The dorm came into view faster than I expected.

Afternoon light slanted across the bricks like it was trying too hard to be pretty. Too normal.

But the ache in my chest hadn’t gone away.

I slowed near the steps.

And there he was.

Nico.

Leaning against the railing like he’d been waiting — not impatient, not angry. Just… still.

His eyes flicked over me. Hoodie. Tired posture. Red at the collar from Lucas’s stubble.

I stopped two steps away.

Nico gave me a small nod. “You good?”

I nodded.

He didn’t believe me. But he didn’t call me out either. Just looked past me, down the sidewalk. “So… you didn’t go to lunch.”

“No.”

I pause. Then—

“I can tell Dylan you did.”

I blinked. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He shrugged. “But I will.”

His voice was steady, but the hurt bled through the cracks. Like this cost him more than he wanted me to see.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t plan to ditch you.”

“I know that too.”

We stood there in silence for a beat.

Then Nico looked away. Down the street. Hands jammed into his jacket pockets like he was holding himself together from the inside out.

“That night,” he said.

My stomach tightened.

“The party. My place.” His voice dropped. “We never talked about it.”

I didn’t answer.

“I should’ve stopped sooner,” he said. “I should’ve known better.”

I stared at the ground.

“I thought you wanted it,” he said. “I swear to God, Noah — I thought you wanted what I wanted.”

He shook his head, hands still shoved in his pockets like he didn’t trust them to move.

“I wasn’t trying to take anything from you. I wasn’t trying to push you somewhere you didn’t wanna go. I just… I thought we were on the same page. And when I realized we weren’t—”

He stopped himself, jaw clenched. “I felt sick.”

My throat went dry.

“I should’ve seen it sooner,” he added. “Should’ve stopped sooner. That’s on me. Not you.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I would never make you do something you didn’t want to,” he said, and the way he said it — like he needed me to believe it — made it land even harder.

“But that doesn’t matter if you didn’t feel safe.”

Nico’s gaze was soft, gentle.

“You don’t owe me forgiveness,” he said. “But I owed you the truth.”

I didn’t speak.

Because I didn’t know what I felt.

Because I’d kissed Lucas like I meant it. Like I needed it.

Because my body remembered that night in Nico’s apartment — not with longing, but with static.

And because the word safe still didn’t feel like it belonged anywhere near him.

So I just said:

“I didn’t feel safe.”

The silence stretched.

“And that still hasn’t changed,” I finished.

It didn’t come out mean.

Just honest.

Nico didn’t flinch.

He just nodded, jaw tight. Like he already knew. Like he needed to hear it anyway.

“I’ll still cover for you,” he said. “About lunch. About whatever.”

I blinked.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said. “But if it keeps you out of Dylan’s line of fire for one more day, it’s worth it.”

A lump rose in my throat.

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed.

DYLAN:

Come with me and Megan tonight. Family thing. Get changed.

No question mark. No explanation.

Nico saw my face shift.

“Everything okay?”

I shoved my phone in my pocket. “Yeah.”

A lie. Instinct now.

“I’ll see you later,” I said.

Nico didn’t follow me in.

Didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t try to fix it.

He just stayed there, outside the dorm, as I walked through the door.

And I wondered how long he’d keep protecting me from things he didn’t even understand.

The dorm was too quiet when I walked in.

Like it knew something I didn’t.

Dylan was already waiting — khaki slacks, pale blue button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar pressed sharp. His shoes were spotless. Megan sat on the edge of his bed, legs crossed, scrolling her phone. She didn’t look up.

“You ready?” Dylan asked.

I nodded. “Just need to change.”

He reached for something draped over the back of his desk chair — not a hoodie.

A soft-knit sweater. Gray. Designer. It still had the faint scent of his cologne.

“Wear this.”

I didn’t question it.

Five minutes later, we were walking in silence toward the parking lot. Megan walked ahead, heels clicking on the pavement. Dylan walked beside me but didn’t speak. Just that quiet, heavy presence like gravity was stronger around him.

A black car waited at the curb. Not a rideshare.

A driver stepped out and opened the door for us. No uniform. No name tag. Just a tight-lipped nod.

Megan climbed in first, smooth and casual.

Dylan gestured for me to follow.

I slid into the backseat. Leather seats. Tinted windows. No music. No small talk. Just the quiet hum of tires against asphalt and the sense that we weren’t just leaving campus — we were being taken somewhere else.

