18. Alexandra
Rasmus clears his throat as he pulls away from the curb, like he’s giving the moment a respectful distance before stepping into it.
The drive to campus is quiet at first. Not awkward—just full. I’m still floating, still caught in the afterglow of yesterday, in the way the world narrowed down to one person and hasn’t quite widened again.
I can still feel Cole everywhere I don’t want to admit.
Rasmus glances at me once, quick and careful, then returns his eyes to the road. He doesn’t push for conversation, doesn’t tease, doesn’t pry. For someone I’ve only met once, he has an instinct for space that makes breathing easier.
Traffic hums around us. The radio stays off.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asks eventually, neutral, like he’s asking about the weather.
“A little,” I admit.
He nods, accepting that answer without inspection. Another stretch of silence passes, comfortable enough that I almost forget he’s essentially a stranger sent by a worried woman across an ocean.
Almost.
“So,” he says, tone light but not careless. “Your… friend seems very invested.”
I hear what he doesn’t say. Your biker friend. The man who kissed you like he was signing his name on your skin.
“Yeah,” I say. “He is.”
Rasmus taps the steering wheel once, thinking. “I’m not judging. I don’t know him. Or them.” A beat. “Those environments can be… intense.”
I hear the unspoken warning.
I know exactly what he’s picturing. In Denmark, motorcycle clubs aren't just hobbyist groups; they’re the nightly news. Everyone knows the stories of Hells Angels and Bandidos turning quiet Copenhagen streets into battlegrounds. To a Dane, those patches aren’t about freedom or brotherhood; they’re about organized crime, explosives, and the kind of violence that doesn't care about bystanders. Rasmus isn't just seeing a man who rides a bike; he’s seeing a headline he’s been taught to fear since he was a kid.
“He’s been good to me,” I say, not defensively, just honestly.
“I believe you.” He says it easily, like he actually does. “I just have a professional allergy to situations that collect trouble by design.”
“Professional?”
“Figure of speech.” His mouth quirks. “Denmark exports a lot of things. Motorcycles are not our best work.”
The comment is mild, almost a joke, but there’s an edge he files down quickly.
We stop at a light. He looks over, studying me in that polite Scandinavian way—direct but not intrusive.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks.
It isn’t an interrogation. It’s just the question of a man weighing the air, trying to decide whether to step into the blast radius or keep a safe distance.
I think about the kiss on the sidewalk, the way Cole didn’t hide me, the way he looked at me like a decision had already been made.
“I’m sure about seeing what it is,” I say carefully. “That’s all I know.”
Rasmus considers that, then nods once. “Fair enough.”
The light turns green. The car moves.
After a moment he adds, almost casually, “If it ever stops feeling safe, you call me first. Not after.”
“I will.”
He exhales like a small contract just got signed. “Good. I’m terrible at standing by.”
I almost smile. We barely know each other, connected only by his mother’s fierce voice on the phone, but sitting here beside him I feel the outline of something solid forming anyway.
Not a replacement for anything. Not a side to choose. Just… someone in my corner.
At the university, everything feels antiseptic. Bright. Normal in a way that suddenly feels foreign, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the soft echo of shoes against tile, even the faint scent of coffee and paper—every detail is familiar, but it hits me differently now, sharper, harder.
I walk slowly, every step measured, muscles tense, as if the walls themselves might reveal something I don’t want to see. The thought of Justin lingers at the edge of my mind. What if he’s here? What if he notices me? My chest tightens, my heart ticking up a beat.
Rasmus walks beside me, a calm, deliberate, presence like a shield I didn’t know I needed. I can feel his eyes scanning, alert without being obvious, his hand brushing the small of my back as we pass the students milling in the hallways. I swallow against the knot of anxiety in my throat.
We enter a conference room with too many windows and a long, polished table that gleams under the sunlight. The walls are lined with bookshelves and diplomas, perfectly arranged. The Dean is already there, with her hands folded and expression carefully neutral. Beside her sits the Director of International Programs—older, sharp-eyed, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach them.
The sterile calm of the room does nothing to soothe me. I cling to the fact that Rasmus is here and I’m not facing this alone. He’s quiet, letting me take the lead, letting me breathe through the tension. I’m grateful for that, more than I can put into words. Every subtle gesture from him—his posture, his watchful gaze, the way he gives me space without abandoning me—feels like a lifeline.
