Foreigner

Chapter 23

Double release, enjoy! :))

The basketball thuds against the wall. Bounces back. Slaps into my palm. I toss it again.

The morning drags—too slow. The kind of slow that stretches like a rubber band, waiting to snap.

I'm not stupid. I know the Seven won't let my rejection slide. But that's the thing—it's been over twenty-four hours, and nothing has happened. No threats, no confrontations, no Monroe-style theatrics. Just a creeping, suffocating silence. Caleb's words from the library echo in my head: "Enjoy the silence while it lasts."

I throw the ball harder this time. It slams into the wall and rebounds too fast, smacking against my shoulder before rolling to the floor. I exhale sharply, rubbing the spot. My body still aches from Monroe, from everything, but it's not the pain that's getting to me. It's the waiting.

The dorm door swings open, and Christian walks in.

His hair is damp with sweat, strands clinging to his forehead. His shirt is wrinkled like he's been gripping at the fabric. Something is off. Not like he just got back from a run—more like he needed to be anywhere but here.

I lean back on my bed. "So. You avoiding me or just busy pretending I don't exist?"

Christian doesn't answer right away. He throws off his sneakers, dragging a hand down his face, then tosses his phone onto his desk. His knuckles are tight.

"I don't avoid people," he mutters.

I snort. "Sure. And I'm the Pope."

Still, no reaction. I watch as he crosses the room, pulls open a drawer, and grabs a bottle of water. He doesn't drink it. Just holds it. He's agitated. I can see it in the small details—the way his fingers twitch around the cap, the way his shoulders haven't fully relaxed since stepping inside.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask.

Christian exhales sharply. "Nothing."

And then he disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

I stay where I am, staring at the closed door, listening to the faint sound of water running.

The rubber band stretches just a little tighter.

¤ ¤ ¤

The smell of paint and turpentine clings to the air, thick and chemical. My brush drags across the canvas, uneven strokes blending into something that doesn't look like much of anything. I stopped trying to follow Mrs. Martin's instructions twenty minutes ago—something about lighting and composition.

My focus keeps drifting. Something feels off.

I glance up. The studio door is open, the hallway beyond dim and empty. Almost.

Someone is watching.

Theo Marshall.

He's standing just outside the doorframe, half-shadowed by the dull hallway light. His slouched posture makes it seem like he's barely there, but his eyes are locked on me.

My fingers tighten around the paintbrush.

I glance at Christian. He's sitting two stools away, sleeves rolled up as he works on his own piece, looking relaxed—except he's already seen Theo. His brush hasn't moved in nearly a full minute. His knuckles are white where they rest against the easel.

Theo doesn't say anything. Doesn't even move. Just watches.

Mrs. Martin's voice fades into background noise. The second class ends, and Christian is already moving, stepping into the hallway ahead of me. It's subtle, but I see it for what it is—a shield.