Death isn't an option

Chapter Two

The quad looks different now that the sun’s lower.

Less harsh, more hazy. The light has gone soft and gold, slipping around the edges of trees and buildings, turning brick and glass into something almost pretty. Music floats from somewhere near the student center—thin bass line, distant enough that it’s just a thump under the chatter.

Next to me, Ian bites into a granola bar like it offended him.

“So,” he says around the mouthful. “Day one. How are we feeling, on a scale from ‘fine’ to ‘actively planning escape route back to my parents’ couch’?”

“I’m offended you think your parents’ couch is my only backup plan,” I say. “Your mom has a perfectly good guest room.”

He snorts. “You’re dodging the question, Cole.”

We walk down the path, weaving between clusters of students stopping to take pictures or look at maps. The auditorium is behind us, the echo of the safety briefing still buzzing in my head. My skin feels too tight, like my nerves don’t quite know how to stand down.

“I’m…” I search for a word that doesn’t make him fuss. “Not dead.”

“That’s a low bar,” he says. “But I’ll take it.”

The music spikes, closer now—ah, there’s the DJ setup, under a pop-up tent near the student center. A crowd’s forming: new kids, returning students, RAs trying to look cool and failing. Someone in an orientation shirt dances with a foam finger.

“Guys!” a familiar voice yells.

We both turn.

Talia barrels at us, a stack of glossy flyers in one hand and a half-eaten slice of pizza in the other. There’s a smear of tomato sauce on her wrist. Her curls are frizzing in the humidity and she looks like she’s been living her best life for the last half hour.

“There you are,” she says, skidding to a stop. “I thought you’d ghosted me.”

“We told you we were going to get actual food later,” Ian says. “You chose the siren song of lukewarm pizza.”

“Worth it.” She stuffs the last bite in her mouth, wipes her fingers on a napkin tucked into her waistband. “I already joined three clubs I’m never going to attend and gave my email to at least four people I will absolutely ghost.”

“So you’re thriving,” I say.

“Obviously.” She fans the flyers like a hand of cards. “Look—rock climbing club, film society, ‘Students for Ethical Business Practices,’ which sounds fake but had really good brownies, and… I don’t even remember signing up for this one.” She holds up a flyer that just says MEDITATION CIRCLE in tasteful font.

“That one might actually help you,” Ian says.

“You’re hilarious,” she says. “Anyway. Now that the mandatory lecture is over, what’s the plan? Mixer? Club fair? Sneak into a frat party and judge their décor?”

“I vote food that didn’t come from a cardboard box,” Ian says. “Then maybe figuring out where our classes actually are before we get lost on Monday.”

“Ugh, practical,” Talia groans. “Fine. But we’re making a lap. I need to know where all my future bad decisions will take place.”

She hooks her arm through mine and starts dragging me toward the main walk.

I let her. It’s harder to fall into lonely thoughts when she’s vibrating at my side like a caffeinated hummingbird.

We skirt the edge of the gathering by the DJ, following a sidewalk that curves around the student center. The air is thick with the smell of cheese, sweat, and some kind of questionable cologne. Students sit on the grass in little clumps, plastic plates on their knees, cardboard cups on the ground. Someone has a frisbee. Someone else nearly loses their cup trying to catch it.

“This is weird,” I say, mostly to myself.

“What, people having fun?” Talia asks.

“People choosing to stand in line for free food they’re going to complain about,” I say. “Feels very on brand.”

Ian bumps my shoulder lightly. “It’s okay if it’s weird.”

I don’t answer that. Instead, I look up at the buildings we’re passing.

The campus is pretty in that brochure way—ivy in strategic places, old stone blended with new glass, big trees casting dappled shade. It’s the kind of place my parents would have liked. My chest tightens, reflexive. I imagine my mom wanting to see the library, my dad joking about mascots and tuition costs.

They should be here.

They’re not.

I inhale. Exhale. Focus on what’s in front of me.

“There’s the library,” Ian says, nodding toward a long, low building with big windows and a modern façade. “And that—”

“Is where I die during finals,” Talia says.

