Chapter 4
Four
Blair
The campus gates rise ahead, all wrought iron and ivy, and my chest tightens, not from excitement, but from the way my pulse has been out of rhythm since we left his driveway.
Five hours.
Five hours of him changing the music mid-song, adjusting my vent, handing me coffee in the wrong cup, taking a “shortcut” that wasn’t.
Five hours of me silently counting, breaths, stitches in my jeans, the seconds between his glances, and losing track every time he smirked like he knew exactly what I was doing.
I should feel relieved that the ride is over. Instead, my skin hums like I’ve been plugged into a socket.
Kane slows as we turn onto the main drive, the truck rolling past brick buildings and manicured lawns.
Students are everywhere, laughing, hauling boxes, hugging parents goodbye.
It’s absolute chaos. My fingers curl into my palms, nails digging into my skin.
I want to count something, anything, to anchor myself, but the noise and movement make the numbers slip away.
“You’re quiet,” he says, like it’s an observation and a challenge all at once.
“I’m fine,” I lie, eyes fixed on the clock tower ahead.
He doesn’t push, but I can feel him watching me. Always watching.
We pull into the freshman lot, and my stomach knots when I see Kinsley’s car already there, hood up, a tow truck parked beside it. She’s waving like she’s been here for hours.
Kane parks, kills the engine, and leans back in his seat. “Told you I’d get you here.”
I unbuckle, the click is too loud in the small space. “You also told me it was a shortcut.”
His grin is slow, deliberate. “It was. For me.”
I grab the door handle, needing to get out, to breathe, to put space between us. But before I can, his hand brushes mine, just a graze, enough to make my breath catch.
“Careful, sunflower,” he murmurs. “Campus is big and messy. Easy to get lost.”
The words shouldn’t feel like a promise. But they do.
I step out into the sunlight, blinking against the brightness, and tell myself I’m free.
Only… I can still feel his eyes on me.
“You made it!” Kins calls, practically bouncing on her toes.
I force a smile and wave back, but my pulse is still uneven from the ride. I can feel Kane behind me, his presence like a shadow that moves when I move.
Kinsley rushes over and pulls me into a hug that smells like her honey shampoo and home. “I was so worried he’d be a dick the whole way,” she whispers against my ear, but loud enough that Kane can hear.
“Too late,” he says easily, coming around the truck with my bag slung over his shoulder. My bag. The one I packed in perfect order.
“Here, I’ll take that—” I reach for it, but he just smirks and keeps walking toward the dorm entrance.
“It’s heavy,” he says, like that’s an excuse. “I’ve got it.”
I bite back the urge to snap that it’s not about the weight, it’s about the way he’s holding it wrong, the zipper side facing down, the straps twisted. My fingers twitch at my sides.
Kinsley grabs her own bag from the tow truck driver and starts chattering about our room assignment, but my eyes keep tracking Kane. He sets my bag down just inside the lobby… crooked. Not against the wall. Not lined up with the others. Crooked.
I can feel it pulling at me like a thread.
He catches my eye over his shoulder, and I swear there’s a challenge in his grin.
Kinsley’s still talking, but her words blur as I cross the lobby and nudge my bag into place. Straight. Flush with the wall. Even.
When I look up, Kane’s leaning against the check-in desk, watching me like he’s just confirmed something he already suspected.
Then he’s gone, leaving me with my perfectly aligned bag and the sinking realization that he’s already in my head.
The lobby smells faintly of lemon cleaner and paper, fresh, sterile, temporary. Students are everywhere, dragging suitcases, clutching clipboards, laughing too loudly. My eyes dart to the check-in table, where a line snakes toward a pair of overworked RAs.
Kinsley bounces ahead, her energy cutting through the chaos like a spotlight. I follow, keeping my bag close, my fingers brushing the zipper every few steps to make sure it’s still closed.
When it’s our turn, the RA hands us each a keycard and a welcome packet. I line the packet’s edges with the counter before sliding it into my tote. The RA doesn’t notice. Kane would have.
We head toward the elevators, weaving through clusters of students. The noise presses in on me, and I start counting my steps, twelve to the elevator, four to the button, six seconds until the doors open. Even numbers. Safe numbers.
Our floor smells faintly of paint and something floral from someone’s open door. The hallway is long, lined with identical doors and bulletin boards plastered with “Welcome Week” flyers.
Room 412. I slide the keycard, wait for the green light, and push the door open.
It’s small but bright, two beds, two desks, two dressers. The window overlooks a courtyard where more students are hauling boxes.
