Briarwood always smelled expensive.
Even the air had a crispness to it, as if someone filtered out the poor and the ordinary before it reached campus. The old stone buildings rose out of the earth like monuments, stained-glass windows catching the afternoon light, ivy crawling with calculated elegance up their sides. My driver idled at the curb in front of Sinclair Hall—my family's name stamped in bronze over the archway, because of course it was. My great-grandfather had donated the money to build it, which meant every semester I got to watch newcomers tilt their heads up, whispering about us. The Sinclairs.
I hated how much I loved it.
"Back again, Mr. Sinclair?" The porter tipped his cap as I stepped out of the car. He didn't wait for me to answer. People like him never did. At Briarwood, everything about me was already answered before I opened my mouth. Rich. Sophomore. Untouchable.
The September sun warmed the cobblestones under my shoes as I crossed the quad. Students sprawled on the grass, laughing too loudly, already trying to establish dominance for the semester. A cluster of girls in glossy sunglasses turned to watch me pass. I tossed them a smile—half effort, enough to make one giggle—but it was muscle memory. Empty charm.
Because my attention was already elsewhere.
Julian Ashcroft was sitting beneath the elm tree near the library steps, head bent over a book, Phoebe curled up beside him with her earbuds in.
God, him again.
I should've looked away. I should've walked past, kept my chin high, pretended I didn't notice. That's what Ethan Sinclair always did. But there was something magnetic about the way Julian sat so still, so unaware of the noise around him. His hair caught the light, dark brown with warm undertones, and his jaw tightened slightly as he turned a page. He looked… focused. Grounded. So maddeningly different from the shallow orbit of my friends and the polished, polished world I belonged to.
And every time I saw him, something in my chest clenched like a fist.
"Scholarship boy still reading his way through life," Carter drawled at my side. I hadn't even noticed him approach, too lost in my staring. Carter followed my gaze and smirked. "What's the appeal? He dresses like he shops clearance racks."
I forced a laugh, shoving my hands in my pockets. "Guess some people can't afford better."
It landed the way I needed it to. Carter barked out a laugh, clapped me on the shoulder, and sauntered off to join the others. They never suspected a thing. None of them would. Not if I wanted to keep my head above water here.
But my eyes betrayed me. They slid back to Julian.
He looked up, maybe sensing it, and for a split second our gazes met across the quad. His expression was unreadable—neither hostile nor curious, just cool, like he was letting me know I didn't matter enough to bother with. Then he turned back to his book, Phoebe nudging him to show her something on the page.
I exhaled sharply and kept walking.
⸻
My dorm suite smelled like leather and cedar—the way money did when it bought comfort. My roommate had already unpacked, leaving designer sneakers scattered across the floor, two bottles of whiskey lined on his desk. I ignored them, sinking into the armchair by the window. Outside, Briarwood bustled with the sound of returning students.
I pulled my phone out and scrolled without purpose until I landed on a photo buried in my gallery. A group shot from last semester's spring formal. Everyone in tuxedos, champagne glasses raised. And just off to the side, slightly blurred but unmistakable, Julian in a dark suit. He wasn't smiling.
He never smiled in the ways people expected.
I zoomed in, thumb hovering over his face. The sharp cheekbones. The steady eyes. He looked like he didn't care whether he was in the picture or not. Like the world could spin without him, and he'd be fine either way.
My heart did that thing again, the twist I never let anyone see.
Pathetic.
I locked my phone, tossed it onto the desk, and pressed the heel of my hand to my eyes. I'd sworn to myself I wouldn't do this anymore—that I wouldn't get caught in the undertow of someone who didn't even glance twice at me. But it was useless.
Julian was gravity. And I was already falling.
⸻
Dinner in the Sinclair Dining Hall was its usual performance: crystal chandeliers, long mahogany tables, conversations dripping with subtle competition. I played my part—smiling, laughing, tossing out sarcastic remarks like party favors. The boys in my circle compared summer trips to Monaco, new cars their fathers had bought them. I leaned back, swirling wine in my glass, pretending to care.
But across the hall, at one of the smaller tables, sat Julian again. He was with Phoebe, plates modest compared to ours. She was talking animatedly, waving her fork, while Julian listened with half a smile tugging at his mouth.
That smile. Rare. Brief. But real.
I looked down quickly, hiding the stupid warmth that spread through my chest.
"You're quiet tonight, Sinclair," one of the girls teased, brushing her hair back. "Lost in thought?"
"Just bored," I replied smoothly, flashing a grin. "Nothing new under the sun."
They laughed, and the conversation shifted.
But I couldn't shake the image of Julian's fleeting smile.
⸻
Later, when the hall emptied and the campus quieted, I wandered alone through the courtyard. The stone fountain in the center gurgled softly, moonlight turning the water silver. My footsteps echoed against the tiles.
I should've gone back to my dorm. Should've poured myself a drink and drowned the day. Instead, I found myself outside the library, where the lamps still glowed in the windows. And there, through the glass, I saw Julian again.
He was studying. Of course. Head bent, pen scratching across paper, Phoebe nowhere in sight. His shoulders were tense, but there was a calmness to him, too. Like he belonged in that quiet, more than he ever would at one of our parties.
I stood there too long, hands shoved deep in my pockets, heart pounding harder than it should.
If anyone saw me, they'd laugh. They'd destroy me. Ethan Sinclair, staring like a lovesick idiot at the scholarship kid.
But no one saw.
And when Julian finally packed up his books and slipped out the side door, he didn't notice me in the shadows. He walked past, close enough for me to smell the faint scent of his cologne—clean, simple, nothing like the heavy fragrances my friends wore.
He didn't look at me. Didn't even know I was there.
But I knew. And I hated how much I cared.
⸻
I lay awake that night, staring at the carved ceiling beams of my dorm, phone heavy in my hand. I opened the photo again. Julian, blurred in the background, like he wasn't supposed to be captured.
"He didn't even see me tonight," I whispered to the dark. "Maybe he never will."
Still, I couldn't make myself delete the photo.
And with that, I finally let sleep drag me under.