“And that,” Ian continues, undeterred, “is the science building. Your psych classes might be there.”

“Or over there.” Talia points with a flyer at a different block of brick with a row of trees in front. “I saw a sign that said ‘social sciences.’”

I trace the paths with my eyes. Library, science buildings, humanities, student center. Sidewalks intersecting like a grid, little offshoots toward residence halls. Emergency call boxes glow blue at intervals like beacons.

My brain starts mapping without my permission.

Okay, from our dorm: past the dining hall, cut across the quad, left at the ugly sculpture. That gets you to the library in five minutes. If that route’s blocked, you can go behind the science building, under the footbridge, around the old admin building—

“You’re doing it again,” Ian says quietly.

“Doing what?” I ask.

“Mentally running escape routes,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “It’s called knowing where you’re going.”

“It’s called you’re the only person I know who looks at a campus tour and thinks, ‘Hmm, how many ways can I evacuate this place at speed?’”

“I like to be prepared,” I say. “Scouting is practical.”

“It’s also kind of hot,” Talia says. “Very apocalypse-ready. I feel safer already.”

“That’s me,” I say. “Human emotional support fire drill.”

They laugh. The knot in my chest loosens a fraction.

We follow a curve toward the student center. The big glass doors reflect the sky in syrupy colors. Through them, I can see bright lights, tables, people milling around with trays.

“Food?” Ian says.

“Yes, please,” Talia says. “If I don’t eat something green soon, my organs are going to revolt.”

“You ate pizza,” I say.

“Pizza is beige,” she says. “Beige doesn’t count.”

We step inside. The noise level jumps, all clatter and chatter and the hiss of soda fountains. The air smells like fries and something vaguely spicy. Escalators hum. Signs for SUBWAY and BURGER BAR and SALAD STATION compete for attention.

We opt for the line with the shortest wait. I end up with a chicken wrap and a small side salad, mostly because it looks like something my mom would approve of. Ian gets some kind of grain bowl that’s trying very hard to be healthy. Talia loads up on nachos and a side of broccoli to appease her conscience.

We snag a table by a window. From here, I can see the quad and one of the paths leading back to our residence hall. One exit to my left, one behind us, emergency exit sign glowing above a door at the far side.

I take a bite of my wrap. It’s fine. The lettuce is a little limp.

“So,” Talia says around a mouthful of cheese. “Ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” Ian repeats.

“For us this year.” She points her chip at each of us. “We are not doing the sad, lonely, hermit thing. We are going to join at least one club we actually show up to. We will attend at least one party per month. We will—”

“Not get alcohol poisoning,” Ian says.

“—not get alcohol poisoning,” she agrees. “We will make questionable choices but not felony-level questionable. We will—”

“Pass our classes,” I add.

“Yes, mom,” she says. “We will also pass our classes. But most importantly?” She taps her chip on the table for emphasis. “We’re going to thrive here.”

She says it like a promise. Like an oath.

Something tugs behind my sternum.

Not sharp, like earlier. Not pain. Just a pull, like a thread inside me has been plucked.

For a second I swear I see something flicker in the air between us—thin lines stretching from me to Ian to Talia. A web of light, pale and fine as spider silk, connecting us over the table.

I blink.

It’s gone.

I realize my hand has drifted up, fingertips resting lightly over my scar. I drop it back to my lap.

“Thrive is ambitious,” I say, aiming for flippant. “I was just hoping for ‘cope without screaming.’”

“That’s stage one,” Talia says. “Stage two is ‘be hot and mysterious and mildly terrifying in seminar discussions.’”

“I can’t compete with you in that department,” I say.

“True,” she says. “But you can aspire.”

Ian grins. “I like the part where we don’t get felonies. Can we keep that?”

“We’ll put it in the charter,” she says. She glances at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Just… long day.”

Which is not wrong. It doesn’t cover the weird phantom-web moment, but I don’t have words for that. How do you say, Hey, do you ever feel like someone pulled on your insides when you make a joke about thriving? without sounding insane?

