Chapter 3 — Assigned

The syllabus indicated that partners would be assigned in alphabetical order. Mara read it the first day and forgot it within the hour—the kind of administrative detail that slides right off you until it doesn't.

That changed at nine seventeen on Thursday morning, the lecture hall half-lit with the kind of grey daylight that meant rain was coming later. Professor Voss read the pairings off a printed sheet in a tone that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else on earth. "Ellery and Halden."

Mara's pen stopped mid-word. A chair leg scraped against tile somewhere behind her, loud enough to pull half the room's attention away from her for a second, and she was grateful for it.

Two rows ahead, Jude didn't turn around. He went still — the specific kind of stillness she was starting to recognize in him, like a deer freezing a half-second before it decides whether to bolt.

She caught up with him outside after class, as avoiding him would mean explaining to Professor Voss why the project hadn't started, and she'd already used up her patience for that particular office this week.

"So," she said, falling into step beside him. "We're doing a project together."

"Apparently."

"Great. Very enthusiastic. I'm really feeling the collaborative spirit."

That got her a half-glance—not quite annoyance, more like he was recalculating something, trying to work out whether she counted as a threat or just a nuisance. "I have a lab at four. I don't have time for a full planning session."

"I didn't ask for a planning session. I just need you to not be weird about sharing a G****e Doc."

"I'm not being weird."

You've said four words to me, and one of them was "apparently."

He stopped walking. She stopped too, caught off guard. For the first time since the lecture hall, he actually looked at her—really looked, like he was deciding something.

"I'm not good at this," he said finally.

"At walking?"

"At—" He exhaled through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh she'd get out of him all week. "People. New people. I've been told it comes off as unfriendly."

"It comes off as extremely unfriendly."

"Noted."

They walked another block in silence that felt less loaded than it had a minute ago, past a cluster of underclassmen arguing cheerfully about a professor's grading curve, past a food truck already doing brisk business despite it being barely past ten. Neither of them said where they were headed. They just ended up at a stone table outside the library twenty minutes later. Neither one had suggested it out loud—they'd both just kept walking in the same direction, and neither wanted to be the one to peel off first. The bench held the day's warmth under her palms. A sprinkler cycled on somewhere nearby, then off, the smell of wet grass drifting over. Up close, in daylight, she noticed the small stuff for the first time—a thin white scar along one knuckle, a watch on his wrist that looked older than he was, the kind of thing that gets handed down rather than bought. He opened his laptop while she dug through her bag and found a granola bar that had probably been in there since orientation. She ate it anyway.

"You could've said no to the seat," he said, eyes on his screen.

"What seat?"

"Monday. My row." He said it flat, like it needed no further explanation. "People don't usually sit there."

"I noticed the glares, yeah."

"It's not—" He stopped, trying a different angle. "It's not a big deal. People have opinions about who they think should be near me. I don't ask them to."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It's fine."

"That's not what 'fine' sounds like."

He looked up at that. Something in his face cracked open for a second—not much, a hairline fracture in something that had looked solid a moment ago, as if he hadn't expected someone he barely knew to push back. He didn't answer. He went back to typing instead, too fast, keys hit harder than necessary. Mara let it go. Some doors weren't worth pushing on the first knock.

They worked forty minutes, easier than she'd expected. He was sharp and direct and didn't waste time explaining things she already understood. Once, when she commented that their source material was clearly written by someone who hated joy on principle, he made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh but wasn't nothing either.

Her phone buzzed. She glanced down out of habit.

Financial Aid Office (2): Please disregard the previous message. No action is required now.

She frowned at it a beat too long.

"Everything okay?" Jude asked, not looking up. The question came out reflexive, the kind you'd ask a stranger on autopilot.

"Financial aid's being weird about my scholarship. First they wanted to meet; now they're telling me to ignore that."

That got his attention. He looked up. Something moved behind his eyes, quick, there and gone—a door cracking open and shutting again before she could see what was on the other side.

"What scholarship?"

"Some private trust. Sorrell, I think it was called." She shrugged and closed her laptop halfway, signaling that she had nearly finished for the day. "Never heard of it before my acceptance letter. Nobody at financial aid seems willing to actually talk about it."

Jude went quiet. When he spoke again, his voice came out careful, each word chosen before it left his mouth.

"Never heard of it," he repeated.

"No. Should I have?"

"No reason." He closed his laptop a beat too fast, the motion at odds with how casual he was trying to sound. "I should get to my lab."

"Jude."

He was already standing, bag over one shoulder, half-turned toward the path away from her. He paused at the edge of the table — long enough that she thought, for one second, he might actually answer the question she hadn't finished asking.

"I'll email you about the next section," he said instead, and walked off fast enough that it looked less like leaving and more like retreating.

Mara sat there another minute, the granola bar wrapper crumpled in one hand, watching the empty spot where he'd been standing. A pair of freshmen cut across the grass behind her, laughing about something unrelated, and somewhere off toward the science building a door banged shut. She uncrumpled the wrapper, smoothing it flat against her knee, then crumpled it back up and pitched it toward the nearest bin without really deciding. It missed by a foot.