The wind dragged light snow across the recessed section of the roof, and Luna leaned against the concrete lip with a cigarette between her fingers, bare shoulders catching flakes that melted and vanished before they could matter.
She wasn't looking for him when she saw him, just letting her eyes drift over the courtyard out of boredom more than anything, but there he was anyway, cutting across the path toward the boys' dorm like he had a destination that actually meant something.
Her grip shifted before she noticed it, the cigarette tilting slightly as her shoulders tightened and then forced themselves loose again like nothing had happened.
There he is.
She exhaled smoke slow, watching it tear apart in the cold air, and tried to make it just another person walking across campus, just another shape moving from one building to another.
So what.
Why did she even notice that fast, that sharp, like her eyes had been waiting for him without telling her first, and why did her chest do that stupid little hitch like it was keeping score of something she didn't agree to play.
She flicked ash over the edge, jaw tightening.
Doesn't matter.
She took another drag, deeper this time, even though it didn't hit the way it was supposed to, just a faint scratch in her lungs and the habit of it settling her hands more than anything else.
Why the hell did she snap at him like that and just walk off, like she had something to prove, like he'd actually done anything worth that reaction.
He got punched. Big deal. Happens.
Since when does she care what Adam Greene thinks about anything, let alone getting hit, let alone how she reacts to it.
She shifted her weight, one foot braced against the low wall, gaze still pinned down on him even as she told herself not to track him.
I don't care.
She's done worse, she's seen worse, she's been worse, so him taking one punch isn't exactly a headline, and she doesn't owe him softness or explanations or whatever the hell that moment was supposed to turn into.
So she walked away.
End of story.
Except it wasn't, because she was still up here watching him leave like that somehow changed anything.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
If I wanted to walk away, that's it. I wanted to. That's the whole point.
She does what she wants, when she wants, no one tells her otherwise, no one gets to decide that for her, not here, not ever again.
That's the rule.
That's always been the rule.
So if she decided in that moment that she didn't feel like standing there with him anymore, then that's it, decision made, no follow-up required.
Then why is she still thinking about it.
The thought hit and she immediately pushed back against it, sharper this time.
Because I'm bored.
Yeah, that's it, nothing else going on, nothing deeper, just campus being dead, snow making everything slow, and him being the only moving thing worth looking at.
Except she knew his schedule.
That part slid in quieter, and she didn't like it.
She knew when he usually left the building, knew the routes he took, knew where he ended up most days without having to check twice.
Her tongue pressed against her teeth.
So what. I pay attention. That's not illegal.
It's not like she's following him around with a notebook or some creepy shit like that, she just notices things, that's all, she's good at noticing things.
She has to be.
That's survival.
But then there's the church.
That one didn't come from nowhere.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the cigarette, ember flaring brighter for a second.
That wasn't me.
Or was it.
Her mother told her to get close to him, made it sound casual, like it was just another task slipped between all the others, nothing heavy, nothing worth arguing about.
Just: keep an eye on him.
And she did.
Of course she did.
She always does what she's told when it matters.
Except it didn't feel like just that anymore.
Her jaw shifted.
Or it does. Maybe it does. Maybe I'm just overthinking it.
She rolled her shoulders once, like she could shake the thought loose.
She went to the church because it was part of the assignment.
Because that's what she was supposed to do.
Because getting close to him means going where he goes.
Simple.
Clean.
No extra meaning.
Then why did it not feel like that when she was actually there.
Why did it feel like something else entirely, something she didn't have a clean label for, something that didn't fit under orders without leaving pieces sticking out the sides.
Doesn't matter.
Her eyes tracked him again as he got closer to the dorm building, his pace steady, not looking back, not hesitating.
He just kept going.
Of course he does.
He doesn't second-guess every step like it's a trap, he just moves, commits, goes forward like that's the obvious thing to do.
That irritated her more than it should have.
Stupid.
Or maybe not.
That thought slipped in before she could block it, quieter but heavier.
He doesn't know what he's doing half the time.
He doesn't have control.
He doesn't have answers.
And he still just… goes.
Her grip tightened again, the cigarette bending slightly between her fingers.
So what?