Kinsley immediately claims the bed on the right, tossing her duffel onto it. I take the one closer to the door. Easier to leave if I need to.
I set my bag on the bed and unzip it carefully, pulling each item out in the order I packed it. Tops first, then jeans, then socks. I smooth each one before placing it in the dresser, aligning the edges so they’re flush.
Kinsley’s already halfway through her unpacking, clothes spilling over her bed in a riot of colors. She hums to herself, completely unbothered by the mess.
I glance at her side of the room, then back at mine. My fingers itch to straighten her pile, but I force myself to focus on my own space.
Halfway through folding my last sweater, I hear a knock. My stomach dips before I even turn.
Kane’s leaning in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, that same slow grin on his face.
“Need help?” he asks, holding the rest of my luggage. His eyes flick to my neatly stacked dresser drawers.
“No,” I assure quickly, maybe too quickly, as I grab my things from his hands.
He steps inside anyway, gaze sweeping the room like he’s cataloging it. “Nice setup. Very… precise.”
I turn back to my sweater, smoothing it one last time before tucking it into place. My pulse is loud in my ears.
Kinsley doesn’t notice the tension; she’s too busy wrestling with a tangled string of fairy lights. “Kane, unless you’re here to hang these, you can go.”
“I’ve got practice, actually, Kins.” His voice is casual, but his eyes are locked on me, not her.
He pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow step into the room. “Just thought I’d check in before I left.”
I keep my focus on the drawer in front of me, folding the same T-shirt twice, once to smooth the fabric, again because the first fold didn’t feel right. My pulse is too loud in my ears.
“Well, you’ve checked,” Kinsley says, still untangling the lights. “Bye.”
He ignores her, stopping just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. “You settling in okay, sunflower?”
I glance up, and the corner of his mouth curves like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Fine,” I reply, but it comes out thinner than I want.
His gaze flicks to my perfectly stacked clothes, then back to my face. “Looks like you’ve got everything… in order.”
The way he says it makes my stomach twist.
Kinsley finally looks up. “Kane, seriously, go before you’re late.”
He takes a step back, but his eyes never leave mine. “See you around, Blair.”
When he’s gone, the room feels bigger, but not emptier. My hands are still on the T-shirt, smoothing the same seam over and over, like I can iron out the way he makes me feel.
The door clicks shut, and I’m left staring at the space he just occupied.
It’s ridiculous, he’s gone, but it feels like he’s still here. Like the air hasn’t moved on yet.
I fold the last T-shirt, but my hands won’t stop moving. I trace the edge of the dresser, then the corner of my bed frame, then the seam of the blanket.
It’s not about neatness. It’s about silence.
The house was too quiet. No TV. No music. No yelling. Just the sound of the fridge humming and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
I tiptoed into the kitchen, barefoot, careful not to step on the broken glass. A pill bottle lay on its side, capsules scattered like confetti across the linoleum.
Mom was crouched in the corner, rocking back and forth, muttering to herself. Her mascara was smeared, her eyes wild. Dad was facedown on the couch, shirtless, a needle still stuck in his arm.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stared.
Then I saw the forks.
Four of them, lying in a messy pile on the counter. I don’t know why I reached for them. I just did. I lined them up, handles to the left, tines facing the same way, evenly spaced.
And Mom didn’t scream at me.
That night, I folded my pajamas into perfect squares. I counted the steps to my bedroom. I checked the lock on my window six times.
Because if I could make things neat, maybe I could make things safe.
When Mom disappeared for three days, I counted the cracks in the ceiling.
When Dad sold my bike for cash, I rearranged my books by color, then by height, then by author.
When the cops came, I folded my clothes and pretended I didn’t hear them asking if I felt safe.
I didn’t.
But I knew how to make it look like I did.
Even now, years later, I still count. Still fold. Still check.
I smooth the same T-shirt again, even though it’s already perfect. Once. Twice. Three times. The third fold feels wrong, so I do it again. Four.
But my pulse doesn’t slow.
I tell myself it’s just Kane being Kane, cocky, intrusive, impossible to ignore. That’s all it is.
Except… it’s not.
He didn’t just look at my clothes. He saw them. Saw me. The way I keep things in order. The way I need them to be right. And the way it unsettles me when they’re not.
And I hate that I’m wondering if he’s been paying attention to that all along.
I hate that I’m wondering what he’d do with that knowledge.
I hate that part of me already knows.
I line the edge of my shirt with the lip of the drawer, pressing it flat until it’s perfect. My breathing evens out, but the calm feels fragile, like one wrong move could shatter it.
And Kane Fischer? He’s nothing but wrong moves.