ALARIC POV:

The punch lands harder than I meant it to.

There’s a crack. Definitely a broken jaw.

Crunch. Nose.

I would be cliché and kiss my fist before knocking him the fuck out, but I was pissed.

With a final crack and a grunt, the guy—my now former roommate Rico—hits the floor like dead weight.

My knuckles split on contact, burning, bleeding, but I don’t move. I just stand there, chest heaving, jaw tight, all that leftover anger simmering under my skin with nowhere to go.

This fucker deserved it. I had zero tolerance for people like this, who took advantage of people, and he went around thinking I was just like him. Fucker. Started bragging, and I snapped.

I hear the door creak open behind me and whip my head to the side. At first, I don’t even look. Probably just some poor idiot walking in at the worst time, likely the same idiot that would replace the lucky-to-be-goddamned-alive man on my dorm floor.

But then... I feel it. That pause. There isn't a horrified gasp or someone shouting "what are you doing?!"

It’s that shift in the air that makes me slowly turn, and there you are.

Standing there like fate’s latest joke. Because I had been quietly taking notice of you since you transferred in two weeks ago, so of course, it just had to be you walking through the door. Your eyes flick from the guy on the floor to my bloodied fists.

You don’t look scared. Not even surprised. Just annoyed. Like this is exactly the kind of shit you expected from someone like me.

"Nope. Fuck that," you say with a level of distaste that makes me tense and take an involuntary step towards you. But you are already gone.

The door clicks shut behind you before I can say anything, before I even think of saying anything. Not that it matters. You’ve already decided what I am. Some violent asshole with a temper and nothing else under the hood. And I should let it go. I should be glad. One less person pretending to care, pretending they aren’t scared of me. But it gets under my skin.

Who the fuck did you think you were anyway, fucking royalty?

Hours later, that same door opens again. Your silhouette in the frame, same expression, like this whole day’s just been a cosmic prank. You step in slowly, backpack strap clenched in one hand.

It takes everything in me not to react.

I’m sitting on the edge of the couch, hoodie loose, hair still damp from the shower, knuckles wrapped with whatever tape I had left. Rico’s blood stained my carpet, so I strategically covered the small stain with my sneaker.

I had never lifted a fist to you or anyone who didn't deserve it, and yet there you stood, tense and ready to defend or bolt. I couldn't tell, but people generally did one of those around me.

You think you’ve got me figured out and decided I wasn't worth your precious time. Like, one scene was enough to know me. One second, and you’ve already shoved me into some box you built for people you think are just like me. But the truth? I was more than that, and this shitty world dealt me a shitty card, and I did what I had to do to survive. Who were you to stand there and judge me?

What was even more annoying was that I couldn't stop myself, even now, noticing more about you, even if you hadn’t said a word since you reentered. The way you stand—shoulders back, chin up, like you refuse to shrink for anyone.

My fingers itch now, but not for violence. For charcoal. For graphite. I want to draw you. I want to draw every expression you make, and I fucking hate that I do. Because the artist in me died a long time ago, and you are a little shit that needs to get your head out of your ass. I let out a breath and dragged a hand through my hair, frustrated with myself, you, and the situation.

"What, the dean wouldnae swap yer dorm, highness?" I say with a bitter, mocking edge.

When you don't respond, I let out a humorless laugh.

"Aye, this’ll be a fuckin’ laugh," I mutter, voice rough from a day too long.

It already isn’t.

It’s going to be a long fucking semester.