Cole spent the afternoon in the library, trying to sketch but mostly staring into space. The encounter with Jordan played on a loop. 'People who see what you’re about. Be careful.' He was so deep in his own head he didn’t notice someone approaching his carrel until a shadow fell over his paper. He looked up. Elan Carter stood there, his expression unreadable. He had changed into workout clothes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looked even bigger up close.

“Mercer.” He said the name like it was a distasteful fact.

“Carter.” Cole tried to keep his voice steady.

Elan dropped a sheet of paper—a fresh copy of the project assignment—onto the sketchbook. “We need to meet. Tomorrow. Four PM. Studio 3B in the arts annex. Don’t be late.”

His tone brooked no argument. It was a command.

“Why there?” Cole asked.

“Because it’s the only studio free after my practice, and because I’m not doing this in my dorm.” Elan’s eyes flicked to Cole’s sketchbook, where a half-finished, angry drawing of a fractured football helmet lay. His lips thinned. “Just be there.”

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the quiet library.

Cole’s hands were trembling. He closed his sketchbook, gathered his things, and fled the library. He needed air. He needed to not be where Elan Carter had just been.

He ended up in a deserted courtyard between buildings, sitting on a cold stone bench, trying to breathe. The sky was clouding over.

His phone buzzed. Another message from Leo.

Just got my transfer confirmed. Jan 15th. It’ll be good to see you, Cole. We have a lot to talk about.

The past was a locked door. Leo was the key, rattling in the lock.

And then, as if summoned by his misery, he heard the familiar, arrogant laugh.

Through a ground-floor window of the adjacent building—the athletic center—he saw into a weight room. Elan was there, lifting weights with two teammates. He was smiling, relaxed, joking. The cold, commanding guy from the library was gone, replaced by someone easy and magnetic. One of his teammates said something, and Elan threw his head back and laughed, the sound muffled by the glass but unmistakably real. For a second, Cole saw it—the person Elan was when he wasn’t performing for an audience. It was disorienting. Then, as if sensing eyes on him, Elan’s gaze shifted. He looked right through the window, right at Cole sitting alone on the bench. The smile vanished. The warmth shut off like a switched bulb. His expression went flat and cold. He held Cole’s stare for three long seconds, then deliberately turned his back. The rejection was absolute. It was a dismissal more complete than any sneer or insult. Cole stood up, his legs unsteady. He walked back to Magnolia Hall in a daze, the sky finally opening up into a cold, drizzle that matched the chill seeping into his bones.

Warwick was in the dorm when Cole returned, soaked and shivering.

“Whoa, you look like a drowned artist,” Warwick said, looking up from a textbook covered in frantic highlighting. “Bad day?”

Cole just shook his head, peeling off his wet hoodie. He couldn’t form words. The library command. The weight room dismissal. Jordan’s veiled warning. Leo’s impending arrival. It was all a tangled knot in his chest.

“Right. Non-verbal communication. I respect it.” Warwick got up and rummaged in his mini-fridge. He produced two cans of expensive-looking sparkling lemonade. “Here. Medicinal. My treat.”

Cole took the can, the cold metal grounding him. “Thanks.”

They sat in silence for a minute, the only sound the rain against the window and Warwick’s highlighter squeaking across a page.

“It’s Carter, isn’t it?” Warwick said softly, not looking up from his book.

Cole didn’t answer.

“I hear things. The pre-med network is also a gossip network. It’s a dual-purpose degree.” Warwick capped his highlighter. “He’s an asshole. But, for what it’s worth… I’ve also heard he’s not *just* an asshole. Complicated family stuff. Pressure you wouldn’t believe. Not an excuse,” he added quickly. “Just… context.”

Cole thought of the laugh he’d seen through the window. The way it had vanished.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cole said, his voice hoarse. “I just have to get through the project.”

“That’s the spirit! Pragmatic suffering!” Warwick grinned. “And hey, you have other options. That Jordan guy seems into you. And wasn’t Lena trying to set you up with her cute friend from ceramics?”

Cole managed a weak smile. Warwick’s chaotic kindness was a lifeline.

Later, in the dark, listening to Warwick’s soft snores, Cole made a decision. He wouldn’t run. He wouldn’t hide. He would show up to Studio 3B tomorrow at 4 PM. He would do this project. He would face Elan Carter.

And as for Jordan… and Leo…

He opened his phone. He typed a reply to Jordan: Thanks for the coffee. I’m pretty busy with the new project, but maybe another time.

Polite. Non-committal.

He opened Leo’s message. Stared at it. Then, with a resolve that surprised him, he hit delete. Not the message, but the notification. He wasn’t ready. The past could stay where it was—for now. He put his phone down and closed his eyes. The image that came to him wasn’t of Elan’s cold stare or Jordan’s perfect smile. It was of Elan laughing in the weight room, head thrown back, utterly unguarded. The boy behind the bully. And for the first time all day, Cole’s curiosity outweighed his fear.