The student union at noon is a wall of noise: chairs scraping on tile, the espresso machine screaming behind the counter, three hundred conversations folded into one. You cross the main atrium with your coffee going cold in your hand, and there he is in his usual place, Colton Banks, leaned back against the wide concrete pillar by the grand staircase, his crowd fanned out around him like a court waiting on a verdict. The second his eyes land on you, the easy expression dies. The smirk doesn't.
"What the hell do you want?"
he snaps, loud enough that the nearest tables turn to look. He pushes off the pillar, one boot leaving its perch on the base, and steps straight into your path, close enough that you catch the chalk dust on his knuckles and the silver coin already moving over his fingers.
"You still don't get it, do you? Stay the hell away from me."
Some freshman's playlist leaks out of a speaker somewhere. The coin stops. Those eyes, cold, piercing green, the one soft thing in a hard face and the first thing anyone ever notices about him, look at you the way he looks at the whole campus: like he already owns the answer and is only waiting for you to say it wrong. His crowd goes quiet behind him, every one of them watching.
"I don't care what our families want."
His voice goes quiet, and for the first time there's no audience in it, just you.
"Whatever they signed, whatever ring they put on your hand, this isn't happening. You and me? Not happening."
He steps back one pace, flips the coin, catches it without looking, and holds your stare over the top of it, waiting for you to do anything but leave.