Chapter 3
The fog rolls in overnight, thick and unnatural, blanketing the campus in a gray shroud that feels like something out of a horror movie. It’s the kind of fog that swallows sound, that makes everything feel muted and distant and wrong.
I tell myself it’s just weather. Just October being October.
But as I walk to my morning class, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is following me.
I stop at the edge of the green that cuts through campus, pretending to check my phone while I scan the fog behind me. Shapes move in the mist—other students, probably, hurrying to class—but I can’t tell if any of them are watching me specifically.
This is paranoia. This is what the stalker wants—to make me jumpy and afraid and constantly looking over my shoulder.
I shove my phone in my pocket and keep walking.
Don’t think about yesterday. Don’t think about the library. Don’t think about—
But my mind goes there anyway. To the moment I was on my knees in front of Zane Ivarsson. To the way he looked down at me with those dark, dilated eyes. To the feeling of his body pressed against mine, hard and hot and impossible to ignore.
My throat goes dry just remembering it.
I’ve never reacted to anyone like that before. Never felt my body respond so immediately, so intensely, to another person’s proximity. And definitely never to a guy.
I don’t like guys. I never have.
And I definitely don’t like Zane Ivarsson.
It was just stress. Confusion. His strange behavior throwing me off balance. That’s all it was. That’s all it could be.
I repeat this to myself like a mantra as I make my way across campus, the fog making everything look unfamiliar and threatening. Trees loom out of the mist like skeletal hands.
Someone laughs behind me, and I spin around so fast I nearly drop my backpack.
Just a couple of girls walking together, one of them showing the other something on her phone. They don’t even glance at me.
Get it together, Easton.
My morning class is torture. I can’t focus, can’t stop watching the door, can’t stop thinking about those photos the stalker sent. Someone took those pictures from outside my window. Someone was standing in the dark, watching me, and I had no idea.
When class finally ends, I practically run for the door, desperate for air and movement and anything that will make me feel less trapped.
That’s when I run into them.
A group of athletes is blocking the hallway, their massive bodies taking up space like they own it. Which, on this campus, they basically do.
I recognize most of them—hockey players, rugby players, the kind of guys who peak in college and spend the rest of their lives reliving their glory days.
And right in the center of the group, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, is Zane Ivarsson.
Our eyes meet for a split second. His expression is unreadable, but something flickers in his gaze.
Before I can turn around and find another route, he pushes off the wall.
“Heads up, Beeler.”
He tosses something at me. A water bottle.
I fumble for it, my hands not coordinating properly, and it bounces off my fingers and clatters to the floor.
The group erupts in laughter.
“Nice catch,” one of them says, grinning like this is the funniest thing he’s seen all week.
Heat rises to my face. I bend down to pick up the bottle, my jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth don’t crack.
“Another year of practice,” Zane says, his tone casual, almost bored, “and you might actually catch it when I throw it to you.”
More laughter. I straighten up, gripping the bottle so hard the plastic crinkles.
“Thanks,” I say flatly, trying to push past them.
“Hey, Beeler.” This comes from a guy I don’t recognize—tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that makes my skin crawl. “You want some private lessons? I’m good with my hands. Could teach you how to handle balls better.”
The hallway goes silent.
I freeze, my face burning with humiliation and anger.
Then I see Zane’s expression change.
It’s subtle—just a slight narrowing of his eyes, a tightening of his jaw—but the temperature in the hallway seems to drop ten degrees.
He turns his head slowly, deliberately, to look at the guy who spoke.
“What did you just say?” Zane’s voice is soft. Dangerous.
The guy’s smile falters. “I was just—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Zane doesn’t raise his voice, but the command in it is absolute. “And get out of my sight before I make you regret opening your mouth.”
The guy pales. “Dude, I was just joking—”
“Now.”
The guy practically scrambles backward, disappearing around the corner. The rest of the group stays silent, none of them meeting Zane’s eyes.
I should feel grateful. I should thank him.
Instead, I feel humiliated all over again. Like I’m some pathetic victim who needs the big strong hockey captain to defend me who is also my bully.
“Whatever,” I mutter, and push past them before anyone can say anything else.
God, I hate these dumb, muscular jerks. Yesterday, for a brief, idiotic moment, I thought Zane might be different. Might actually be a decent person under all the posturing and privilege.
I was wrong.
~ ~ ~
The next day, I skip my morning classes.