So nothing.
That's his problem.
Not hers.
She doesn't need to understand it, doesn't need to compare it to anything, doesn't need to line it up next to whatever the hell she's doing and ask if it matches.
She's doing what she's supposed to do.
Or what she wants to do.
Or both.
Or neither.
Her thoughts snagged there, and that was the part she really didn't like.
Which one is it.
Did she walk away from him because she wanted to, or because something in her said don't get too close, and she listened without even checking where that voice came from.
Was watching him now part of the job, or something she'd keep doing even if no one had ever told her to.
Her tongue pressed harder against her teeth.
And if it's both, then what.
If the outcome is the same either way, if she ends up in the same place doing the same things, does it actually matter why she started.
Does it matter if it's her choice or someone else's if she can't tell the difference anymore.
That thought lingered a fraction longer than the others, and she shut it down hard.
Yeah, no. Not doing that.
Her shoulders rolled again, sharper this time, like she could physically dislodge the entire line of thinking.
She wasn't going to sit here and dissect her own head like that, not over him, not over something this stupid, not over a single conversation that went sideways.
People get into arguments.
She walks away.
He goes to his dorm.
That's it.
Done.
Finished.
Her eyes flicked away from him finally as he disappeared inside, like breaking the visual would cut the rest of it off too.
It didn't.
Whatever.
She lifted the blunt again, drawing in a slow breath, letting the familiar burn hit even if it barely registered, more ritual than relief.
Smoke left her lungs in a thin stream that the wind tore apart immediately.
She stared out over the empty campus, expression flat, thoughts still circling, still unfinished.
Then she took another drag.
***
Aiva sat on the atrium bench, hands folded loosely in her lap, gaze unfocused as the conversation replayed in fragments that didn't quite settle into anything solid.
Chloe spotted her on the way back from studying, slowing to a stop with a slight tilt of her head.
"What's with the statue impression," she said, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder, eyes narrowing just a little as she studied Aiva's face.
Aiva blinked, coming back a step. "Oh. I was just talking to Adam," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "About his… crush on Luna. It just got me thinking."
Chloe's brow lifted. "Thinking about what?"
Aiva's lips pressed together for a second. "Nothing important."
Chloe let out a short breath through her nose, irritation flashing quick and clean across her expression before she looked away. "Right. Of course it's nothing," she muttered, already turning.
Aiva stood and fell into step beside her, the two of them heading toward the girls' dorm as the quiet settled in again.
They walked in that easy, familiar rhythm for a minute, footsteps soft against the path, the cold air biting just enough to keep them alert.
Chloe adjusted the strap of her bag again, then spoke like she was arguing with herself more than anything. "You know, I still don't like him," she said. "He's reckless, he gets himself into situations he can't handle, and half the time he looks like he's figuring things out five seconds too late."
Aiva glanced at her, listening.
"But," Chloe continued, voice flattening slightly, "I'll give him this. When he decides on something, he doesn't hesitate. He commits like there's no backup plan, no safety net, nothing. It's stupid," she added quickly, "but there's something about that that's… I don't know. Consistent."
She huffed lightly. "Most people say they'll do something and then spend forever calculating every possible outcome. He just does it. Even when he has no idea what he's doing."
Aiva's steps slowed just slightly, barely enough to notice.
Chloe kept going, unaware, her tone shifting back toward casual. "I wouldn't recommend it as a life strategy, obviously," she said. "But at least you always know where he stands."
Aiva didn't answer right away.
Something in her chest tightened, not sharply, but with a kind of quiet certainty, like a piece sliding into place that she hadn't realized was missing.
Commit.
The word landed heavier than it should have.
Not reckless.
Not blind.
Just… forward.
Her breath caught, just for a second.
The noise of the campus seemed to dull around the edges, like it had stepped back to give that single thought more room.
Chloe kept talking, something lighter now, already moving on.
Aiva's fingers curled slightly at her sides, her gaze lowering as her steps slowed another fraction.
The idea formed fast, not in words, but in shape, in direction, in a clarity that felt both sudden and inevitable.
She went still for half a heartbeat.
Then she inhaled, steady, and started walking again.