SKYLAR
Skylar James sat at the edge of her twin mattress, tying her boots with rough fingers. Her hands were calloused, not from gym reps or some performative grind culture nonsense but from real work. Real hours. Real struggle.
She glanced around her tiny off-campus apartment if you could call it that. The single room smelled faintly of old textbooks and instant ramen. Her desk doubled as a dinner table. The mirror by the door was cracked in the corner, but still good enough for a once-over before she left each morning.
She studied her reflection.
Black tank top. Worn denim. Army-green utility jacket. Braids tied back, sharp fade on the sides. Her jawline looked a little sharper than usual probably from skipping lunch yesterday and dinner the night before.
She flexed her jaw. "Stud enough," she muttered.
She pulled her hoodie over her head, shoved her backpack on, and walked out into the sticky Boston air. Her phone buzzed: a reminder for rent due next week. She swiped it away like a fly she couldn't kill.
The weight of the world pressed on her shoulders but she carried it the same way she carried everything: quiet, controlled, and heavy.
Marlowe University was a fifteen-minute walk if she cut through two alleyways and ignored the smell of sewage behind the bakery. She liked walking. It kept her grounded. Reminded her she had feet unlike the rich kids on campus who seemed to float on air.
And they all did seem to float.
With their iced lattes, luxury backpacks, and conversations about spring in Paris and internships in Zurich. Skylar kept her head down. Not because she was ashamed, but because she didn't have the luxury of looking around.
She was at Marlowe on full scholarship. Not the kind they give to promising prep school kids but the kind carved out of sweat, GPA points, and essays so raw she almost didn't send them. She earned her place. She knew it. But that didn't mean she felt like she belonged.
⸻
AVERY
Avery Sinclair woke to silence. Not peace. Just… silence.
The kind that lived in big houses and cold kitchens. Her suite inside the Sinclair Building named after her family was pristine. Marble countertops. Imported Italian tile. Furniture handpicked by her mother's design consultant.
It was the kind of dorm only money could buy. And money? That was the one thing Avery never ran out of. But love? Warmth? Messy, beautiful, inconvenient humanity?
That was harder to come by.
She sat up, her sheets perfectly undisturbed, and reached for her gold-plated phone on the nightstand. Three missed calls from her mother. None from her father. One text from a girl she ghosted after last week's party:
"You good?"
She deleted it without reading the rest.
Avery had long since mastered the art of control. Everything from her fade to her posture to the way she walked silent, sure, like a lion was calculated. Her body was muscle-toned and poised; her eyes sharp, unreadable.
She was what the world would call a stud clean lines, masculine presentation, smooth as ice. But her masculinity wasn't the type found in locker rooms or rap videos. It was cool, understated, boardroom-ready.
She dressed in tailored slacks and a charcoal blazer. Black boots, polished leather. Gold bracelet. Cologne that smelled like teakwood and smoke. She wasn't trying to impress anyone because she already knew she intimidated everyone.
When she stepped outside, her driver offered to take her to class. She waved him off.
She needed the walk.
Even Avery Sinclair, the girl who had everything, sometimes wanted to feel the ground beneath her feet.
⸻
COLLISION COURSE
It started at the lockers.
Skylar didn't usually stop at her locker most of her books lived in her backpack or online but she needed to grab her battered econ binder. She turned the corner, earbuds in, hoodie up.
She was focused on her combo when someone brushed past her fast, confident, like they owned the hallway. Skylar glanced up.
Tall. Clean. Sharp jawline. Tapered cut. Black-on-black outfit. Cologne that smelled like a $300 bottle.
And eyes like dark glass.
Avery.
Skylar recognized her immediately everyone did. Avery Sinclair. Heiress. Campus royalty. Mysterious as hell. Rumors swirled around her constantly: secret relationships, boardroom family drama, maybe even mob ties. Most of it was probably bullshit. But the image stuck.
Skylar watched her approach the locker across from hers.
Of course.
Of course that would be her new locker neighbor.
Avery unlocked her door without looking at her. The two of them stood there in silence too long for strangers, too short for enemies.
Skylar's hoodie sleeve slid down slightly as she reached into her locker, exposing a bruise on her wrist from lifting crates at the diner last night.
Avery glanced over. Not at her. At the mark.
Skylar noticed and pulled the sleeve back down.
"You okay?" Avery asked. Not warmly. Not coldly. Just… neutrally.
Skylar blinked. "You talking to me?"
Avery closed her locker. "Just being polite."
Skylar gave a half-smile. "Didn't think they taught that in country clubs."
Avery tilted her head slightly. "Didn't know stereotypes were part of the core curriculum."
A pause.
Then Avery looked directly at her. Not in a checking-you-out kind of way. More like… What are you?
Skylar felt it. That thing. The air getting tight between them. Not sexual. Not yet. Just charged.
Skylar broke the gaze first. "See you around, rich girl."
Avery's voice followed her. "I have a name, you know."
Skylar didn't turn around. "Cool. I'll try not to remember it."
Avery watched her go.
She didn't smile.
But she didn't forget her either.
CLASSROOM HEAT
Avery slid into her usual seat in Literature of Rebellion, a seminar with too much talk and not enough substance. She liked sitting near the back close enough to seem present, far enough not to be bothered.
She pulled out her notebook. She didn't use it much her memory was sharp but scribbling helped her look busy.
Skylar walked in late.
She moved like she wasn't in a rush, even though she clearly was. Her hoodie was half-zipped. Her binder tucked under one arm. Her fade was slightly grown out, just enough to show she hadn't had time or money for a touch-up.
