Then I open the door to my dorm and walk straight into a six-foot-three problem.
Declan is leaning against the opposite wall, hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, like he’s been there long enough to be part of the architecture. His head lifts the second my door clicks.
“You’re early,” I blurt.
“You’re late,” he counters, pushing off the wall.
My spine snaps a little straighter. “You can’t do this.”
He falls into step beside me anyway, long strides easily matching my shorter ones. “Walk you to class.”
“That’s what I mean. You can’t do that.”
“I’m already doing it.”
God, he’s impossible.
The hallway smells like burnt coffee and cheap body spray. My skin prickles with the usual awareness—footsteps, voices, doors—but it all feels… blunted. Muted under the solid presence at my side.
He shifts my backpack to his shoulder before I can protest, like it’s nothing more than an extra strap across all that muscle.
“Give that back,” I snap.
“No.”
“Reid.”
His mouth twitches. “Addison.”
We push through the doors into the cold, bright slap of January air. Our breaths fog in front of us as we cross the quad. Heads turn. Conversations dip. I see it in the corner of my vision—people nudging each other, whispering.
Hockey psycho walks coach’s daughter to class.
“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath. “Could you at least try to look less like a bodyguard and more like someone who knows what personal space is?”
He actually huffs out a laugh.
It’s small, startled, like it escapes before he can strangle it back. His shoulders loosen a fraction. I feel eyes on us from everywhere.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Laughing. In public. Where people can see.”
He cuts me a sideways look. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“With your reputation? It’s… confusing.”
We reach the science building. I stop at the door and hold out a hand. “Backpack.”
“Nope.”
“Declan.”
“I’ll trade you.”
Suspicion coils in my chest. “For what?”