Ian chews thoughtfully. “My mom texted,” he says after a moment. “She says to tell you hi and that if you need anything, she’s a phone call away.”

Warmth spreads through my chest, this time not scar-related.

“Tell her I love her more than I love you,” I say.

He nods solemnly. “She knows.”

We eat. The noise blends into a dull roar that I can almost ignore.

By the time we dump our trash and step back outside, the sky’s shifted from gold to deep blue. The lampposts lining the paths flicker on, washing the sidewalks in soft yellow. Fairy lights twine through trees near the student center, glowing like captive fireflies.

“That’s disgustingly cute,” Talia says, nodding toward them. “I approve.”

“Of artificial lights?” Ian asks.

“Of vibes,” she says. “This place has Aesthetic. I’m excited.”

We start toward the dorms. There are still people everywhere, but the energy has changed—less frantic, more settled. Some kids sit cross-legged on the grass talking quietly. Others walk in pairs or small groups, heads bent together, already forming new orbits.

We cut along a side path that skirts the back of one of the administration buildings. There’s a side entrance here, more utilitarian, with a few stairs leading up and a loading dock off to the side.

“Hey,” Ian says under his breath.

I follow his gaze.

Near the loading dock, a small cluster of grown-ups stands in a loose group: a woman in a blazer, a man in a campus police uniform, another guy with a clipboard. And in the middle of them, dressed in a new shade of dark suit, is Knox Graves.

He has one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing toward a set of blue emergency-call pillars on a map someone’s holding. Even from here, it’s obvious he’s the one everyone else is listening to. The campus cop nods when Knox says something. The blazer woman laughs a little too loudly at something else and then composes herself.

“Hot CEO Cop is back,” Talia mutters, not nearly as quietly as she thinks.

I want to elbow her. Instead, I watch him.

It’s different seeing him out here than onstage. Onstage, he was performing a role: liaison, authority, professional reassurance. Here, he’s… working. Pointing at spots on the map, nodding along to someone’s question, occasionally scanning the physical space like he’s overlaying the blueprint in his head.

This isn’t “guy they bring in to give one talk and leave.” This is someone who fits into the machinery of the place. Someone who moves people, budgets, patrol routes.

Someone with access to the places most students never see.

A flicker of irrational anger rises in my chest. It’s not fair, but it’s there.

He has power here. On my new ground, in my new chapter.

Talia follows my line of sight and whistles low. “Okay, but real talk, he looks like he bills by the minute.”

“Exactly what this campus needs,” Ian says. “More men in suits making decisions.”

“Amen,” I say, but my voice comes out a little thinner than I want.

As if he hears us, Knox glances up.

His gaze sweeps the walkway, lands on our trio. On me.

It’s not as startling the second time, but it’s no less intense. Even at this distance, I feel like he’s… measuring. Not just looking. Taking stock.

My feet keep moving. I refuse to break stride for him.

He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. Just holds my gaze for a second longer than is comfortable, then returns his attention to the admin group, his profile cutting sharp against the brick.

“Why do I feel like he knows where we are at all times?” Talia says.

“Because he probably does,” Ian says.

“That’s creepy,” she says. “Also… again, a little hot.”

“You need therapy,” I tell her.

“We all need therapy,” she says. “You just admit it more.”

She’s not wrong.

We cut back toward the main quad. The grass is shadowed now, lamplight forming little islands of brightness. A group has set up a slackline between two trees. Someone’s playing guitar badly near the fountain.

“Dorm?” Ian asks.

“In a sec,” Talia says. “I want to swing by the bulletin board and see if anyone’s advertising band auditions or underground fight clubs.”

“Those are very different experiences,” I say.

“Options,” she says. “It’s all about options.”

We veer across the lawn. A skateboarder zooms past, almost clipping my hip. I step aside, glaring at his retreating back.

“People are allergic to common sense,” I mutter.

“That’s a bold statement,” Ian says. “On a college campus.”

We’re halfway across the quad when someone calls out, “Heads up!”

