Chapter 4
Chapter four
"Who are you?" she mumbled.
"Someone who wants first pick of the showers.
" I was already sliding my feet into flip-flops, towel over my shoulder.
The hallway was quiet, fluorescent lights humming their institutional lullaby.
Three other early risers shuffled toward the bathroom, eyes half-closed, and I nodded at them without speaking. Some silences are sacred.
By the time I returned, Ivy had achieved verticality—barely. She sat on the edge of her bed, blinking at her phone like it had personally betrayed her.
"First day of real classes," she said. "Why does that feel worse than orientation?"
"Because orientation was chaos. This is structure." I pulled on dark leggings and a fitted long-sleeve, practical layers for whatever the day threw at me. "Structure means expectations."
"God, you're philosophical before coffee." She stumbled toward her closet. "What's your first class?"
I checked my schedule, though I'd already memorized it. "PE. Physical Development with Coach Reeves."
Ivy made a face. "I've heard things about Reeves. Military background. Makes freshmen cry."
"Sounds like my kind of morning."
She threw a sock at me. I caught it without looking, and her eyebrows shot up.
"Okay, that was creepy."
I just smiled and tossed it back.
The athletic complex sat at the eastern edge of campus, a sprawling facility with climbing walls visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. Students filtered in wearing various interpretations of "athletic wear"—some clearly hoping to avoid actual exertion, others radiating competitive energy.
I felt James before I saw him. That hum beneath my skin, the one I'd been trying to ignore since I crashed into him, flared to life like a pilot light catching flame.
He was across the gym, stretching near the climbing wall, that ridiculous cowboy hat replaced by a simple baseball cap.
He caught my eye and smiled—not a smirk, just genuine warmth aimed directly at me.
I looked away.
Coach Reeves blew a whistle that could've shattered glass.
She stood at the center of the gym, with the kind of athletic build that suggested she could outrun, outclimb, and outlast every student here combined.
Her silver-threaded hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her eyes swept over us like she was cataloging weaknesses.
"Welcome to Physical Development," she said. Her voice didn't need a microphone. "This isn't PE. I don't care if you can hit a volleyball or remember the rules of basketball. What I care about is whether you can survive."
A few nervous laughs rippled through the group. Reeves didn't smile.
"Survival requires three things: strength, endurance, and situational awareness. Today, we test all three." She gestured toward an obstacle course that looked like it belonged in a military training facility. "Pair up. You'll run this course together. Your time only counts if both partners finish."
The scramble for partners began. Ivy wasn't in this class and I hung back, assessing the course. Rope climb, balance beam over foam pit, cargo net, low crawl under what looked like actual barbed wire, sprint to finish.
"Need a partner?"
James appeared beside me. The hum intensified, and I clenched my jaw against it.
"You sure you can keep up?" The words came out sharper than I intended.
He just grinned. "Guess we'll find out."
Reeves sent pairs through in waves. I watched the first few attempts—students struggling on the rope climb, losing balance, getting tangled in the cargo net. Mental notes: the rope had good knots for footholds, the beam wobbled at the center point, the cargo net was easier if you stayed low.
Our turn came. James positioned himself beside me at the starting line, and I caught his scent—pine and something warmer underneath, like sunlight on hay. Focus.
The whistle blew.
I hit the rope first, muscle memory from years of training taking over. Feet hooked, arms pulling, rhythm established. I was at the top before most pairs had cleared the first obstacle, and I let myself drop, landing in a controlled roll that brought me to my feet.
James was right behind me. Faster than I'd expected.
The balance beam came next. I crossed it like a gymnast, steps quick and precise, weight centered. Behind me, I heard James's heavier footfalls, felt the beam shudder. He made it.
Cargo net. Low crawl. Sprint.
We finished with the second-best time of the morning, and I'd been holding back.
Reeves's eyes found me as I caught my breath, and something flickered there—recognition, maybe. Assessment, definitely.
"Orlav," she said. "Where'd you train?"
"Nothing formal." True enough. "I believe in being prepared."
She nodded slowly, not quite satisfied but not pushing. "Pair drills next. Situational awareness exercise."
