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She lets out a surprised giggle, and I swear that sound could drag me out of hell by the throat.

“Alright, I got it.” She steps closer and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for walking me here.”

I nod and kiss the top of her head. “Go on. And remember, violence is always an option.”

She lingers for half a heartbeat, then turns and heads toward the classroom doors. I watch until she disappears inside, and then I sigh.

I walk to the park nearby. Students are scattered across the grass and benches with sketchbooks balanced on their knees, all of them wearing that same concentrated expression art people love, like they are receiving messages from God through their brushes. Some of them are drawing the fountain. Some are drawing each other. One guy is drawing what looks like a pile of trash bags, but maybe he is just doing a self-portrait.

I stop beneath a tree off to the side, away from the little clusters of aspiring geniuses and future alcoholics. Far enough that no one is close. Close enough that I still have a clear line of sight toward the building Alya disappeared into.

That’s the excuse, anyway.

I want to make sure she doesn’t come back out. I want to be nearby in case she needs something, or in case one of these pretentious parasites says the wrong thing and I get the honor of killing them.

That’s the official story. The unofficial one is a little more humiliating.

I’m stalling.

Because it’s my first day too, and technically I should be heading over to my side of the campus instead of lurking under a tree like a hitman.

I lean back against the rough bark and tip my head against the tree, letting my eyes fall shut for a second. The breeze shifts against my face, carrying cut grass and that faint expensive cologne every rich student seems to marinate in before leaving the house. Somewhere to my left, people are laughing too loudly. I briefly consider throwing a knife at them.

I breathe out slowly.

Maybe I stay here for five more minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe I fake my death and live under this tree permanently.

Then a voice cuts into my space. Deep. Smooth. Annoyingly fucking attractive. “Move your head a little.”

My eyes open, and I stare straight ahead, like maybe my brain just invented that voice to fuck with me.

Then I look up.

A man is standing in front of me.

Tall. Really fucking tall. Like, unnecessarily tall. Did they start manufacturing men in different fucking sizes while I was asleep?

Black hair. Black leather jacket. Black pants. Black boots. Enough black to make him look like the physical manifestation of hell.

But it’s his eyes that catch me.

No. Catch isn’t the right word.

His eyes pin me where I am.

Black.

Not dark brown pretending to be black in the shade. I mean black. A depthless, unnatural color that makes my stomach tighten. I’ve seen dark eyes before, but his look like an abyss. Like if I stare too long, something in me might lean forward and fall.

He’s holding a sketchbook in one hand and a pen in the other.

“Can I help you, skyscraper?”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s looking at a particularly interesting animal that may or may not bite. “I asked if you could move your head to the side.”

I frown at him.

What kind of opening line is that?