She motions with her head in my general direction. “You know, the whole I-just-stepped-off-a-runway vibe you’ve got going on at what…only nine a.m.?”
I glance at my outfit, suddenly hyperaware of every detail. Black wool coat—structured, sharp. Underneath, a slouchy gray Dior sweater French-tucked into tailored jeans that somehow cost more than most people’s rent. My Celine sunglasses hang from the collar of my sweater like punctuation, and the gold chain at my neck catches the morning light as I move. Chunky black boots, clean but worn in just enough to say effortless, complete the look.
“This is…just what I wear,” I say, which sounds way more pretentious out loud than it did in my head.
“Cool. Cool-cool-cool.” She nods, then taps her chin. “New life goal: introduce you to the concept of color. Maybe even glitter, if we’re feeling brave.”
She grins as she says it, and weirdly, it doesn’t feel like an insult. Whoisthis person?
She sets the gift basket she’s been holding on the second bed, full of snacks, energy drinks, and a pint of what I think is imported ice cream buried in dry ice.
“For you,” she says.
“Um, thanks.”
“I’m Ziva Morales. Suite 213 down the hall. Official greeter-slash-snack-whisperer for this floor. Unofficial gossip czar. Youmust be Rey.”
I blink. “That obvious?”
She snorts and drops onto the edge of my bed like we’ve known each other forever. “Please. There was a memo. Mafia princess in 209. Possibly dangerous. Definitely hot.”
My brows shoot into my hairline. “Excuse me?”
“Just kidding. But you’re famous, babe. Whisper networks lit up the second your last name hit the housing list.” She leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Your dad’sthatStjerne, right?”
I shrug a little, caught off guard. “We don’t talk about it.”
Ziva grins, unbothered. “Fair. Just don’t stab me or anything. I’m very squishy under the boobs.”
She grins again, warmer this time, and it strikes me just how unused I am to someone like her. People who barge in with snacks and boldness. Rowen never did things like this. Not because he wasn’t friendly in his own way. But he was…quieter. The steady tide against the shore. Ziva is the opposite—fireworks in the sky and glitter in her wake.
“So,” she says, popping open a bag of chips from the basket and munching on one, “you’re next door to Aric Erikson, you know. Campus royalty. Sex on a mother-fucking stick.” She says this last in a singsong voice, complete with matching head bob. “Also, sadly untouchable. Though if you’re feeling frisky, go ahead and tap the younger brother. Everyone else has.”
Her brown cheeks flush a little at her own joke. I arch a brow.
“Oh, obviously not me,” she says, rolling her eyes like I just accused her of sacrilege. “Please. I have standards. And a calendar lined up with better options.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“Umm, thanks for the tip,” I say. I don’t bother to add I’d rather swim in a vat of sewage than “tap” Reeve Erikson. I think we’re both on the same page with that one.
“Oh, I’ve got loads of useful tips about the social sitch on campus,” she says and waggles her brows at me.
Without taking a breath, Ziva starts rattling off a laundry list of facts about the school hierarchy she’s deemed important. Who’s sleeping with whom, who’s up for grabs, even who likes to share. It’s a nonstop litany of names and sexual preferences, but I barely hear a word.
Somewhere in the middle of her spontaneous monologue, I got the idea that maybe she was being so friendly because she was just super susceptible to my Aethercall. So I consciously stop pulling and push a little. Not hard—just enough to test it.
But Ziva doesn’t pause, doesn’t blink, doesn’t so much as mispronounce a name. She just keeps going like I haven’t shoved an invisible wall between us. Like whatever I am doesn’t matter.
It’s shockingly refreshing.
Eventually, she waves a hand, as if to sayand that’s all you need to know about Endir, and stands, brushing imaginary lint off her cat shorts and plopping the bag of chips back into my basket. “Anyway, I’ve got a shift at the coffee cart in ten. If you want to scope out the local caffeine situation, I can show you the ropes later.”
She reaches the door, then glances back. “Seriously, Rey—glad you’re here. I’ve just decided, we’re going to be the best of friends.”
“Thanks?” I start like it’s a question, but I don’t know what else to say. No one’s ever offered me friendship like it was no big deal. No conditions. No price. Just handed over like a hoodie.
She starts to turn back to the hallway but adds, “If you survive orientation, come find me later. I’ll show you where the vending machines are that won’t steal your soul.”
