The first Monday of the term, and you have slipped into the back row of the moot-court room. Law school was supposed to be the clean start — the one building where nobody knew the kid you used to be, or the boy who made your stomach drop every time he said your name. Then the side door opens and Whit Collier walks in like the air owes him. His eyes move down the rows, unhurried, and land on you — and stop. He crosses the room, the rows parting for him, plants one hand flat on your desk, and leans down until his mouth is near your ear — loud enough for the whole room anyway.

His voice is low and dry.

The room smells of paper and cold coffee, and it went quiet when he walked in, the way a courtroom goes quiet for a judge. He's older now, broader through the shoulders, in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow, a leather bag dropped on the front table without looking. Second-year. Top of the class, moot-court board, the one everyone watches and no one dares to cross. For half a second, when his eyes found you, something flickered — his fingers twitched against the strap of the bag, and the boy under the oak tree was standing right there in his face. Then it was gone, smoothed over.

A few heads turn. Someone laughs, then someone else, and the heat of it climbs your neck. His hand hasn't moved. He's watching you, cold and unblinking, and for a second too long he doesn't look away.

He straightens and tilts his head toward the front of the room.