I take a deep breath, trying to anchor myself in the ordinary, in the normalcy, and not in the fear that has a way of creeping in at the edges of my vision. The conference room feels like the first step back, a small bridge between chaos and something approaching safety.
They greet me warmly. Too warmly.
“Alexandra,” the Dean begins, “thank you for coming in on such short notice.”
I nod, blinking once, and take the offered seat. My back straightens automatically, hands folded neatly in my lap. The polished wood under my palms feels impossibly solid, like it could either anchor me or trap me.
“We’ll get straight to it,” the Director says. “Justin Whitmore is no longer employed by the university.”
The words hit like a stone. Clean. Sharp. No preamble. No apology. No softening. Just… final.
“Effective immediately,” the Dean adds. “His contract has been terminated.”
I wait for the rest of it. The justification. The acknowledgment of what I endured. A gesture toward humanity.
“It’s been handled internally,” she continues. “Discretely.”
Discretely. Of course. The word tastes hollow in my mouth. Hidden. Buried. Protected, maybe—but at what cost? My stomach twists with the familiar ache of being sidelined, erased.
“And my complaint?” I ask, voice steady, but my hands tremble slightly in my lap.
The Director’s smile tightens, polite but unreadable. “It has been… absorbed into the process.”
Meaning: filed away. Stored. Not spoken of again.
I try not to let it sting. I breathe and force my thoughts toward the present. I have options. I have a chance to reclaim control.
“We want to be very clear,” the Dean says smoothly, each word measured. “You’ve done nothing wrong. And there will be no academic consequences for you. None.”
She slides a folder across the table toward me. The motion feels deliberate, heavy with implication.
“These are your options.”
I open it slowly, my fingers trembling slightly, even as my heart hammers against my ribs. Option one is simple. Safe. Immediate return home. No penalties. Credits transferred. A letter of recommendation. A clean exit. A way to disappear and pretend none of if happened.
Option two makes my breath hitch.
I can stay.
Not just for the semester—not just for a pause until the danger passes—but for the full degree. Full tuition waiver. Guaranteed housing reassignment. A new advisor. “Additional security measures,” vaguely worded, but unmistakable in intent. Protection. Actual protection.
My chest tightens, and for a moment I let myself imagine it: safe mornings. Sleep without a lurking shadow. The chance to be present in my own life.
All they ask is discretion.
“We believe this is the best outcome for everyone involved,” the Director says. “You can continue your education uninterrupted.”
I glance at Rasmus, sitting quietly beside me, calm as ever. He doesn’t lean in, doesn’t offer his opinion—but I feel him there. Protective, solid, a tether to steady reality. I think about the bar, about Cole, about everything that’s happened, and suddenly the word “protection” carries the weight of something more than just security. It’s a bridge back to normalcy.
“And if I don’t?” I ask quietly, my throat tight.
The Dean’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Then you leave with our full support.”
The meeting ends politely. Like a transaction completed. Like the world hasn’t shifted beneath me, even though it has.
I ask for time to think, but I already know which choice my heart is leaning toward.
On the drive back, the city blurs past the window. Rasmus finally speaks.
“You don’t have to decide today.”
“I know.”
“Going home isn’t failure.” he adds carefully.
I nod, but my thoughts aren’t there.
They keep circling back to one thing.
Cole.
This life — his life — is nothing like what I planned. It’s dangerous, messy, complicated in ways I don’t fully understand yet. There are rules I don’t know, threats I can’t see.
And still.
If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t hesitate. I’d pack my bags, book a flight, and never look back. I’d leave this place behind like a bad dream and call it survival.
But now staying is a real option.
Not because of the university. Not because of the deal they’re offering.
Because of the way he looked at me this morning. Because he gave me his name like it meant something. Because the thought of walking away from him now feels wrong in a way that settles deep in my bones.
When we pull back into the lot, my decision is still half-formed. Heavy. Unfinished.
I thank Rasmus and step inside the clubhouse, the noise and warmth hitting me all at once.
And that’s when I see him.
Cole is at the table near the bar, one arm draped casually along the back of a chair. A woman is perched on his lap like she belongs there — her arm looped around his neck, her body turned in, familiar. Too familiar.
She leans in, laughing at something he says. Her mouth drifts dangerously close to his ear.
Then she kisses him.
And the world tilts on its axis.