The ride stretched long. Longer than I expected.

Out of town. Past neighborhoods. Then forests.

The road narrowed.

Paved, but old.

Winding.

Then: gates.

Tall. Black. Iron.

They opened without anyone asking. Like they already knew who we were.

Security stood at the edges. Silent. Armed. No questions. No glances.

My stomach twisted.

“Who are these people?” I asked softly.

Neither of them answered.

The road curved upward — then flattened out into a circle drive lined with lights and trimmed hedges.

And there it was.

The estate.

White stone. Giant windows. Ivy creeping up the sides like it was part of a storybook except it wasn’t a house.

It was a fortress in disguise.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door. Megan stepped out like she’d done this a thousand times. Dylan followed — perfect posture, hands in his pockets, calm.

I hesitated. Then climbed out too.

Inside, the temperature dropped. Not cold — just crisp. Controlled.

Marble floors. High ceilings. Oil paintings in gold frames.

And people.

Not family.

Staff.

Men and women in crisp uniforms offered drinks the second we stepped inside.

“Would you like a cocktail?”

“Sparkling water?”

“Hors d’oeuvres?”

“Massage?”

“Facial?”

“Pedicure?”

I blinked. “I—what?”

Megan peeled off without a word. One of the women led her toward a side hallway labeled Spa Wing.

Dylan smiled at me.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you around.”

He didn’t ask if I wanted a tour.

I followed.

The halls were long, echoing. The air smelled like lemon and polished wood. No photos. No warmth. Just curated silence.

“This is the theater,” Dylan said, gesturing to a dark room with velvet seats.

“Game room.”

“Guest suite.”

“Pool access.”

His voice was light. Pleasant. But his hand stayed on the small of my back the entire time.

Until we reached a door with a black keypad.

He tapped a code.

The door clicked open.

Inside: dim lighting. Cold air.

Glass display cases lined the walls.

And inside them:

Weapons.

Guns.

Knives.

Swords.

Rifles.

Old. New. Antique. Gold-handled. Ivory-gripped.

Each one labeled. Polished. Spotlit like museum pieces.

I stared.

Dylan stepped in behind me.

“My grandfather started the collection,” he said. “He believed in preserving legacy.”

I didn’t move.

Dylan circled the room slowly, fingertips brushing the glass.

“He liked the older weapons best,” he said. “Said a blade shows more of a man’s skill than a bullet.”

I swallowed hard. “Do you… ever use them?”

Dylan smiled faintly.

“No. Of course not.”

A pause.

“Not most of them.”

He looked at me. The light caught his eyes — and for a second, they didn’t look soft at all.

He stepped closer. Just a little.

“It’s a little intense,” he said. “I know. But… some things are useful. If you know how to handle them.”

The air thickened.

My fingers curled into fists in the sleeves of the sweater.

“Why are you showing me this?” I asked.

Dylan didn’t answer right away.

He reached up and adjusted one of the display lights, like it mattered.

Then, still looking at the case, he said:

“Because I trust you.”

The display room lingered in my chest like smoke.

By the time Dylan led me back out, the silence between us had grown too still — like the house itself was listening.

We passed another hallway. Warm lighting. Framed art. Plush chairs no one sat in.

Then Dylan said casually, “You should get a massage.”

I blinked. “What?”

He gestured vaguely down the spa hall Megan had disappeared into. “You’ve been tense. You’ll feel better. We’ll meet in the dining room after. Seven sharp.”

I didn’t answer right away.

“I already told them,” he added, like it was decided.

I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Megan was right. It was routine.

Low lighting. Calming music. Another person in a uniform.

The woman at the counter checked my name like she already had it.

She smiled. “Mr. Dylan said to be gentle.”

That made my skin crawl.

The massage itself was… fine. I didn’t relax, not really. Every time her hands touched my shoulders, I felt like I was supposed to be grateful.

Like I owed something.

By the time I changed back into my clothes, my chest was tight all over again.

The dining room was long and formal — polished wood table, tall-backed chairs, crystal glasses that looked like they’d never been used.

Only three plates.

No Dylan’s parents.

Just Megan at the far end, sipping wine with practiced ease.

Dylan gestured to the seat beside her. He sat across from me.

The food was already plated. Steaming. Expensive.

I stared at it. Something in me didn’t want to eat.

No one said grace.

They didn’t even say hello.

Halfway through the meal, Dylan leaned back and said, almost lazily:

“Megan, drops.”