I look toward the voice.

Bad choice.

A frisbee arcs toward us, glowing faintly under the lamplight. It’s not exactly coming for my face, but it’s close enough that my body makes the decision for me. I sidestep out of its path—

—and straight into the path of someone else.

There’s a brief, weightless moment where I know I’m going to collide with a very solid chest and possibly fall on my ass in front of half the student body.

Hands close around me instead. One braces at my elbow, the other catching my upper arm, firm and steadying, arresting my momentum like it’s nothing.

I inhale sharply. My nose fills with a scent that is definitely not student-cheap cologne. Clean, crisp, something like cedar or smoke under expensive soap.

I look up.

Knox Graves looks down.

Up close, without a stage between us, he’s even more impossible. The suit is dark charcoal, the shirt a shade lighter, open at the collar. His face is all straight lines and shadow, eyes a cool gray that doesn’t soften just because I’m inches away.

“Careful, Miss Cole,” he says.

My name in his mouth again. Like it belongs there.

My pulse leaps. My scar throbs under my hand, which is now trapped awkwardly between my chest and his suit jacket. For a beat I’m absurdly aware of everything: the strength in his fingers, the heat of his body, the way he doesn’t budge at all even though I hit him with enough force to jostle anyone else.

We are very, very close.

I jerk back a fraction, enough to reclaim my personal space and whatever dignity I have left. His hands fall away at once, no lingering, no squeeze. Professional.

It doesn’t make it feel less intimate.

“You could look where you’re going,” I say, because my mouth is a traitor.

One of his eyebrows ticks up, almost imperceptibly.

“I did,” he says. “That’s why you didn’t end up on the ground.”

Heat sears my cheeks. Behind me, I hear Talia make a noise that’s suspiciously like a suppressed squeal.

I clear my throat. “I was avoiding a frisbee.”

His gaze flicks briefly toward the direction it flew, then back to me.

“Campus can be… unpredictable,” he says. “Especially the first week. I’d recommend watching your step.”

The words are neutral. The delivery is not. There’s something threaded through his tone—warning, maybe. Or something more personal.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

Ian steps up beside me, just a little closer than strictly necessary. Not aggressive, just present. Knox’s gaze notes him, then Talia, quick assessments, before returning to my face.

Up close, I can see faint lines at the corners of his eyes. He’s not old, but he’s lived more life than anyone in this courtyard. There’s a stillness in him that doesn’t match the restless, buzzing energy of the campus.

“Enjoy your evening,” he says.

Again, something he could say to anyone. Again, it feels like he’s saying it specifically to me.

Then he steps around us and continues across the grass, angling toward one of the side paths. Students unconsciously part around him. No one bumps him. No one makes him adjust his stride.

The space where his hands were on my arms tingles.

“Okay,” Talia says the second he’s out of earshot. “That was… wow.”

“Don’t,” I say.

“‘Don’t,’” she mimics, then tilts her head. “Miss Cole, huh? Formal. Kinky.”

“Talia,” Ian warns.

“What, I’m just saying,” she says. “The energy was… intense.”

“It was a near face-plant,” I say. “He caught me. That’s all.”

“He said your name like he was about to sign you into some kind of contract,” she says. “Do you think he knows all the student names or just yours?”

My stomach flips.

“Probably all of them,” I say. “He’s clearly plugged into the admin system. Rosters. ID photos. Whatever.”

Ian’s mouth is a flat line. “I don’t like that he was close enough to catch you before we even saw you move.”

“That sounds like a compliment,” Talia says.

“It’s not,” he says.

They start bickering softly. I stare at my own feet for a second, trying to breathe normally.

It’s stupid. So I’m a little rattled. That doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean my scar feels like someone plucked the nerve endings like guitar strings. It doesn’t mean his voice replaying in my head—Careful, Miss Cole—lands like a hand on the back of my neck.

He’s a security contractor. I’m a student who nearly got taken out by a frisbee, of all things. That’s it.

“Dorm?” I say, cutting off whatever Talia was about to imply next.

