Chapter 3

As I stared after him, trying to decide whether Takoda Blackwell was rude, damaged, dangerous, or some deeply unfair combination of all three, he disappeared into the hallway without another glance.

I stayed exactly where I was for a second too long.

My pulse still hadn’t settled, which was ridiculous.

The man had barely spoken ten full sentences to me.

You need help, Dawson. Seriously.

Shifting my bag higher onto my shoulder, I headed out of the lecture hall and into the stream of students crowding the hallway. Conversation bounced around me in overlapping waves. There were homework complaints. Several making weekend plans, as well as those discussing coffee emergencies.

Normally I blended into campus noise easily. Today everything felt slightly muffled, like my brain was still stuck back in that classroom replaying every look Takoda had given me, especially that last one.

You ask too many questions, Analiese.

The way he’d said my name lingered under my skin in a way I absolutely didn’t want to examine too closely.

~~

By late afternoon, my concentration was completely shot. I made it through two more classes purely through muscle memory and caffeine before finally giving up and heading back toward the dorms.

Winter air bit hard against my cheeks as I crossed campus. The sky hung low and gray overhead, heavy with the threat of snow that probably wouldn’t actually happen. Students moved around me bundled in hoodies and jackets, heads ducked against the cold.

Everything looked normal and felt normal, so why couldn’t I shake the feeling that something wasn’t?

My phone buzzed just as I stepped into my dorm building.

Trin: Survive magic class?

I snorted softly while climbing the stairs.

Me: Depends on your definition of survive

Trin: dramatic again

Me: Met a guy who stares like he’s planning crimes

Trin: hot?

I hesitated. Yeah, annoyingly hot.

Me: unfortunately

Trin: RIP to your decision making

Me: accurate

Trin: call me later loser

Warmth tugged briefly at my chest before I shoved the phone back into my pocket.

By the time I reached my room, Jenna still wasn’t back. Her side looked like a pastel tornado had touched down and developed a caffeine addiction. Clothes hung over her desk chair. Makeup containers crowded every visible surface. Half a coffee sat abandoned near the window. Meanwhile my side looked aggressively organized by comparison.

Dropping my bag beside the desk, I collapsed face-first onto the bed with a muffled groan.

The mattress springs squeaked beneath me, and for a few minutes, I just stayed there breathing into my pillow while my brain betrayed me repeatedly: dark eyes, low voice. Overly alert attention…the way he watched exits without seeming to. The way my body reacted every time he looked at me directly.

Rolling onto my back, I stared up at the water stain on the ceiling again. “You’re being weird about this,” I informed myself.

Of course the ceiling offered no guidance.

With a shake of my head, I dragged a hand over my face. The smart thing would be letting it go entirely. The normal thing. But no, ten minutes later, I found myself sitting at my desk with my laptop open. Because apparently I lacked both survival instincts and self-control.

“Okay,” I muttered quietly. “Takoda Blackwell.”

My fingers moved across the keyboard, and within minutes I gazed at search results that were…sparse. Almost suspiciously sparse. A few old high school cross-country results. An empty social media profile with no pictures. One archived newspaper clipping from years ago.

My attention snagged immediately. The article itself was short; rural house fire. Two adults deceased, teenage son survived.

No names were listed in the visible preview, I clicked it anyway. The image attached showed the burned skeleton of a house surrounded by emergency vehicles. Blackened wood, collapsed roof.

A strange heaviness settled in my chest. The date would’ve made Takoda around fifteen.

My eyes scanned the article again. Cause of fire undetermined. No additional surviving family listed.

I leaned back slowly in my chair. So that explained a little. Maybe not his attitude exactly, but the constant tension in him. The hyperawareness…trauma recognized trauma sometimes. Not that my issues compared to surviving something like that.

Outside the window, campus lights glowed against the darkening evening. Snow threatened harder now, the air beyond the glass carrying that heavy stillness winter got right before storms.

My stomach growled loud enough to break the spiral forming in my head. I checked the time. 7:43 p.m.

“Right,” I sighed. “Food before emotional detective work.”

Ramen existed under my bed somewhere, but the idea of microwaved sadness made me want to walk directly into traffic. Warm pizza sounded better, and grabbing my hoodie and keys, I headed back downstairs, cold air slapping me immediately the second I stepped outside again.

The town beyond campus felt quieter at night. Softer around the edges. Streetlights reflected across damp pavement while groups of students drifted between restaurants and bars in bundled clusters.

Papa Stan’s Pizza glowed ahead at the corner, neon sign buzzing faintly in the dark. Warmth and the smell of baked dough wrapped around me the second I stepped inside.

The restaurant buzzed with low conversation and clattering dishes. Families occupied the booths near the windows while a few exhausted students hunched over textbooks in the corner.

Harmony spotted me instantly from behind the counter. “There she is,” she called dramatically. “Thought you abandoned us for academic greatness.”

I snorted, stepping toward the register. “You’d miss me too much.”

“Please,” she scoffed. “I’d recover emotionally in weeks.”

Her dark curls were piled messily on top of her head, flour dusting the front of her apron. She looked exactly like she always did during dinner rush: chaotic but weirdly efficient.

“How was your creepy religion class?” she asked.

I slid onto one of the stools near the counter. “Interesting.”

Harmony narrowed her eyes immediately. “That tone means one of two things,” she announced. “Either somebody got possessed or somebody’s hot.”

I grabbed a napkin and threw it weakly in her direction. “Can I eat before you interrogate me?”

She shook her head. “No.”

I sighed dramatically. “There’s a guy,” I admitted.

Harmony gasped like I’d confessed to murder. “You met a man? In public? Incredible.”

I just shook my head and muttered, “He’s weird.”

“That has literally never stopped you before,” she protested.

I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the counter unconsciously. “He just…” I hesitated. “Feels intense.”

Her teasing expression softened slightly. “Intense dangerous or intense emotionally constipated?”

I shrugged. Harmony barked out a laugh loud enough to turn heads nearby. “Oh, you’re doomed.”