Between Us

I had one plan for second semester. Stay invisible. No drama, no distractions, no unnecessary conversations with people who thought university was one big social event. I had a scholarship to protect and a GPA that wasn't going to maintain itself. So when my alarm went off at 6:47 that Monday morning, I was already dressed, bag packed, notes color-coded by topic. Ava Mitchell. Always prepared. What I was not prepared for was Room 204 being switched to Room 104 without so much as a group chat notification. I found out the hard way — standing in an empty classroom for four minutes before a cleaner looked at me like I was lost and pointed me back downstairs. I hate being late. It physically bothers me. So I was walking fast, head down, earphones in, mentally rehearsing an apology to no one in particular — when I walked straight into someone standing in the doorway of Room 104 like he owned the building. The impact knocked my folder clean out of my hands. Three weeks of notes. Gone. Scattered across the floor like confetti. I yanked out one earphone and looked up. Bad idea. Zane Carter was leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded, watching me with this lazy half-smile like I was the most entertaining thing that had happened to him all morning. He was tall — annoyingly tall — wearing a hoodie that probably cost more than my entire feeding allowance for the semester. His hair was slightly messy in that deliberate way that took effort to look effortless. The whole campus had opinions about Zane Carter. Most of them involved words like "dangerous" and "don't bother." I crouched down and started gathering my papers. "You know," he said, not moving an inch, "most people knock." "It's a classroom." I didn't look up. "Not your bedroom." "I sleep here between my 8am and 11am. Have done since first year." A pause. "You must be new." "I'm not new." I stood up, clutching my now-crumpled notes to my chest. "The timetable says BIO 215 is in Room 104. So unless you're also registered for Cellular Molecular Biology, you're the one in the wrong place." Something shifted in his expression. The amusement didn't disappear exactly — it just made room for something else. Something I couldn't quite name. "BIO 215?" he said. "Yes." He was quiet for a second too long. Then he stepped aside and swept his arm toward the room like a very unbothered tour guide. "After you." I walked past him without another word and went straight to the third row. Not the front — that was desperate energy. Not the back — that was where focus went to die. I opened my notebook. Clicked my pen. Stared at the blank page. And then — because God apparently thought my morning needed more character development — Zane Carter dropped into the empty seat right next to me. He leaned back, stretched his legs out, and stared at the ceiling like he had absolutely nowhere else to be and zero problems in the world. I said nothing. He turned his head slightly. "I never caught your name." "I never threw it." A slow smile. Not the performative one from earlier — something smaller, more genuine. Like I'd genuinely surprised him. He faced forward again. "I'm Zane." "I know who you are." "Most people do." No arrogance in it. Just fact. "You have me at a disadvantage." I kept my eyes on the board. "Good." He laughed — quiet, almost to himself — and didn't say anything after that. The lecturer walked in two minutes later. I wrote down every word. And I told myself, very firmly, that this was going to be a completely uneventful semester. I was already wrong and I didn't even know it yet.