Adrian woke to an empty room. Again.
Dante's bed lay perfectly made—hospital corners, pillow centered, not a wrinkle visible. The kind of precision that took time and care. The kind that meant Dante had been awake long enough to erase all evidence of sleeping there.
6:47 AM according to Adrian's phone. Dante had left before dawn.
Adrian stared at the ceiling. Replayed last night frame by frame: the wall, Dante's proximity, those words. You think this is about her? The rawness in Dante's eyes. The crying Adrian had pretended not to see.
Then Adrian's brain supplied the interpretation that made sense, that fit the framework Adrian needed: psychological warfare. Dante trying to throw Adrian off balance before—before what? Before nothing. Just competition wearing a new mask. Mind games instead of sports.
Adrian sat up. Grabbed his phone, opened the text thread with Isabella.
Dinner this weekend? Off campus. Somewhere nice.
Sent before Adrian could second-guess. Control reasserted through action. Winning through forward momentum.
Isabella's response came within minutes: Really? That sounds great! Yes!
Adrian smiled at the screen. See? This was working. This was him taking charge, establishing his own narrative, succeeding at something that had nothing to do with Dante Alaric.
Day three of the ghost protocol.
Adrian opened the door to Room 447B at 3 PM, hoping—expecting—what? That Dante would be there? That they could have a normal conversation? That the confrontation could be discussed like rational humans?
Empty. Dante's desk showed no signs of recent use. Laptop gone, textbooks unopened. The only evidence Dante existed: clothes in the closet, toiletries in the shared caddy, that perfectly made bed.
Adrian's phone buzzed. Text from Dante: Studying at library. Will be back late.
They were ten feet apart most nights and communicated exclusively through screens now.
Adrian typed back: ok
Lowercase, no punctuation. Minimal effort mirroring minimal engagement.
Day five.
Adrian left his physics textbook on Dante's desk. Not accidentally. Deliberately placed, spine perfectly aligned with the desk edge, impossible to miss.
Returned from class three hours later to find the textbook back on Adrian's desk. No note. No comment. Just—moved.
Adrian cranked up music. The playlist Dante hated, the one with too much electronic bass and aggressive lyrics. Played it loud enough to vibrate the walls.
Dante walked in at 6 PM, registered the music with a flicker of expression Adrian couldn't read, pulled out noise-canceling headphones, and started homework.
Didn't speak. Didn't complain. Just—adapted.
Adrian turned the music louder. Dante's shoulders tensed but Dante didn't look up, didn't acknowledge, didn't engage.
At 7 PM, Dante packed up and left. Text arrived five minutes later: Eating with the team. Back after 11.
Adrian sat in the sudden silence. Realized the rivalry—toxic as it had been—at least meant Dante cared enough to fight back. This careful nothing hurt worse than any competition.
The pickup basketball game Thursday afternoon: missing Dante. No explanation, no heads-up. Just Dante's absence where Dante's presence used to be guaranteed.
"Your friend coming?" one of the grad students asked.
"Not my friend," Adrian said automatically. Then, because it felt wrong: "And no. He's not coming."
Adrian played badly. Missed easy shots. Lost track of the ball. Kept glancing at the court entrance like Dante might materialize through willpower alone.
Didn't happen.
Saturday night. The date.
Cornerstone Bistro sat three blocks off campus, far enough to feel like escape. Exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs, the kind of place that appeared in college town guides under "romantic dining."
Isabella arrived five minutes early, wearing a dress that looked effortless in that way that required significant effort. Hair down, makeup subtle, smile bright when Isabella spotted Adrian at the table.
"This is really nice," Isabella said, sliding into the chair across from Adrian. "I wasn't expecting—I mean, most guys just suggest pizza."
"I can do pizza too," Adrian offered.
"No, this is perfect." Isabella opened the menu, scanned options. "My parents would approve. They're very into 'proper dating rituals.' My dad still talks about how he courted my mom."
"Courted?" Adrian raised an eyebrow. "Is he from the 1950s?"
Isabella laughed. "Basically. Traditional Chinese family. Lots of rules about appropriate behavior." Isabella leaned forward, conspiratorial. "They'd lose their minds if they knew I was at college dating. They think I'm here exclusively for academics."
"And you're not?"
"I'm here for everything." Isabella's expression turned serious. "That's the whole point, right? Figure out who we are when nobody's watching."
The conversation flowed. Isabella talked about her parents' expectations—medical school, marriage to another doctor, grandchildren before thirty. Adrian shared stories about Sage's increasingly elaborate theories about campus architecture being designed by someone who hated students. They compared notes on brutal professors and laughed about orientation icebreakers.
"So what about your family?" Isabella asked, twirling pasta on her fork. "Expectations? Pressure?"
