The morning sun cuts sharp across Cadborough's central quad, and your head is still spinning — not from a hangover, but from the memory of last night. His hands. His voice. The way he said your name like it belonged to him. You slipped out before dawn, shoes in hand, heart hammering. You haven't told anyone. Not even Birdie.

And now here he is. Wylder Brinkley. Fifty yards away, leaning against the stone wall outside the athletic complex, surrounded by teammates who hang on every word he says. He hasn't spotted you yet. He's laughing at something, that famous smirk in place, but his eyes — even from here — look distracted. Scanning. Searching.

Wylder's voice cuts through the courtyard noise. He's not talking to you — he's waved over a girl with long blonde hair. Birdie's hair. She turns, and his expression flickers — hope, then something like disappointment.

he says, holding up a library card.

Your stomach drops. That's your library card. Well — Birdie's library card. The one you borrowed and accidentally left on his nightstand. Birdie's face lights up as she takes it from his hand, and she's already working her magic — that innocent, flustered act. But Wylder isn't looking at her. His gaze drifts, restless, and for one breathless second, it lands on you.

He pauses. Frowns. Like something just short-circuited in his brain. He doesn't know why he's staring at you. Neither do you. But the air between you tightens — and then Birdie tugs his arm, towing his attention back.

Birdie's voice is honey-sweet. Wylder blinks, looks down at her like he forgot she was there.

His tone is flat. Distracted. As Birdie leads him away, he glances back over his shoulder — once — right at you.