The drill was simple: one partner blindfolded, the other guiding them through an obstacle path using only verbal commands. Then switch. It tested trust as much as awareness.
James tied my blindfold, his fingers brushing the back of my neck. My blood was pumping and having him so close I could smell him and feel his heat. It was messing with me, my nipples pebbled.
"Left two steps," he said. His deep voice was steady, calm. "Stop. Reach forward—there's a bar at chest height. Duck under."
I followed his instructions, cataloging the space around me through sound and air current. His voice became my anchor, and I hated how easily I trusted it.
When we switched, I guided him through the course in half the time it had taken the other pairs. He followed without hesitation, without second-guessing, and when he pulled off the blindfold at the finish line, he looked at me like I was something he couldn't quite figure out.
"You're good at this," he said.
"I've had practice."
"At blindfolding people?"
A surprised laugh escaped me. "At paying attention."
He held my gaze a beat too long. The hum was a drumroll under my skin, demanding acknowledgment I refused to give.
Reeves dismissed us, and I lingered near the climbing wall, letting my heartbeat slow.
The adrenaline ebbed, and in its wake came the quieter thing—the awareness that I'd let him see too much.
Not my capabilities; those could be explained.
But the ease of working with him. The way my body had known his movements before he made them.
That was harder to dismiss.
Psychology 101 met in a lecture hall that smelled of old coffee and whiteboard markers. I slid into a seat near the back, pulling out a notebook.
Professor Larkin was a slight woman with graying curls and glasses that magnified her eyes. She wrote on the board in neat, deliberate letters: ATTACHMENT THEORY.
"Human beings," she began, "are wired for connection. From the moment we're born, we seek proximity to caregivers. This isn't weakness—it's evolution. Attachment is how we survive."
She clicked through slides. Bowlby. Ainsworth. Secure attachment, anxious attachment, avoidant attachment.
"Secure attachment develops when caregivers are consistently responsive.
The child learns that the world is safe, that their needs will be met.
" Larkin paused, her eyes sweeping the room.
"But what happens when early attachments are disrupted?
When the caregiver is absent, unpredictable, or. .. lost entirely?"
My pen stopped moving.
Lost entirely.
I don't remember their faces. My parents. My first memories include Gregor and the orphanage.
"Children with disrupted attachments often develop compensatory strategies," Larkin continued. "They may become hyper-independent, learning to meet their own needs because relying on others feels too risky. Or they may attach quickly and intensely, seeking the security they never received."
Hyper-independent. The words landed like stones in my chest.
I thought of Gregor teaching me to start fires, to navigate by stars, to trust my instincts over anyone else's promises. I thought of Rae, the first person I'd chosen to let in, and how it had taken years before I stopped waiting for her to leave.
My grip tightened on my pen. The lecture hall felt too small, too full of people who probably had parents who showed up to their graduations and called on their birthdays.
Humor. Find the humor.
At least you got good survival skills out of the deal, I told myself. Some kids just get therapy and a fear of abandonment.
It didn't land.
Larkin moved on to discussing therapeutic approaches for attachment disorders, and I let her voice wash over me without absorbing the words. My mind was elsewhere—on a wolf in my visions, feral and lost, searching for something it couldn't name.
What happens when early attachments are disrupted?
You survive. That's what happens. You build walls and call them boundaries, and you learn to carry your own weight because the alternative is falling.
But you don't stop wanting. That's the part no one tells you. The wanting just goes underground, curling around your bones like winter roots, waiting for spring.
The lecture ended. I gathered my things slowly, letting the other students filter out first. Larkin caught my eye as I passed her podium, and for a moment I thought she might say something—she had the look of someone who recognized a flinch when she saw one.
But I moved past before she could speak, out into the hallway where Ivy was waiting to walk with me to lunch.
"You look like you just sat through a funeral," she said. "Was it that bad?"
"Attachment theory." I managed a wry smile. "Turns out orphans have baggage. Who knew?"
Ivy's expression softened. "Lumi—"
"Wilderness First Aid next," I said, already walking. "I like Mr. Boone, he was great on our hike."
She let me change the subject.
Mr. Boone was enthusiastic.