THE LAST SEMESTER

The campus was supposed to be empty. That was the whole point of coming a day early. Wren's mom had read it off some forum at two in the morning — arrive before move-in, beat the crowds, let her get her bearings — and her dad had agreed before Wren could say she didn't care either way. She didn't care about much these days. That was sort of the problem, or maybe the solution. She hadn't decided yet. It had been her mom's idea to transfer for the last semester, too. New school, new state, clean slate. Wren had said yes mostly because saying no felt like more work than just packing. So here she was, dragging a suitcase across a quad that looked like it belonged in a brochure, ivy crawling up brick buildings that probably had names older than her whole family. Blackwood Prep. The kind of place where people said "prep" like it meant something. New school, new state, new her, if she felt like trying. She didn't, really. She just wanted to find her dorm before it got dark and figure out how to be invisible for the next five months until graduation. Her phone said the building was straight ahead, past the library. It lied. Twenty minutes later she was standing in a hallway that smelled like rubber and floor polish, staring at a door that definitely did not say Kirkwood Hall on it, wondering how she'd managed to get lost on a campus with maybe six buildings total. She pushed the door open anyway. Worth a shot, and it wasn't like anyone was around to see her fail at basic directions. It wasn't a dorm. It was a gym — half the lights off, the kind of quiet that felt too big for the room, the air still faintly warm like it had been holding onto the last bit of daylight. And it wasn't empty. A guy was under the far hoop, alone, dribbling in that steady, unhurried rhythm of someone who'd done it ten thousand times before and would do it ten thousand more without ever thinking about it. He hadn't heard the door. Wren should have backed out right then, quietly, before he noticed her standing there like an i***t with a suitcase in a place she clearly wasn't supposed to be. She didn't move fast enough. He rose for a shot — smooth, practiced, like his body already knew the ball would go in before it left his hand — and it did, clean through the net, barely touching the rim. Only then did he turn, chasing the rebound, and see her. He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at her the way you'd look at something that didn't belong in a room — not rude, exactly, just confused. Sweat down the side of his neck. A practice jersey that didn't have a name on it yet, like the school hadn't gotten around to it. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her head back a little, and for a second she forgot she was lost at all. "You lost?" he said. His voice was rougher than she expected. Tired, maybe. Or just used to not talking much. "Looking for Kirkwood," Wren said, and immediately hated how small her voice sounded bouncing off all that empty space. "That's the other side of campus." He nodded toward a door behind her, like it was obvious. Like she should've known that. "This is the gym." "Yeah. I'm getting that." Something flickered across his face — not quite a smile, but close to one, gone before she could be sure it had been there at all. He bounced the ball once, caught it, held it against his hip like he didn't know what else to do with his hands now that there was a person in the room. "You're early," he said. "School doesn't start till tomorrow." "So are you." That one landed. He didn't answer right away, and for a second the gym felt even quieter than before, like the whole building was waiting to see what he'd say next. "Yeah," he said finally. "Something like that." He didn't explain, and she didn't ask. There was a version of this where she said something else, kept the conversation going another minute, found out his name. She could feel herself wanting to, which surprised her more than anything else that had happened all day. But he'd already half-turned back toward the hoop, like the moment was over as far as he was concerned, and she was still a stranger standing in a doorway she wasn't supposed to have opened. "Door behind you," he said, not unkindly. "Take a left outside. You'll see the sign." "Thanks." She turned to go. Made it two steps before his voice caught her again. "Hey." Wren looked back. He was still holding the ball, watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read — not interested, not really, just alert in a way that made her feel seen for exactly one second longer than she wanted to be. "Wrong door twice in one night," he said, "and people start asking questions." It wasn't a joke, not really. But it wasn't nothing either. "Noted," she said, and made herself walk away before he could see that her face had gone warm for no reason she could explain. The hallway outside was emptier than before, the overhead lights buzzing faintly, her suitcase wheels loud against the tile. She was three steps from the exit when a voice stopped her cold. "Excuse me." A woman in a cardigan stood by the trophy case, arms crossed, badge clipped to her collar that read Residential Staff in small block letters. Not smiling. "Students aren't supposed to be in this building after hours. Especially not the athletic wing." Her eyes flicked toward the gym doors behind Wren, then back to her face, sharp and assessing. "Were you in there with someone?" Wren's stomach dropped. "I got lost," she said, which was true, and somehow still felt like the wrong thing to say. "I'm trying to find Kirkwood." The woman didn't answer right away. She just studied Wren a moment longer, like she was deciding whether to believe her, one hand already reaching for the radio clipped to her belt. "Wait here," she said. "I need to see who else is in that gym." And before Wren could think of a single thing to say to stop her, the woman was already walking past her, straight toward the doors Wren had just come through — straight toward Beckett, alone in the dark with a basketball still warm in his hands, about to be found by someone whose entire job was making sure boys like him never got caught with girls like her.