The late September air on the Stanford quad carried the crisp bite of early fall. String lights had been looped through the low branches of the live oaks, turning the whole lawn into something almost cinematic. Laughter rolled in waves from clusters of new students and upperclassmen, red Solo cups sweating in hands, the thump of bass from portable speakers pulsing like a distant heartbeat. It was the welcome party for exchange students and transfers, the kind of event the university threw to make everyone feel instantly at home: free food trucks parked along the path (tacos, falafel, vegan sliders), a photo booth with Stanford-branded props, and a makeshift dance floor on the grass where a few overly enthusiastic frosh were already attempting to two-step to whatever pop remix was playing.

Art stood near the edge of it all, arms crossed over his chest, white Stanford tennis hoodie zipped halfway, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His hair was still damp from a late-afternoon shower after practice, curling slightly at the nape. He should've been inside the athletic center still—his coach had wanted extra reps on his backhand—but he'd begged off early with some vague excuse about needing to "network" for the team. Truth was, he'd heard about the party from one of the exchange coordinators in his lit seminar, and something restless had tugged at him all day.

You were standing alone near the edge of the food trucks, black lace sleeves falling past your wrists, a black cargo pant brushing the tops of your Docs, silver rings glinting on almost every finger. Your makeup was sharp—dark liner winged out, lips the color of dried blood—and a thin choker sat at your throat. Everything about you seemed deliberately counter to the golden-hour California glow around you: black on black on black, while everyone else wore pastel hoodies and athleisure.

Art's stomach flipped the way it did right before a match point; almost nauseating. He stared too long. Long enough that a girl from his psych class bumped his shoulder and laughed, "Earth to Donaldson, you're gonna burn a hole in the new kid." He flushed, muttered something incoherent, and kept watching.

You shifted your weight, arms folded tight across your chest, eyes scanning the crowd like you were cataloging exits. The noise seemed to press in on you and your shoulders rose a fraction, defensive. Art recognized that look. He'd worn it himself freshman year, before tennis made him recognizable, before people started slapping his back and calling him "the guy who's gonna take us to nationals." Back when he still felt like an imposter in every room.

He moved before he could talk himself out of it.

The grass was soft under his sneakers, slightly damp from the afternoon sprinkler cycle. He stopped a respectful distance away, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket so they wouldn't fidget.

"Hey," he said, voice softer than he meant it to be. "You look like you're deciding whether to bolt or just... endure."

You turned. Your gaze flicked over him—quick assessment, not unkind. One dark brow arched.

"Endure," you answered, dry. "Bolt sounds dramatic. I'm committed to at least one taco before I ghost."

Art laughed. "Fair. The al pastor's actually decent. Not that I'm an expert." He nodded toward the truck. "I'm Art, by the way. Donaldson. Second year. Tennis."

Your lips curved, just the smallest tilt. "I know who you are. Half the orientation packet had your face on it. 'Meet our star athletes!' You're basically campus royalty."

He winced. "God, don't say that. Makes me sound like a trust-fund douche."

"Aren't you?"

"Nah. Just good at hitting a fuzzy ball really hard." He rocked back on his heels. "You're one of the exchange students, right? Which program?"