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EPISODE 6 — Close Quarters, Close Calls
(Layla's POV)
Monday mornings at Avalon University were a cruel joke. I shuffled through the quad with Chloe practically vibrating beside me, and Mia trailing quietly, sketchbook in hand. The campus was alive — students rushing to classes, laughter echoing across the lawn, the faint scent of coffee mixing with warm asphalt. I clutched my own coffee like armor against the chaos.
"First week down, but somehow it feels like three months," Chloe complained dramatically.
"Don't remind me," I muttered, scanning the crowd. And yes — of course, he was there. Ethan Marshall. Leaning casually against the steps of the administration building, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in a way that made my pulse jump.
I froze. Chloe noticed immediately. "Yep. Heart officially stolen," she whispered, elbowing me.
"Not stolen," I hissed. "Just… acknowledged."
Mia rolled her eyes. "Acknowledged with danger, probably."
I glared at her, but she just smiled — calm, perceptive, like she already knew I was doomed.
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The day dragged on in a haze. Each lecture blurred into the next. I scribbled notes mechanically, my thoughts wandering every time the corner of my eye caught movement. And somehow, no matter which way I turned, Ethan seemed to appear. Library, quad, cafeteria… like some persistent shadow I didn't want to admit I liked.
By afternoon, the worst possible scenario materialized: our psychology seminar was paired with him. Not just in the same room — but directly across from me. Our group had to collaborate on a mini-research project, and my stomach did a slow, torturous flip when I realized our tables were adjacent.
He slid into his seat silently, notebook open, pen ready. He didn't speak immediately, but the way his gaze found me across the table made my chest tighten.
"First day of collaboration, and already avoiding me?" he asked, voice low, teasing.
"I'm… strategic," I replied, trying to keep my tone casual.
"Strategic," he repeated slowly, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Or scared."
"I'm not scared," I said, though my fingers tightened around the pen.
"Good to hear," he said lightly, then returned to his notes — but not before letting his gaze linger just long enough to remind me that he was impossible to ignore.
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The seminar began. Dr. Holloway gave us the project instructions, explaining the experiment on cognitive biases. I tried to focus, jotting down notes, organizing my thoughts. But every time I looked up, he was there. Watching. Smiling faintly when I flinched at his proximity.
Hours passed with discussions, scribbles, and quiet tension. Every time I thought he'd stop observing me, his eyes flicked up. Every accidental brush of our elbows sent heat racing through my veins.
By the time the seminar ended, I felt like I'd run a mental marathon. He leaned back in his chair, stretching casually as if nothing had happened.
"You survived," he observed, tone neutral.
"I survived," I echoed, trying not to sound breathless.
"Barely," he added, and I wanted to argue — but didn't.
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That evening, Chloe dragged us out for dinner at the student café, insisting that we "live our college experience." The campus had quieted down, lanterns glowing, music faint in the distance. I hoped for a peaceful meal — a brief respite.
Of course, Ethan was there. Alone. By the fountain. He looked up the moment I appeared, and that subtle smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Missed me?" he asked, voice low and teasing, carrying warmth I didn't want to feel.
"I… don't know," I said, flustered. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" he repeated, leaning casually against the fountain. "Layla Hart, you're impossible."
"I prefer 'careful,'" I countered, trying to sound collected.
He chuckled softly, and the sound made my stomach tighten. "Careful, huh? Careful doesn't usually find me like this."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to run. I wanted to do everything and nothing at once. And yet, I stayed, rooted to the spot, watching him watch me.
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Over the next few days, the tension became a constant undercurrent. Every class, every corner of the campus, felt charged. I noticed subtle things: the way he always seemed to pick his spot near me in the library, the faint glances in the cafeteria, the quiet smirk when I tried to disappear into a crowd.
Chloe, of course, noticed first. "You're obsessed," she declared one evening, sprawled across her bed, phone in hand.
"I am not," I said sharply, glaring at her.
"You're thinking about him right now," she said, grinning. "Admit it."
"Maybe," I whispered, not quite ready to confess to myself.
Mia, as usual, remained calm. "He's persistent," she said softly. "But it's clear he's genuinely interested."
I wanted to argue — but deep down, I knew she was right.
---
Friday night, the campus held a casual movie night in the quad. Chloe insisted we go; Mia agreed quietly. I followed reluctantly, hoping to blend into the shadows.
Of course, he was there. Leaning against the fountain again, hoodie half-zipped, notebook abandoned. Our eyes met, and something electric passed between us — a silent acknowledgment of everything unspoken.
He walked toward me slowly, deliberately, and I realized I couldn't look away.
"Layla," he said, voice low. "You can't keep avoiding me forever."
"I'm… not avoiding you," I said, though my voice betrayed me.
"Then what?" he pressed, stepping closer. "Because it looks an awful lot like avoidance."
"I'm careful," I said finally, standing my ground despite my racing heart.
"Careful," he repeated, smirk tugging at his lips, "doesn't usually notice the little things. Like… me."
My chest tightened. The way he said it — soft, deliberate, almost daring me to respond — made it impossible to stay composed.
I realized then what I'd been denying: Ethan Marshall wasn't just a fleeting spark from prom night. He wasn't just a shadow in the quad or a smirk in the lecture hall.
He was a storm.
And I was standing directly in its path.
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That night, lying in bed, I replayed every word, every glance, every brush of our hands in the seminar. Chloe snored softly beside me, unaware of the mental chaos consuming me. Mia's quiet presence in her sketches offered some comfort, but even that couldn't drown out the electric pulse of memory.
Avalon University wasn't just a new beginning. It was a stage. And Ethan Marshall wasn't just another character.
He was the plot twist.
And I wasn't sure I was ready for the story he was about to write.
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