“Yes, please,” Ian says.

We make our way back along the path. The crowd thins as we move farther from the student center. The dorms rise ahead like squat, familiar shadows.

By the time we get to our building, my shoulders are tight and my feet hurt. The lobby smells like cleaning supplies and whatever someone microwaved without enough water. We take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

On our floor, the hall is a mess of half-open doors, music bleeding from three different directions, and a girl crying loudly on the phone about how she misses her dog. Our door is mercifully closed.

“Ladies,” Ian says, backing toward his own hallway. “Text me if you need anything. Or if you see more corporate wolves in suits stalking the quad.”

“That’s slander,” Talia says. “He’s clearly a panther.”

“You two need help,” I say.

Ian winks, then disappears around the corner.

Our room is a small rectangle of chaos: my half mostly unpacked, Talia’s half a shrine of cosmetics and chaos. She drops the flyers on her desk, hums something tuneless, and starts rummaging in her drawers for pajamas.

“You going to the mixer thing later?” she asks.

“I think I’m tapped out on social interaction for the day,” I say.

“Fair,” she says. “I might swing by for a bit. Purely in the interest of cultural anthropology.”

“Of course.”

I change into an old t-shirt and shorts, stow my shoes neatly by the bed. The motions are automatic. My body knows how to do nighttime even when my brain is buzzing.

Talia disappears into the communal bathroom with her toiletry bag and a shower caddy. The door clicks shut behind her, muffling the distant hallway noise.

For the first time since we walked onto campus, I’m alone.

I sit on my bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up, and stare at nothing for a minute.

My chest feels… weird. Not painful, just residual. Like the phantom sensation of someone’s hand on my arm and a pulse behind my scar.

On the small bedside table, my phone lights up with a notification. A text from Ian.

IAN: you alive?

JUNE: define alive

IAN: not spiraling?

IAN: not in need of a rescue mission?

I huff out a breath.

JUNE: I’m fine

JUNE: question tho

JUNE: did they ever actually say that security guy’s name in the talk?

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

IAN: pretty sure the vp said “mr graves” when she introduced him

IAN: why?

IAN: you planning to report him to HR for catching you too dramatically?

JUNE: shut up

JUNE: just curious

JUNE: felt like everyone knew who he was already

IAN: admin people definitely do

IAN: students? idk

IAN: talia only calls him “hot ceo cop” so

I stare at the screen.

Graves.

I remember the sound of it over the mic, vaguely. But I remember Knox more clearly from the doorway, from the quad. From the way he said Miss Cole like it wasn’t new in his mouth.

I didn’t tell anyone my full name today. Not to him. Not anywhere he was close enough to hear.

Sure, he could have gotten it from a roster or a list or whatever file someone handed him when he decided to run a safety empire here. That’s how security works.

It still makes something in me bristle.

JUNE: yeah ok

JUNE: it’s nothing

JUNE: go to sleep old man

IAN: it’s like 9pm

JUNE: exactly

IAN: goodnight, drama magnet

IAN: text if you have weird dreams

JUNE: no promises

I put the phone face down.

The room is dim, lit only by the small desk lamp on my side. Outside, someone laughs too loudly, then shushes themselves. A door slams. Footsteps thump down the hall.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling. My sternum twinges as I settle, the scar complaining about angles. I slide my palm up under my shirt and rest it lightly there, fingers tracing the familiar ridge.

“You’re safe here,” the VP had said.

Careful, Miss Cole, he’d said.

Something in my chest picks at both those lines like a scab.

I close my eyes.

I did not come to Greystone to obsess over a man in a suit. I came to go to class, eat bad food, have normal problems. Get through my junior year without letting the ghosts of chapter two chew me up.

If the campus security consultant has unsettling eyes and a voice my hindbrain keeps replaying, that’s my problem to ignore.

My body doesn’t quite agree.

Sleep comes slow and stubborn. When it finally does, it drags Knox’s gray eyes and the weight of his hand on my arm with it, threading them through the edges of my dreams.