She didn’t blink.

She reached into her purse and pulled out the brown bottle.

My stomach flipped.

She placed the dropper on her tongue without a sound. Closed the bottle. Slid it back in.

Like it was nothing.

Like she’d done it a thousand times.

My voice cracked before I could stop it. “How long have you been giving her those?”

Dylan didn’t look surprised. He smiled.

“I’m not giving her anything. She takes them willingly.”

Megan smiled too. But it didn’t reach her eyes.

Dylan swirled the wine in his glass.

“I plan to marry her, you know.”

The words hit like a brick.

“She’s perfect,” he said. “Obedient. Loyal. She doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t wander. And when she does… the drops help.”

He took a sip of wine.

“I don’t have any use for a woman who thinks she exists outside of me.”

I stared at him.

And Megan just sat there. Silent. Empty-eyed.

I tried to stand.

That’s when Dylan nodded.

And Megan reached into her bag again — but not for the bottle this time.

A capped syringe.

A few body guards came out of nowhere and rushed me. The grabbed me and slammed me onto the table. One pulling back my sleeve and I fought to stop them but that was no use. 

Once my arm was revealed so we're the cuts across my inner wrist. 

I looked at them. My breathing labored. I looked at Dylan and he tilted his head at my wrist. 

“Oh, dear I didn't know you were hurting so bad. This will help. Give it to him Megan.”

Megan walk d over time with the syringe. 

“W-Wait… w-what is that? What are your thoughts? Trying to give me? Please Dylan? Stop!” I cried. 

Not again. Not this again. 

“It’s only to help you Noah” Dylan smiled.

Megan gently entered my arm with the needle as the bodyguards held me down firmly in place. 

“Megan… please…” I begged her but she only smiled. 

Again everything started to go black. I felt myself going in and out. 

This was help.

And this wasn’t control.

Not anymore. 

It was ownership.

________________________________________________________________________

I woke up in the middle of the night in my dorm alone. 

I was still in my regular clothes. 

The time, 3:15am

Where was Dylan? 

I got up and left the dorm quickly making my way across campus. 

I looked in my phone. 

Jamie L

I called praying Lucas would answer.

Thank god he did.

Lucas: “Noah? Are you okay? It's late.”

“I’m on my way to your place. Please open the door.” I said as if I was on a mission.

Lucas: “Okay…”

When I got close I saw Lucas standing in the door. 

Waiting.

Watching.

When I reached him he let me in and locked the door behind him. 

“Noah, are you okay?” he asked again.

“Yeah… I just… I just don't like being alone. Not right now.”

“What happened?”

I didn't answer at first before I realized I didn’t know what happened. I lost the last 8  hours.

“I just don’t want to be alone. Not right now.”

Lucas’s expression softened. He didn’t ask for more. Didn’t press. Just nodded once, like that was enough.

“You can crash here,” he said quietly. “The couch is comfortable. Promise.”

He grabbed a folded blanket from the arm of the couch and laid it over me gently, like he was afraid I’d flinch. I didn’t.

“I’m heading back to bed,” he added, voice still low. “But I’ll leave the door open in case you need anything.”

I nodded but didn’t speak.

Lucas paused in the hallway. Watching. Then turned and disappeared down the short corridor.

The quiet swallowed the room and my hands started to shake.

I didn’t sleep. Not really.

Every time I closed my eyes, I was back at that table.

Back in that too-perfect dining room with Megan’s voice calm and the needle sliding into my arm like it had every right.

Back with Dylan watching me with a smile like this was love.

The blanket tangled around my legs. My skin burned where they held me down. My wrist ached from where he saw too much.

I pressed my hands to my face. My chest felt cracked open.

And then I stood.

Quiet.

Careful.

I padded down the hallway, heart hammering too loud for the silence. Lucas’s door was still open a few inches. Light from the hallway bled across the hardwood floor.

I didn’t knock.

I didn’t say a word.

I just slipped inside.

Lucas stirred when the floor creaked. He sat up fast, eyes adjusting in the dark.

“Noah?” he whispered.

I didn’t answer. I just stood there for a second, unsure, dizzy from memory and fear and the weight of everything I couldn’t carry anymore.

Then I walked to the side of the bed and climbed in beside him.

Lucas went still.

But he didn’t move away.

Didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t touch me.

He just lay there — quiet, steady, warm.

And for the first time all night, my hands stopped shaking.