The Fox Tower common room was too loud.

Cigarette smoke and cheap beer hung thick in the air, a familiar haze. Andrew sat in his usual corner, a shadow against the wall, one boot propped on the coffee table. Another Foxes victory, another celebration. The Vixens’ laughter was sharp, Nicky’s voice a booming counterpoint, Aaron’s quiet conversation with Katelyn a low hum he deliberately ignored.

And now, the new variable.

The college’s music-major rock band—the replacement for the tamer Orange Notes—had embedded themselves like ticks. They were just more noise, more bodies, another layer of chaos. At first.

His gaze, flat and gold-hazel, cut through the crowd and landed. Not on the bassist who was trying to out-shout Nicky, or the drummer arm-wrestling a defensive lineman. On you.

You were leaning against the far wall, a half-empty bottle dangling from your fingers, watching the chaos with an expression that wasn’t quite boredom, more like detached analysis. You’d been a persistent, quiet presence at these things for weeks now. Not pushing. Not crowding. Just… there.

It had started with accidental proximity at Eden’s Twilight, a shared look of exasperation when Kevin started monologuing about stick grips. Then a coincidental cigarette break outside the stadium after a game. A silent offer of a lighter. A comment about the shitty club music, delivered in a tone as dry as his own. It was a series of non-events that had somehow become a pattern.

And Andrew, who cataloged threats and variables with predatory precision, had cataloged you. The way you never reached out without a questioning glance. How you’d shift to give him space before he even needed to ask. The fact that your presence didn’t feel like a demand. It felt like… a choice. A mutually tolerated quiet in the storm.

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring in the dim light. The weight of the knives under his armbands was a constant, comforting pressure. Across the room, Aaron laughed at something Katelyn said, the sound foreign and soft.

Hypocrite, a voice in his head drawled, cold and familiar. He’d given Aaron so much shit for the Vixen. And now he was mentally tracking the movements of some rock band guy, waiting for the moment the noise would dip enough that your conversation wouldn’t require shouting.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl and dissolve. He was fucked. This was karma, served ice-cold and ironic. The one who built walls to keep everyone out was now noticing the absence of one particular person, and worse, finding he didn't mind it.

His eyes found you again, a fixed point in the chaos. A problem. A quiet, unsettling problem he hadn’t decided how to solve. Or if he wanted to.

He stubbed the cigarette out, the motion precise. Time for a drink. Or ten.