Foreigner

Chapter 34

I've been sitting here for over an hour.

The dorm is too quiet. No humming from the radiator. No footsteps from the hallway. Just the occasional gust of wind rattling the windowpane like a loose tooth.

I'm at my desk, legs pulled up to my chest, watching the glow from the hallway leak in under the door. Christian's bunk below mine hasn't shifted all day. His pillow is still dented from the night before. His sketchbook is peeking out from the drawer under his desk like he left in a hurry.

He hasn't come back.

I reach over and drag the sketchbook out of the drawer. It's open to a drawing of the school gates in pencil, crisp and too detailed. I close it before I start looking for myself in it again.

When I go to toss it back, something catches my eye—a shape against the base of the door. My chest tightens.

It's a black envelope.

I walk over and crouch. It's thick paper, matte. No name. No seal. Just a clean fold and the weight of a decision I haven't made yet.

Inside, a single line of printed text:

Class 301. 10 pm sharp.

No context. No threat. But I know who it's from.

I stare at the words until they blur, then fold the slip twice and wedge it between my math book. I don't even hear myself breathe.

Christian's absence feels louder now.

¤ ¤ ¤

The light shifts.

That's the only warning I get before the door clicks open and closes again behind him.

I don't turn around.

There's only one person who moves like that. One person who doesn't slam the door or scuff his shoes, who breathes evenly even when the air feels tight. His presence is solid without being loud.

Christian.

I hear his shoes come off with soft thumps against the floor, his jacket unzip.

I let my eyes flick sideways.

His hair's a little messy, cheeks touched with cold. His face is calm—not distant, not angry, just quiet as though something's sitting heavy on him, but he hasn't decided whether to say it out loud yet.

"You skipped breakfast," I say, voice low.

He glances at me. "Didn't feel like it."

I tap my finger against the edge of the desk, once. "You missed a fight."

His eyebrows twitch upward just slightly. "What kind?"

"The Nobody kind. Some meathead thought I was bluffing. He doesn't anymore."

Christian's mouth curves, just a little, almost like a smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He takes two slow steps toward me. Then, without a word, he lifts his hand and ruffles my hair.

I blink, half-annoyed but mostly caught off guard.

He doesn't say anything—just moves to the bed and drops down onto his bunk. The mattress creaks under his weight.

Then his eyes meet mine, and he tilts his head toward the space in front of him. Come here.

I don't pretend to hesitate.

I cross the room in three quiet steps and crawl onto the bed, settling in between his legs. My back presses to his chest and stomach, and his arms come around me automatically—one under my ribs, the other curved over my collarbones.