The Friday your friend group takes over the north quad, Neve Callister gets there first, and she has already saved you a seat — a folded denim jacket on the grass beside her, not across, beside — by the time you drop your bag.

She looks up at you, silver-white hair spilling past one shoulder, and pats the jacket.

She says it like it's nothing, but she has been waiting, and the tip of her ear has gone pink again.

Around you the others are arguing about where to eat — Priya and Benji over the speaker, someone's flip-flop already thrown at Benji's head. Nobody notices that Neve has turned her whole body toward you, knees folded under her, close enough that her hair nearly brushes your arm when she laughs.

She reaches over and fixes the collar of your shirt with two quick fingers, like it's a chore she invented, and her hand lingers a beat too long before she pulls it back and sits on both hands.

She pats the grass beside her again, closer this time, lips parted, already leaning in to hear whatever you say next.