Avery glanced at her, then looked away.
But not before Skylar caught it.
Their eyes met for maybe half a second.
And Skylar smirked.
She took the only seat left in front of Avery.
Avery shifted in her chair. She wasn't used to… this. Not the tension. She could handle that. She was used to being wanted. By femmes. By curious girls. By the closeted ones who needed someone quiet and cool to play the role for them.
But Skylar wasn't them.
Skylar didn't want anything. She didn't chase. She didn't flirt.
She just was. Present. Grounded. Stud the way men wished they were.
Avery didn't know how to read it.
And that unnerved her.
Professor Daniels began his lecture on Baldwin and identity. Avery barely heard a word.
All she could think about was the girl in front of her.
The slight arch of her shoulders. The way her fingers tapped her pen not impatiently, but rhythmically, like she had music in her blood. The little scar on the back of her neck.
She found herself staring.
Skylar turned slightly, catching her again.
Raised one brow.
Not in flirtation. Not in offense.
Just… saw her.
Avery blinked and looked away.
And for the first time in a long time, she felt out of control.
⸻
SKY'S LAYER
After class, Skylar ducked into the back corner of the student lounge to charge her phone. The room was mostly empty just two freshmen arguing about AI art and a girl crying into her laptop.
She sat, legs wide, posture relaxed. She didn't even take out her phone at first. She just sat with her hands clasped between her knees, staring at the floor.
Because something was bothering her.
And she knew exactly what.
Avery.
Skylar had never liked girls like her. The polished ones. The rich ones. The type who moved through life like everything was owed to them. Skylar liked girls who fought for things. Girls who cracked jokes. Girls who knew what it meant to want and not have.
Avery didn't fit that.
She was too clean. Too mysterious.
Too perfect.
And yet… she wasn't. Not really.
Skylar had seen something today. A flicker. A shift.
Like Avery wasn't sure who she was supposed to be around her.
That intrigued Skylar more than she wanted to admit.
⸻
THE PARTY
That night, Skylar dragged herself to a party she didn't want to go to.
It was her roommate's idea Amari, a film major with blunt twists and an obsession with vintage boots. She'd promised free food and cheap drinks, and Skylar had a weakness for both.
The house was off-campus, loud, packed. Girls dancing in the living room, joints being passed on the patio, some dude freestyling terribly near the fridge.
Skylar kept to herself, beer in hand, leaning against a wall with one foot up, scanning the crowd. She wasn't trying to be cool. She just didn't know how to turn it off.
Then the room shifted.
Avery walked in.
Alone.
She wore all black button-up, sleeves rolled, chain around her neck. She looked like a storm. Effortless. Dangerous.
And like she didn't want to be there.
Skylar's stomach tightened.
Avery didn't notice her at first. She moved through the crowd like she had somewhere better to be. Like she was always somewhere better in her mind.
But then she did see her.
Their eyes locked across the room. A flicker. Avery slowed her pace for half a second. Skylar didn't move.
Avery looked away first.
But she doubled back a moment later. Not directly toward her just… in her direction.
Skylar watched her grab a drink, talk to no one, then stand by the far window, arms crossed.
Like she wasn't used to not being the center of attention.
Skylar downed her beer and made her way over slow, casual.
"Didn't think parties were your thing," she said when she reached her.
Avery didn't look at her. "They're not."
"Then why come?"
A beat.
"My sister said I need to 'be normal.'"
Skylar smirked. "This place is the last place to find that."
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Avery turned toward her slightly.
"You don't act like most people here," she said.
"That's because I'm not," Skylar replied.
Avery studied her. "You confuse me."
Skylar cocked her head. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"It's not. I don't usually… think twice about people."
Skylar leaned against the windowsill. "Let me guess. You like femmes. Curvy. Soft-voiced. High heels?"
Avery didn't answer.
Skylar continued. "So what's the deal? A stud walk in the room and suddenly your compass gets scrambled?"
Avery's jaw tensed. "I don't look at you like that."
Skylar stepped a little closer. "Don't you?"
Avery's gaze sharpened, but there was something under it. Not anger. Not disgust.
Fear.
And Skylar knew that fear. The kind that came from looking at something that made you question yourself.
Skylar backed off. Gave her space.
"Relax. I'm not coming onto you," she said, gently.
Avery exhaled. "I didn't think you were."
"Yes, you did."
That time, Avery smiled.
Barely.
Skylar turned and started to walk away.
But before she disappeared into the crowd, Avery called after her.
"Hey, Skylar…"
She stopped.
"I do like femmes," Avery said. "But I don't think this is about what I like."
Skylar nodded once.
"I know."
⸻
ALONE AGAIN
Later that night, Avery sat in her room with the lights off.
She stared at the ceiling like it owed her answers.
She'd had crushes before. She'd had girlfriends. She'd even been in love, or something close to it.
But never with someone like Skylar.
Skylar was bold, masculine, grounded. She didn't flirt, she didn't chase, she didn't shrink. She didn't cater to Avery's usual role—the polished, dominant one. With Skylar, there was no dance. No routine.
And it left Avery raw.
What the hell did it mean?
What would people say?
What would she say?
Her chest felt tight.
She turned over, reached into the drawer next to her bed, and pulled out a photograph. One she hadn't looked at in months.
A little girl with cornrows. A crooked smile. Holding a stuffed lion. Beside her, a woman in scrubs with tired eyes and love in them.
She turned the photo over.
It didn't have Skylar's name on it.
But something inside her told her the connection wasn't a coincidence.
Not anymore.