The sunlight was starting to creep through my curtains when I finally rolled out of bed. I let out a long stretch, still half-asleep, and shuffled toward my closet. Today, I wanted something that felt… me. Something that said Winter without shouting it. I rifled through my clothes, finally pulling out a black skirt with a subtle lace trim, a dark plum sweater that fit a little oversized, and my favorite chunky boots. Not too heavy, but enough to hint at the edge I liked to carry.
As I tugged on the sweater and adjusted the skirt, my phone buzzed on the dresser. I reached for it, brushing a strand of hair out of my face.
Tristan: Good morning, see you soon!
I paused mid-button on my skirt, grinning to myself. Another text came through while I was staring at Tristan's text.
Chloe: Hey, wanna walk together?
Typing quickly, I replied:
Of course! Tristan's meeting me there.
Almost immediately, she sent back:
Ooooh, lucky you!
Me: I know.
I tucked my phone into my pocket and slipped on my boots. With the thought of Tristan outside the college entrance, everything felt lighter, like an unexpected skip in my step. Even those dreaded early classes suddenly seemed bearable. Who knew daydreaming about a cute guy could be so motivating?
I ran a hand through my hair one last time, touched up my eyeliner, and grabbed my backpack. With one last glance in the mirror, I let out a small sigh of satisfaction. And with Tristan waiting outside, the thought of Art History didn't feel like just another class. It felt like something to look forward to.
The city felt too bright. Too exposed. Every sound scraped against my nerves, the screech of a passing car, the hiss of a bus door, the metallic clang of someone dropping their coffee thermos. I flinched at all of it, like the world was just waiting to remind me how breakable I still was.
I pulled my sweater around me, kept my head down, and tried to breathe.
Then I heard someone call my name.
"Winter!"
I turned, heart jumping, then exhaled when I saw Chloe jogging across the street, coffee in hand, eyeliner sharp enough to kill.
She fell into step beside me like she'd always been there. "Told you I'd walk with you."
I tried to smile. "Thanks."
Her eyes flicked over me. "Long night?"
"Didn't really sleep. I was talking to Tristan until 1 am."
"Did you eat?"
I shook my head.
She handed me her second muffin without hesitation. "Bite this. Or I'll do something dramatic."
We were half a block from campus when it happened.
I didn't see him first. I felt him.
That slow, sinking chill in my stomach. The heaviness in my chest, like gravity had just doubled. My feet kept moving, but my pulse started to sprint. I could hear my heartbeat thudding in my ears, each beat a reminder of the rising panic. There was a tingling sensation in my fingertips, as if my body was gearing up to either fight or flee. A whiff of Eric's familiar cologne drifted through the air, unexpected and sharp enough to spike the fear, leaving me breathless.
Chloe's voice sharpened. "Don't look. Across the street. Driver's side of that black car."
And just like that, I knew.
Eric.
I looked before I could stop myself.
He was leaning against the car like he had all the time in the world. One boot propped up against the door, arms crossed. Sunglasses on, but I didn't need to see his eyes. I could feel them, burning into me. Tracking me.
A ringing started in my ears, a high-pitched hum growing louder, as if the world was narrowing down to this one moment. My lungs squeezed tight. My mouth went dry. Every bruise, every shouted word, every time he'd slammed a wall to watch me flinch, all of it came rushing back like it had never left.
He tilted his head slightly, like he was amused. Like this, this show of power, this subtle game of control, was his idea of foreplay.
He didn't move. But he didn't have to. Because that stare said everything: I see you. I still can. You haven't gotten away.
"Keep walking," Chloe murmured, stepping closer, her shoulder pressed to mine now. "He's not going to touch you. Not here. Not with me."
My hands were shaking. I shoved them into my sleeves. "Why is he even here anymore? The only reason he started college was to watch me."
"Because he's losing control. And control is all he ever wanted."
We turned the corner toward campus.
Then, another voice.
"Winter!"
It hit me like a life raft thrown into a storm. I turned. And there he was. Tristan. Waiting just outside the campus gates, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other already lifting when he saw me. His posture didn't shift. He didn't flinch at the sight of me shaken. He just stood steady. Still, and suddenly, I was moving, walking faster, chest heaving, not away from Eric, but toward something safer. Something real.
Tristan met me halfway. The second I got close, he opened his arms, and I didn't hesitate. I stepped into him like I needed it, because I did. He wrapped his arms around me, firm and warm and solid. One hand on my back, the other cupping the base of my skull like he was holding something precious. Like I wouldn't break.
I could still feel Eric watching. But for the first time, it didn't hollow me out. Because this, Tristan, was something different.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low, spoken against my hair.
"I saw him," I whispered. "He was across the street."
Tristan went very still. Then, without letting go, he turned his head slightly, just enough to see. I didn't have to follow his gaze. I could feel the shift in him.
The protectiveness. The quiet fury. But he didn't speak about it.
Instead, he leaned in closer, lips just at my temple. "You're safe now. I promise you."
My chest cracked open. A sound slipped from me, half a sob, half an exhale, and he didn't flinch. Just held me tighter.