I know it’s irresponsible. I know I should be there, taking notes, keeping up with my coursework. But I can’t face another day of paranoia and fog and athletes making me feel like I’m back in high school.
Instead, I take the bus to the traveling butterfly exhibition at the natural history museum downtown.
Butterflies are my thing. Have been since I was a kid and my grandmother gave me a book about them.
Most people think it’s weird—a nerdy kid obsessed with insects—but I don’t care.
There’s something beautiful about butterflies.
Something about the way they transform, the way they’re fragile but survive anyway.
The exhibition is small but impressive. Glass cases filled with specimens from all over the world, their wings preserved in death, still showing all their iridescent glory.
And then I see it.
A Morpho rhetenor helena. The Helena blue morpho.
I’ve been looking for a specimen of this butterfly for three years. It’s not rare, exactly, but finding one in this condition, with the wings fully intact and the blue still this vibrant—it’s almost impossible.
“Excuse me,” I say to the curator, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and gray hair pulled back in a bun. “Is this specimen for sale?”
She looks surprised, then pleased. “You have a good eye. Yes, actually. We’re selling some of our duplicates to fund the exhibition. Are you a collector?”
“Amateur,” I admit. “But I’ve been looking for this species for a long time.”
“Well.” She names a price that makes me wince—more than I should spend, definitely more than I can comfortably afford—but I don’t care.
Twenty minutes later, I walk out of the museum with a carefully wrapped box containing my new treasure, and for the first time in days, I feel something other than fear or confusion.
I feel happy.
The feeling lasts exactly as long as it takes me to check my phone and realize I have fifteen minutes to get to my tutoring session with Zane.
Shit.
~ ~ ~
I make it to the library with two minutes to spare, slightly out of breath and clutching my precious butterfly box like my life depends on it.
Zane is already in the study room, sprawled in his usual chair, but something is different. He’s not on his phone. He’s not chewing gum. He’s just sitting there, staring at nothing, his expression distant.
“You’re late again,” he says without looking at me.
“I’m actually two minutes early.”
“For you, that’s late.” He finally glances up, and I notice dark circles under his eyes. “You skip your morning classes?”
“How did you—” I stop myself. Of course he knows. Nothing stays secret on this campus. “That’s none of your business.”
“Sit fucking down.” He gestures at the chair across from him. “Let’s get this over with.”
I sit, carefully placing my butterfly box on the table. Zane’s eyes flick to it but he doesn’t comment.
The session is strange. Quiet. Zane actually does the work I assigned him, actually makes corrections to his essay without arguing. He doesn’t make any of his usual loaded comments. Doesn’t stare at me the way he usually does. Doesn’t try to provoke me.
It’s unnerving.
“Are you okay?” I ask finally, unable to stand the silence anymore.
“Fine.” He doesn’t look up from his laptop. “Why?”
“You’re being… quiet.”
“Wanna me start making dumb comments about repetition and movement again?”
My face heats up. “No.”
“Then appreciate the quiet while it lasts.”
Sometimes it feels like I’m talking to two completely different people.
We work in silence for another twenty minutes. I’m actually starting to relax, to think maybe this session won’t be completely terrible, when there’s a knock at the door.
We both look up.
A kid I don’t recognize—probably a freshman, from the nervous way he’s standing—peers through the window at us. He looks terrified.
“Come in,” I call.
The door opens slowly. The kid edges inside like he’s approaching a wild animal.
“I’m supposed to give this to Easton Beeler,” he says, his voice shaking slightly.
“That’s me.”
He practically throws a box at me—smaller than the butterfly box, wrapped in that familiar black paper with silver ribbon—and then turns and runs.
Actually runs, like the devil himself is chasing him.
The door slams shut behind him.
I stare down at the box in my hands. My blood has gone cold.
“Open it,” Zane says.
His voice is different. Not concerned. Not worried. Just… commanding. Like he’s been waiting for this moment.
I look up at him, confused. “What?”
“Open it.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Right here. Right now. I want to see what’s inside.”
“But—”
“Open it, Easton.” There’s something in his eyes I can’t identify—dark and intense, making my skin prickle. “Don’t make me ask again.”
His tone compels me to obey without thinking. I pull at the ribbon with shaking hands. The black paper tears away easily.
The box underneath is plain white cardboard. No markings. No labels.
I lift the lid.
Inside, cushioned in tissue paper, is a butterfly.
Morpho rhetenor helena. Similar to the one I just bought from the museum less than two hours ago.