Me:Otto is on campus. Going to the café with him.
I hit send before I could rethink it and shoved my phone back into my pocket. The vibration started almost immediately against my thigh.
It was Henry—ithadto be.
Otto walked beside me through the drizzle while students cut around us in hurried clusters, umbrellas knocking together as they crossed the quad. He moved easily through campus, relaxed enough that anyone looking at us would assume this was normal.
The café came into view at the end of the humanities courtyard, warm light spilling beneath the striped awning while rainwater dripped steadily from the fabric edges.
Usually, this place was impossible to breathe in after three o’clock.
Students packed shoulder-to-shoulder around tiny tables that were never meant to hold six people. Somebody was usually laughing too loud near the windows while grad students guarded outlets like territorial animals. Henry once told me the café’s music playlist sounded "aggressively earnest,” and now I couldn’t walk in without thinking about it.
My pace slowed beneath the awning, sneakers dragging against wet concrete while a cold pressure spread slowly beneath my ribs.
Instinct.
Every nerve in me pulled tight one by one like my body was bracing for impact before it saw the danger coming.
The buzzing in my pocket started again.
Henry.
I could feel him through denim and muscle and bone at this point. The man might as well have been physically grabbing me by the shoulders from across campus.
Otto glanced toward me when I stopped just outside the door.
“You alright there, kid?”
My hand flexed at my side before I shoved it into the pocket of my jacket so he wouldn’t see it shaking. “I’m fine.”
Otto pulled the café door open, and warm air rolled over me, thick with espresso, cinnamon syrup, and melted chocolate.
Usually, that smell made me think of late nights with Rhys or Henry stealing pieces of my muffin while pretending he didn’t want any.
Now it just made me nauseous.
The bell above the door jingled softly as I stepped inside. My eyes moved automatically toward the counter and snagged on the back corner booth.
Oh, these sneaky fucking bastards.
Dean Randolph looked up from a ceramic coffee mug, calm as fucking ever.
He stood as we approached, smoothing one hand down the front of his coat like we were about to have a perfectly civilized conversation instead of whatever the fuck this was.
“Mr. Quinn,” he greeted warmly.
I stopped walking.
Otto kept moving another step before realizing I wasn’t beside him anymore.
“What is this?”
The question came out sharper than I intended.
Good.
I was done trying to smooth the edges off my reactions for people who clearly thought they were smarter than me.