I heard Chloe let out a breath beside us, like she'd been holding it too. "Okay. I like him even more now."
Tristan smiled faintly against my hair. "I like her more."
And in that moment, even with the threat still out there, still watching, I didn't feel powerless. I felt seen. Protected.
Tristan's arms were still wrapped around me, but his body had gone taut. I felt it in the way his breath slowed. The way his hand, steady on my back a moment ago, curled just slightly, controlled tension barely kept in check.
"He was watching you," he said, voice low and sharp with quiet fury. "He followed you all the way here."
I didn't answer. I didn't have to. We both knew the answer.
Tristan pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes. "I should go talk to him."
The words hit like a tremor under my skin. His voice wasn't loud, but there was something final in it like he'd already decided. Like the thought of Eric standing across the street doing nothing was worse than anything that could come from confrontation.
I gripped his wrist. "No."
His brows pulled together. "Winter, "
"No." My voice came out stronger than I expected. "Please. Don't."
He hesitated, jaw working. "You don't have to protect him. Not anymore."
"I'm not protecting him," I said, breath hitching. "I'm protecting me."
That gave him pause.
I stepped back just enough to meet his gaze, both hands now wrapped around his forearm like an anchor. "If you go over there, he'll win. That's what he wants. For me to still be afraid of what he might do. For you to fight his battles so he doesn't have to. For everything to still revolve around him."
Tristan's jaw flexed again. I could see how badly he wanted to move, how his entire body was wired for it. Fight mode. Shield mode. But he didn't. He stayed still.
"You think I'm strong for leaving him," I said, voice trembling. "But I need you to trust that I'm strong enough not to need you to fight for me. Not like that."
His expression shifted, something softer surfacing beneath the anger.
I reached up, gently cupping the side of his face. "
"You showing up? Holding me? Walking beside me like I matter?" My voice broke. "That's what hurts him most."
A long silence passed. Then he exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. His hand came up to cover mine, where it rested on his cheek.
"Okay," he said quietly. "You win."
I let out a shaky breath. "Good."
"But if he comes near you again, "
"He won't," I whispered. "Because this time, I won't stay quiet. And he knows it."
Tristan nodded once, solemn. "Then I'll follow your lead."
And just like that, the power Eric tried to steal from me didn't belong to him anymore. It belonged to me.
Chloe slowed to a stop just outside the glass doors of the art building.
"Alright, lovebirds," she said, smirking over the lid of her coffee. "I'm leaving you to your… whatever this is. Try not to get detention in college."
I rolled my eyes. "Pretty sure that's not a thing."
"It is if you annoy the wrong professor," she shot back, then gave Tristan a mock-serious look. "Take care of her, okay?"
Tristan gave her a half-smile. "Always."
I felt my face heat as Chloe winked at me and sauntered off toward her own class, her boots clacking against the tile.
Tristan and I slipped into the Art History lecture hall together. The room smelled faintly of coffee and old paper, the low hum of chatter rising and falling as students settled in. We found two seats near the back, side by side, laptops already out.
A moment later, Tristan stood again, tugging his hoodie over his head. My eyes followed without permission. The hem of his shirt lifted just enough to reveal the smooth definition of his abs, pale skin catching under the fluorescent light. My breath hitched before I could stop it. Heat unfurled low in my stomach, sharp and dizzying, leaving me taut with an ache I didn't know how to name.
God, he's beautiful. Too beautiful.
Something inside me pulled toward him instinctively, raw and new, like gravity itself had shifted. I wanted to reach out to trace the lines of him with my fingers, memorize the shape of someone who felt both forbidden and inevitable.
"Don't forget the weekly journal entry," Tristan said casually, sinking back into his chair, completely unaware that he'd just undone me with the simplest motion.
I snapped my gaze up to his face, cheeks warm, praying he couldn't read everything I was thinking.
"Don't remind me," I managed, forcing my voice steady. "I barely remembered what I wrote."
"Probably something deep and insightful," he teased. "Mine was about how the café across the street has better lighting than the actual art gallery."
I snorted, trying not to laugh too loudly as I opened my own document. "We're supposed to email these, right?"
He paused, flipping through the syllabus. Then he frowned. "Uh… the professor didn't put his email in here."
I looked at him, horrified. "Are you serious?"
"Dead serious." He flipped to the last page like maybe it had magically appeared there. Nope. Blank.
I glanced at the clock; class would start in two minutes. "So, what, we just… send them into the void?"
Tristan grinned. "Yeah. Dear Void, here's my totally brilliant essay on Egyptian Hieroglyphs. Please grade generously."
I bit back a laugh, leaning closer so my shoulder brushed his. "We should tell him before someone turns in a month's worth of work to a black hole."
"Or," he said, tilting his head, "we wait and see how long it takes him to notice."
The professor walked in then, juggling a stack of papers and a cup of tea. He set everything down, pushed his glasses up his nose, and glanced at the class.
"Before I forget, I forgot to put my email on the syllabus." A ripple of chuckles went through the room. "So, unless you've been psychic enough to send me your journal entries telepathically, you've been holding onto them. I'll write it on the board."
