... curious.

And when that guy in the blazer had raised his cup to him, the art kid had looked away quickly, but not before Elan had seen it—a flicker of something. Interest, maybe.

The thought made something hot and unpleasant coil in Elan's stomach.

He rolled over, punching his pillow into a new shape.

"Pathetic," he muttered to the dark room.

But he couldn't quite make himself believe it.