One

CHAPTER ONE

Miles' POV

I’ve never felt anything like this. Not ever. This was humiliation on a cosmic scale, a total, gut-wrenching, earth-swallowing failure.

One second, I was Miles Donovan, the golden boy of the class of ’26. I had a full merit scholarship, a perfect GPA, and a promising internship lined up for the summer. 

Everyone, and I mean everyone, knew my name on that pristine, hallowed campus. I was the future.

The next second, I was… this. I stood outside a ridiculously cramped campus dorm at some random state university. 

I hadn’t even bothered to tour this place when I was doing my college applications because, honestly, why would I have? I wasn’t a state school guy; I was a Harvard guy.

The worn plastic handle of my overpriced, monogrammed luggage was shaking in my hand. I could feel my jaw tight. My mom was right beside me, her hand rubbing small, meaningless circles on my back, trying to console me. 

The whole thing was just pathetic.

“Miles, honey, it’s going to be fine,” she murmured, her voice soft and annoyingly maternal. "It's just a semester. You can re-apply to transfer next year, we talked about this." She reminded me that this university has a fantastic pre-law program and I just have to focus and keep my head down.

I couldn't even look her in the eye. I kept my gaze fixed on the peeling, institutional green paint of the door across the hall. How could I look at her when all I could see reflected in her worried face was the scandal, the articles, and the goddamn viral video?

It wasn't even about failing a class or cheating on a test, which would have been almost normal. 

I mean, it was academic misconduct, sure, but it was so spectacularly, ridiculously me—the sort of over-the-top stupidity that only Miles Donovan could pull off. 

 I lost everything: the scholarship that paid for my entire life, my reputation which was basically my currency, and, yeah, I guess my goddamn future.

“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I lied, forcing the words out. They tasted like ash. I tried to inject a bit of my old Harvard confidence into the tone, but all that came out was a strangled, weak sound. “Really. It’s… it’s a good change of pace. I need a reset.”

She gave me that look—the one that said, I know you are lying through your teeth, but I will let you have this moment of dignity. She squeezed my shoulder and gave me a kiss on the cheek, which I endured because I had to. “Call me tonight, okay? Let me know you’re settled.” 

“I will.”

As soon as her car pulled away, the small room—and by small, I mean it felt like a repurposed closet—suddenly felt too big, too silent. 

The air was thick with the scent of old carpet and desperation. I hadn't unpacked a single thing, not wanting to commit to this disaster, and the silence was just amplifying the spiraling panic attack.

I was suffocating. I couldn't just stand here and stare at the beige walls, mentally calculating how many weeks I’d have to endure this exile. I needed air. I needed to move.

I dropped my luggage right where I was standing and walked straight out the door. The campus, I quickly realized, wasn't exactly picturesque. It was all red brick and badly maintained landscaping. I kept my head down, trying to just focus on the rhythm of my feet on the sidewalk.

I attempted to drown out the internal monologue of how much I missed the ivy-covered halls and the hushed tones of the library back East. This place felt loud, rough, and completely wrong.

I was rounding a corner, still deep in my own head, running through the timeline of the scandal for the thousandth time. That's when I walked straight into a wall of muscle. It happened fast.

One second, I was thinking about my now-ex-mentor; the next, I felt myself tipping forward, ready to face-plant onto the concrete. Strong hands shot out and caught me firmly. One wrapped around my arm and the other settled right on my waist, pulling me back up against a very hard, very warm chest.

“Woah, woah. Easy there, man. Watch where you’re going,” a voice rumbled, close to my ear. It wasn’t a mean voice, but it had a low, amused quality to it that instantly made me feel judged.

I finally managed to push myself away enough to look up, and I instantly felt that familiar, awful heat rising up my neck. 

The guy was tall. Really tall. And his grin? It was dangerous.

It had this stupidly pretty, careless quality to it, complete with deep dimples that looked entirely out of place on such a rugged face. His hair was dark and kind of messy, and he had eyes that were way too intense for a casual campus bump-in. He damn well looked like bad news, the kind of guy who didn’t worry about GPAs or résumés.

He just looked like he worried about a good time, and that instantly made me want to run in the opposite direction. But I was stuck there, held slightly captive by his strong grip. My mind was short-circuiting.

Hot? I thought, horrified at the spontaneous assessment. 

Why am I even thinking that? The embarrassment of nearly falling, the residual shame of my current life crisis, and now, the sheer, undeniable proximity of this attractive, dangerous stranger just overwhelmed my nervous system.

And then the physical reaction started. My ears, first. They felt like they were on fire. My neck followed. Then my cheeks.

It was the worst, most mortifying thing about me, a genetic quirk I’d always hated. Instead of the usual light pink flush that normal people got, my skin went… faintly blue. It wasn’t bright, but it was noticeable, especially now that I was standing this close to him, trapped.

I felt like a complete idiot. It was like a spotlight shining on my social anxiety and general nervousness, a neon sign broadcasting my embarrassment.

His grin widened, but not in a mocking way—it was more like genuine, entertained surprise. He shifted his grip, but kept his hand lingering just a bit too long on my waist before finally letting me go. 

He leaned in, just a little, dropping his voice as he looked me right in the eyes, which were probably the size of saucers right now.

“Hi, Little Blue.”