Tristan leaned in, smirking. "There goes our bet."
"Guess the Void will have to wait," I whispered back, grinning as the professor scrawled his email in big, bold letters.
The professor's voice carried on at the front of the room, but it might as well have been white noise. Every time Tristan shifted in his seat, my body reacted before my brain could catch up, heart skipping, breath catching, fingers gripping my pen too tightly.
He tapped something on his laptop, brows furrowed in concentration, completely unfazed, while my mind was running in circles. He doesn't even realize what he's doing to me. Or maybe he does, and that quiet confidence of his is just another layer of torture.
I typed a line on my laptop, half a sentence about oil techniques, but my letters trailed off into lost fingers.
"Bored already?" Tristan's voice was low, teasing, breaking the silence between us.
My fingers twitched. I turned my head, meeting his gaze. His mouth curved into that faint, knowing smirk, the one that always made my stomach twist.
"Not bored," I whispered back, my voice softer than I intended. "Just… distracted."
He raised a brow, eyes glinting like he wanted to push. But then he leaned back again, letting the moment hang unanswered.
I forced myself to face forward, trying to focus on the slide of The Bust of Nefertiti glowing against the screen. But all I could think about was the heat where his arm had brushed mine, and the restless pull low in my chest that no painting, no lecture, no amount of notes could quiet.
The rest of class stretched on, each minute thick with a tension I couldn't shake.
When the professor finally dismissed us, the sound of shuffling bags and closing laptops snapped me back to the surface. My pulse was still racing, and Tristan, calm, steady Tristan, stood and instead of pulling on his hoodie quickly, he lifted it slowly, stretching just enough that his shirt rode up again, revealing the lean lines of his abs in a fleeting glimpse. It was almost careless, almost. Except the slight curve of his mouth told me he knew exactly what he was doing.
Heat rushed through me, and I stared down at my laptop, trying to pretend my face wasn't burning.
When his crimson eyes caught mine again, steady, knowing, lingering just a fraction too long, I knew I hadn't imagined it.
He felt it too.
"I've got Photography next," he said, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "What's your next one?"
I made a face. "Math."
He winced. "Ouch. You'll be okay."
"Barely."
He grinned and stepped closer, the shuffle of students around us fading into background noise.
"Good luck," he murmured, and before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me, quick, warm, and enough to make my stomach swoop.
When he pulled back, there was that faint smile again, the one that made my chest tighten. "See you later, Winter."
"See you," I said, trying not to look too dazed as he disappeared into the crowd.
I sighed, adjusted my bag, and turned toward the one class that could kill my mood faster than anything: math. The dreaded, inevitable mountain I had to climb three times a week.
The math classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and old carpet, and I slumped into my seat like it was a trap I couldn't escape. Numbers blurred on the board as Professor Lane rattled off equations with the casual menace of someone who genuinely enjoyed watching brains twist into knots.
I tried to focus, scribbling in my notebook, but my mind wandered, tracing the curve of Tristan's lips as he smiled in Art History, the way his sleeve brushed his wrist when he concentrated. I sighed, leaned back, and tried not to picture his lips against mine.
Minutes crawled by like they had a personal vendetta against me. I half-listened, half-counted the seconds until I could leave, until I could breathe again. Finally, the bell rang, loud and liberating, and I grabbed my things like I was fleeing a storm.
Outside, the hallway buzzed with chatter. The late summer air drifted through open windows, warm but with the faint promise of cooler days ahead. My phone buzzed almost immediately. I pulled it out and smiled when I saw Tristan's name flashing on the screen.
Tristan: Meet me by the art building under the big willow tree?
I typed back instantly:
On my way.
A chill crawled up my spine despite the sun lingering on the brick sidewalks. For a second, I paused, scanning the crowd. The feeling wasn't new, the weight of eyes on me, not friendly eyes, not Tristan's. Someone was there, somewhere, watching. I tightened my grip on my phone, pulling it closer as if the device could ground me. Then, with deliberate determination, I quickened my stride, resolute in my path toward the art building, feeding my anticipation of meeting Tristan under the big willow tree.
Why now? I thought, keeping my pace steady as I walked. He wouldn't dare. Would he?
I tucked my phone into my pocket, my fingers brushing against it as if the warmth could reassure me. I focused on the familiar sight of the art building's red bricks and the willow's sweeping branches, trying to shove the unease aside. The hint of crisp air made the sunlight feel softer, shadows longer, and I breathed a little easier. I could feel my heartbeat quicken, but I told myself: Just keep moving. Just keep walking. Soon, Tristan. Then it's safe.
Yet even as the tree came into view, the feeling lingered, a shadow at the edge of my senses, a whisper of awareness that I couldn't shake.
I took a deep breath, shoulders tightening, and stepped onto the grass beneath the willow, scanning for Tristan, hoping he'd be there to make the world feel right again.
The willow's branches swayed in the late-summer breeze, brushing against the grass. I hugged my bag closer, my stomach twisting. Something didn't feel right.