Sunlight streamed through the window of Room 307, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air and Warwick Doyle’s leg, which had escaped his sheets and was dangling off the bed. Cole blinked awake to the sound of a soft, persistent 'beep-beep-beep'.
Warwick groaned, flinging an arm out to smack his alarm clock into silence. He squinted at Cole through one open eye, his curls a magnificent disaster.
“Mornin’,” he croaked. “Did you know the human body produces enough saliva in a lifetime to fill two swimming pools?”
Cole stared at him. “What?”
“Pre-med fact of the day.” Warwick sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Also, you talk in your sleep. Something about… a blue door? And a muffin? It was unclear but emotionally charged.”
Cole felt his cheeks heat. “I don’t—”
“No judgment! My subconscious is currently wrestling with the Krebs cycle. It’s way less poetic.” Warwick stumbled out of bed, heading for the small sink in the corner. “Big plans today? Or just existential dread and a campus map?”
“Visual Theory 101 at nine,” Cole said, sitting up. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He ignored it. It had buzzed twice in the night—the Jordan message, and a follow-up from Leo that just said: ?. He hadn’t answered either.
“Ooh, Professor Vance! He’s a trip,” Warwick said, toothpaste foaming at his mouth. “Wears mismatched socks on purpose and once gave a lecture entirely in haiku. You’ll love him.” He spat, rinsed, and grinned at Cole in the mirror. “Wanna brave the cafeteria beast for breakfast? I hear the scrambled eggs are a fascinating shade of yellow today.”
The cafeteria was a roaring cathedral of chaos. Students clustered at long tables, the air thick with the smell of coffee, bacon, and adolescent anxiety. Cole followed Warwick through the line, accepting a tray of suspiciously shiny eggs and a banana.
“Over here!” a voice called.
Lena waved from a table in the corner, Naomi beside her, both looking surprisingly awake. Lena wore a t-shirt that read ‘THE FUTURE IS FEMALE (AND QUEER AND WELL-READ)’. Naomi was methodically dissecting a grapefruit.
“You survived the night!” Lena said as they sat. “And you found the pre-med! Excellent networking!”
“He’s my roommate,” Cole clarified.
“Even better! Built-in study buddy for when you inevitably need to draw a anatomically correct heart or something.” Lena leaned forward. “So. You never answered my text about your opinion on modern performance art as a response to late-stage capitalism.” Before Cole could formulate an answer to a question he wasn’t sure he understood, a shadow fell over their table.
Elan Carter stood there, tray in hand, flanked by two equally large football players. He wasn’t looking at Cole. He was looking at the empty seat next to Naomi.
“This table taken?” His voice was flat.
The entire corner of the cafeteria seemed to quieten by a few decibels. Naomi looked up slowly, spearing a piece of grapefruit with surgical precision. “By people who appreciate not having their conversations interrupted by neanderthals, yes.” One of the football guys snorted. Elan didn’t smile. His gaze slid past Naomi, past Lena, and landed on Cole. Just for a second. It wasn’t the heated glare from the warehouse. This was colder. Assessing.
“Suit yourselves,” Elan said. He turned and walked to a table across the room, where a group of athletes immediately made space for him, the noise level rising again with their laughter.
“Charming as ever,” Lena muttered. “Ignore him. He’s just mad because his brain-to-bicep ratio is tragically skewed.” She turned her focus back to Cole. “So! Visual Theory! We have it together! We can sit together and whisper sarcastic comments about Vance’s bow ties!”
“I have Organic Chem,” Warwick said mournfully, pushing his eggs around. “A class designed by sadists.”
As they were finishing, Alison, the orientation leader, spotted them and weaved through the tables, her blue streaks bright under the fluorescent lights.
“Cole! Just the person!” She dropped a sheet of paper on the table in front of him. “Freshman integration project. Randomly assigned pairs. You’re with…” She squinted at her clipboard. “Elan Carter. Due in three weeks. Topic: ‘The Intersection of Discipline: Art and Sport.’ Have fun!”
She was gone before the words fully registered.
Cole stared at the paper. There it was, in black and white: MERCER, COLE – CARTER, ELAN. PROJECT #17.
The banana he’d just eaten felt like a lead weight in his stomach.
Lena snatched the paper. “You have GOT to be kidding me. This is institutional cruelty. I’m writing a strongly worded letter.”
Naomi took the paper, her brow furrowed. “It says the assignments are final. No swaps.”
