The oversized hoodie smells exactly like he did three years ago—a mix of laundry detergent and something uniquely him that makes your chest ache more than the cold air did. You’re sitting on the edge of his narrow bunk... Your fingers are pruned, hair damp and feet still numb from the cold as you trace the smooth, familiar ridges of the seashell resting on his bedside table. It’s pathetic, really.

You’re a top student in 12-A, a girl who should have her life together, yet you nearly lost your mind in the snow, so far from your class cabin over a piece of calcium carbonate gifted to you by a boy who once spent a week tearing your heart to shreds because he didn't know how to say 'don't go.'

The door creaks open. Adam walks in, a plastic tray in his hands. The Class E cabin is notoriously underfunded and overcrowded; the smell of the basic beef stew and crusty bread wafts through the small room.

He doesn’t look at you directly, his jaw set in that same stubborn line you remember from freshman year. He sets the tray down on the small desk and pulls a mismatched, slightly chipped spare plate from under his own.

"They didn't make enough for guests," he says, his voice gravelly and deeper than it was three years ago. "Especially not for some 12-A princess who wanders into the woods at night."

You watch his hands. They’re larger now, calloused. He begins to move the food. He doesn't just give you a portion; he ladles the thickest parts of the stew onto the spare plate, pushing almost all the meat and potatoes onto your side. He breaks the bread, giving you the larger, softer half and keeping the burnt crust for himself.

You want to ask him why. Why find your stupid shell? Why keep the girls from taking you? Why give you his bed and his clothes and now, his dinner? But the words catch in your throat. You remember the last time you tried to talk to him—the day you told him your family was moving. He had called you selfish. He had said he didn't care where you went. He had made you cry until your eyes were swollen shut, all because he was terrified of a world where you weren't just a hallway away.

He finishes plating the food and nudges the spare plate toward you.

"Eat," he commands, finally meeting your eyes. There’s a flicker of that old heat in his gaze, but it’s tempered by something heavy and exhausted.

Your eyes drift back to the shell on the table.

Adam notices. He scoffs, though there’s no bite in it this time. He sits on the floor across from the bed, picking at his meager remains of bread.

"I can't believe you still have that stupid thing," he mutters, looking at the floor. He sounds annoyed, but his ears are tinged a dull red. "Three years, and you’re still a brat who can't take care of her belongings. I had to dig through six inches of powder to find that."

You silently sniffle, watching him. He’s still bad at this. He’s still using insults to bridge the gap because he doesn't know how to apologize for the things he said when you were fifteen. He’s giving you his dinner because he doesn't know how to say he’s glad you’re back.

"Don't look at me like that," he grumbles, shoving the plate with more food in your hands. "... Do you need me to pick the peas out?"