Chapter 5
Five
Blair
Iwake before my alarm.
Panic swirls through my chest until I stare up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. Four. Even. Safe. Kinsley’s still asleep, curled into a nest of blankets and chaos. Her side of the room looks like a tornado kissed a glitter factory. Mine is pristine.
I wait for my alarm to sound, then slip out of bed and begin my routine.
Toothbrush. Two minutes.
Face wash. Thirty seconds.
Moisturizer. Three pumps, not four.
Hair. Brush twelve times, six on each side.
I hum the same four bars under my breath as I move, the rhythm anchoring me.
But something’s off. It began with my waking up before the alarm.
Now, my toothbrush isn’t where I left it. It’s angled wrong in the cup, bristles touching the rim. I fix it, but the unease lingers.
I check my bag twice before leaving. Keys. Notebook. Pen. Lip balm.
The walk to class is loud, students laughing, skateboards clacking, someone blasting music from a dorm window. I count my steps to stay calm. Sixty-two to the quad. One hundred and six to the lecture hall.
Inside, the room is too bright. The chairs are mismatched. The professor is late.
I sit in the second row, center seat. I always sit in the center.
And then I feel it.
That shift.
I glance toward the door, and there he is.
Kane.
Leaning against the hallway wall, talking to someone I don’t recognize. He’s not looking at me. Not yet.
But I feel it anyway.
Like gravity tilting.
My fingers tighten around my pen. I try to count the ceiling tiles. I lose track at seven.
He turns, sees me, and smiles.
Not the kind you give a friend.
The kind you give someone you’ve already decided belongs to you.
Class ends, but I don’t move.
The professor dismisses us with a half-hearted reminder about the syllabus, and students start filing out, laughing, stretching, already making weekend plans.
I gather my things slowly. Notebook. Pen. Lip balm. I check my bag twice.
Kane’s still outside.
I can feel him before I see him, like static in the air, like gravity bending me toward him.
When I step into the hallway, he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes already on me.
“Good class?” he asks, like we’re old friends.
I nod, keeping my voice neutral. “You weren’t in it.”
“Didn’t say I was.” He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me.
I count my steps. Six to the stairwell. Twelve down.
He doesn’t speak again until we hit the bottom. “You always count?”
I stop walking.
He’s watching me, head tilted slightly, like he’s trying to read a language I didn’t know I was speaking out loud.
“I notice things,” he mentions. “Patterns. Pauses. The way you breathe when something’s off.”
My throat tightens. “Why are you watching me?”
He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that I feel it.
“Because you’re the only thing on this campus that doesn’t pretend.”
I blink. “What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t fake it. You don’t smile unless you mean it. You don’t talk unless you have to. You don’t play the game.”
I swallow hard. “And that makes me interesting?”
He leans in, voice low. “That makes you… different.”
I step back. He lets me, but his eyes stay on me like he’s already carved his name into something I haven’t figured out how to protect.
He doesn’t ask if he can walk me to my next class. He just continues beside me, like he’s done it before. Like he’s memorized my schedule.
I should say something.
Should ask why he’s here.
But I don’t.
Because part of me already knows.
The hallway is crowded, but he moves through it like the noise doesn’t touch him. Like he’s carved out a pocket of silence around us.
I glance at him, and the air shifts.
He’s tall. Broad. His hoodie clings to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal veins that trace his forearms like roadmaps. His jaw is sharp, stubbled. His mouth is soft, full, but dangerous.
He smells like cedar and clean soap and something darker. Something that makes my stomach twist.
I look away.
He doesn’t.
“You always walk this fast?” he asks, voice low.
“I have a system,” I say.
He hums. “I know.”
That makes me stop, making students move around me.
I turn to him, heart ticking faster. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me.
“I’ve seen you,” he says finally. “Before you saw me.”
My throat tightens. “When?”
“Long enough to know you count your steps. That you check your bag twice. That you breathe in fours when you’re trying not to panic.”
I freeze.
He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You think you’re invisible. You’re not.”
The hallway feels smaller now. The air is tighter.
I count my steps to the door.
One. Two. Three.
But the numbers slip.
He’s still watching me.
And I hate that part of me wants him to keep doing it.