Across the cafeteria, Elan was looking down at an identical piece of paper in his hands. Cole saw his jaw tighten. He crumpled the paper into a ball, dropped it on his tray, and stood up, leaving his friends behind without a word.
“Well,” Warwick said, breaking the stunned silence. “This is either going to be a disaster or the best thing that ever happened to you. No middle ground.”
Cole’s phone buzzed again in his pocket. He didn’t need to look to know it was probably Jordan, following up on the coffee invite he’d never answered.
One unwanted partner. One persistent stranger. One ghost from the past. And his first class started in twenty minutes.
Professor Vance’s classroom was in the oldest building on campus, with creaky wooden floors and walls lined with framed prints ranging from Renaissance masters to contemporary abstract splatters. Lena saved Cole a seat in the middle row. “The perfect vantage point,” she whispered as the room filled. “Close enough to seem engaged, far enough back to nap discreetly.” Professor Vance entered not through the door, but from a side entrance behind a large movie screen. He was a small, energetic man wearing a tweed jacket, red chinos, and a bow tie covered in tiny painted ducks.
“Good morning, seekers of truth and victims of the core curriculum!” he announced, hopping onto the low lecture platform. “Today, we begin not with what art 'is', but with what it 'does'. Specifically, what it does to 'you'.”
He walked to the light switch by the door. “Observe.”
He flipped the lights off. The room plunged into darkness. A few people gasped. Cole felt his breath hitch, his fingers curling around the edge of the desk.
Click.
The lights came back on. Professor Vance stood in the same spot, smiling.
“That moment of disorientation,” he said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “That split second where the known world vanished? 'That' is art’s primary function. To flicker the lights. To make you question the reality of the room you’re sitting in. Art isn’t about pretty pictures. It’s about controlled collapse.”
He launched into his lecture, but Cole’s mind was only half there. He kept replaying the darkness. The sudden loss of control. It felt familiar.
The hour passed in a blur of slides and provocative statements. As they packed up, Lena chattering about Vance’s theory of “aesthetic violence,” Cole felt a tap on his shoulder.
He turned. A guy stood there—tall, handsome, with styled brown hair and a smile that was both warm and perfectly calibrated. It was the guy from the warehouse. Jordan.
“Cole, right?” Jordan said, his voice smooth. “Jordan Reeves. We haven’t officially met.” He extended a hand. Cole shook it, noting the firm grip. “I was hoping to catch you after class. About that coffee.”
“Oh, right, I saw your text, I just…” Cole trailed off, flustered.
“No pressure at all,” Jordan said easily, falling into step beside him as they left the classroom. Lena shot Cole a raised eyebrow look but walked ahead with Naomi. “I just thought, after the whole… football ambush last night, you might appreciate a normal conversation with someone who doesn’t communicate in grunts and shoulder checks.”
He was charming. He was friendly. He was looking at Cole with an interest that felt genuine.
“I have a break now, actually,” Cole heard himself say.
“Perfect. The Grind is just across the quad. They have a latte with lavender syrup that’s basically liquid relaxation.”
As they walked, Jordan asked easy questions about his major, his high school, what he thought of Blackthorne so far. He was a good listener, his hazel eyes focused and attentive. It was nice. It was so normal it almost felt surreal. At The Grind, Jordan insisted on paying. They took their drinks to a small table by the window. The sunlight caught Jordan’s face, and for a moment, he looked almost golden.
“So,” Jordan said, stirring his coffee. “You and Elan Carter. That was… intense last night.”
Cole’s guard went up. “It was nothing.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.” Jordan’s expression was sympathetic. “He’s got a reputation. A lot of bravado to cover up… well, who knows what. It must be hard, being assigned to him for that project.”
Cole froze. “How did you know about the project?”
Jordan’s smile didn’t waver, but something flickered in his eyes—fast, there and gone. “Small campus. Gossip travels at the speed of regret. A friend in the admin office might have mentioned it.” He took a sip. “I just want you to know, if he gives you any trouble, you have people in your corner. People who see what you’re about.”
'What you’re about.' The phrase felt intimate. Heavy.
“Thanks,” Cole said quietly.
“Anytime.” Jordan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and sighed. “Duty calls. Business club meeting. But this was good. We should do it again.” He stood, but paused. “Oh, and Cole? Be careful with Carter. Guys like him… they see kindness as weakness.” He gave a final, warm smile and walked out, leaving Cole alone with his cooling lavender latte and a swirling mess of confusion. Why did that feel less like a friendly coffee and more like a warning?
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