"My brother's the golden child," Adrian said. "PhD candidate at MIT. Literally a rocket scientist. I'm just—trying to figure out my own thing."
"That's hard. Being compared."
"Yeah." Adrian sipped water. "You spend your whole life being measured against someone else's accomplishments. Eventually you don't know if you want things because you want them or because you want to prove you can achieve them too."
Isabella nodded, understanding flickering across Isabella's face. "The competition trap."
"Exactly." Adrian paused. "Actually, that's—"
"Tell me about your roommate," Isabella said suddenly. "Dante, right? You two seem tense."
And Adrian talked. For fifteen minutes. Maybe longer. About kindergarten crayons and fifth-grade races. About science fairs and basketball championships. About eighteen years of finishing second and the cosmic impossibility of four random roommate assignments. About coffee shop "accidents" and interrupted dates and Dante showing up everywhere like gravity.
Isabella listened without interrupting. Expression shifting from interested to thoughtful to something else Adrian couldn't identify.
"Sorry," Adrian said finally, realizing how much time had passed. "That was—I don't know why I went on like that."
"It's fine." Isabella's smile looked careful. "Sounds complicated."
"It's not. It's—" Adrian stopped. Couldn't finish that sentence honestly. "Yeah. Complicated."
The check came. Adrian paid despite Isabella's protest about splitting. They walked outside into September night air, temperature dropping toward autumn.
"I had a really good time," Isabella said.
"Yeah. Me too."
Isabella stepped closer. Rose onto her toes. Kissed Adrian.
Soft. Sweet. Appropriate for a first date. Her lips tasted like the tiramisu they'd shared.
Adrian kissed back. Hands on Isabella's waist, appropriate pressure, acceptable duration.
When they broke apart, Isabella smiled. "Text me?"
"Definitely."
Adrian watched Isabella walk toward her dorm. Should feel triumph. Should feel that victory he'd been chasing since September first.
Instead: fine. The kiss was fine. The date was fine. Isabella was charming and interesting and compatible and fine.
Not earth-shattering. Not consuming. Just—fine.
Adrian started walking back to Sutton Hall. Replayed the kiss, searching for the spark that should have ignited. Found adequacy instead of transformation.
Then, unbidden, unwanted: I wonder what kissing Dante would feel like.
Adrian stopped walking. Middle of the sidewalk, students flowing around Adrian like water around a stone.
Where the hell did that come from?
Adrian shoved the thought down. Buried it deep beneath layers of denial and deliberate misdirection. Refused to examine the comparison his brain had drawn without permission.
Walked faster. Like distance from the thought's origin point could erase its existence.
10:03 PM. Adrian opened the door to Room 447B expecting darkness.
Instead: Dante in bed, lights off, unusually early. Dante's phone screen lit up repeatedly on the nightstand, each notification casting blue light across Dante's face.
Adrian moved quietly. Didn't want to wake Dante, didn't want conversation, didn't want to deal with whatever this was.
But Dante's phone kept lighting up. Adrian couldn't help glancing.
Marcus: You ok?
Marcus: Want to talk about it?
Marcus: I'm here if you need me.
Something twisted in Adrian's gut. Sharp and immediate. The sensation of watching someone else occupy space that should be—that should be what?
Adrian looked away. Changed into sleep clothes, climbed into bed, pulled blankets up.
That twist in Adrian's gut tightened. Uncomfortable. Unwelcome. The feeling of someone else knowing Dante's problems, someone else being the person Dante turned to, someone else mattering in ways Adrian—
No.
Adrian rolled over. Faced the wall. Refused to name what he felt watching those messages. Refused to acknowledge why Marcus's concern created that sharp sensation behind Adrian's ribs.
Jealousy would mean—would imply—things Adrian couldn't examine. Wouldn't examine.
Across the room, Dante's breathing stayed even. Asleep or faking it, Adrian couldn't tell.
The phone lit up again. Another message from Marcus, text too small to read from Adrian's bed.
Adrian closed his eyes. Counted ceiling tiles from memory—seven water stains plus one shadow. Tried to sleep.
Found Dante instead. Dante everywhere—in the empty desk, the perfectly made bed, the systematic avoidance, the ghost protocol, those words against the wall. You think this is about her?
And underneath everything: the image of what kissing Dante might feel like. The thought Adrian had already buried seventeen times since it first surfaced.
Fine wasn't enough. Adrian realized it lying there in darkness with jealousy he refused to name twisting in his chest. Fine was the participation trophy of emotions—technically successful but ultimately hollow.
But if fine wasn't enough, what was Adrian actually looking for?
Adrian didn't have an answer. Just the certainty that whatever was happening—with Dante, with Isabella, with the carefully constructed Year of Winning—wasn't what Adrian had planned.
And the terrifying suspicion that maybe Adrian had been winning the wrong game all along.