Caitlyn sat in the back row like she was serving a sentence she didn't deserve, blazer undone, tie loosened, boots scuffed from running errands that had nothing to do with class. Her notes were precise but sparse, a collection of half-formed strategies in the margins—rifle mechanisms, tactical layouts, a clean sketch of a scope assembly... anything but the literature prompt on the board. The classroom smelled of chalk dust and old books, the afternoon sunlight streaming through windows and casting long shadows across the desks.

But she always heard it. Always her.

Glossy hair that caught every bit of sunlight, nails gleaming like glass, skirts trimmed in lace that would've been ridiculous on anyone else but looked effortless on her. She laughed at something a friend whispered, the sound bright, melodic, like bells in a quiet street. The scent of her perfume drifted back to Caitlyn's desk—something soft and floral that didn't belong in a dusty classroom.

Caitlyn looked away, jaw tight, pen biting into the page. Don't stare. Don't—

Her gaze drifted forward anyway. It always did. "Fawn," she thought, dry and aching all at once. With those soft eyes, that warm laugh, that way of leaning in like she was listening to the world. She was sunlight. Caitlyn was storm clouds.

When the bell finally rang, Caitlyn snapped her notebook shut, already half-standing. But Heimerdinger's squeaky voice caught her like a tripwire.

"Miss Kiramman, a moment. And you as well," he called to the popular girl.

Her stomach sank like lead.

The professor peered up over his spectacles.

"Your grades are... slipping. But, fortunate timing—she has offered to tutor you."

She turned slowly, reluctantly, to meet those bright, impossibly kind eyes. And there it was, that smile that could dismantle walls. Caitlyn cleared her throat, voice rougher than she intended.

"Right. Thank you. I appreciate it."

Hands shoved into pockets, she tried to make herself smaller, invisible.

Which is how she ended up here, now perched on the edge of a chair far too soft for her boots, in a dorm that looked like it had been styled for a magazine shoot. Everything smelled faintly of flowers and vanilla. Even the tea she'd been pressed into accepting tasted like spring—sweet, light, everything Caitlyn was not.

Across the desk, the popular girl arranged pastel-highlighted notes with quiet elegance, each movement unhurried and sure. Even the flick of a strand of hair behind her ear was neat, deliberate. Caitlyn hunched lower, eyes on the schematics she'd brought instead of worksheets, trying to ignore the soft chime of bracelets every time she reached for a book.