Then I hear it.
Footsteps.
Not hers. Hers are light, fast, a steady tap-tap on the concrete. These drag. Heavy, uneven.Thud… scuff. Thud… scuff.One foot hitting harder, weight thrown careless.
My body recognizes the sound before my brain does. A second rhythm, behind her, closing the distance.
The pattern is broken.
My hand is on the door handle before I can talk myself out of it.
I slide out of the truck and shut the door quietly. No slam. No announcement. The night is knife-cold on my face, my breath showing in short bursts. I cut across the grass instead of taking the path, boots crunching softly on frost-hardened ground.
From here, I can see them.
She’s maybe thirty yards from the maintenance building now, the pool of light from a lamppost painting her in a weak halo. A guy staggers a few paces behind her—hood up, shoulders loose with alcohol, bottle glinting in one hand.
“Hey,” he calls, voice slurred, too loud for the quiet campus. “Hey, wait up. I’m talking to you.”
She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders draw up, just a little, like she’s trying to fold herself smaller without speeding up. Classic calculation: if she reacts, it escalates. If she ignores him, maybe he gets bored.
He doesn’t.
He lengthens his stride and closes the gap. “Come on,” he laughs. “Don’t be rude. I was being nice.”
My vision narrows. The rest of the quad fades out. It’s just angles and distances now. Her. Him. Me.
I cut back toward the path, still staying to the shadowed edge of the lawn. Gravel crunches under my boots for two steps before I move onto damp grass again.
He reaches out and catches her wrist.
The sight hits harder than any hit I’ve taken on the ice.
Her whole body jerks. Not a normal flinch. A full-body shock response. She stops dead, breath sharp enough that I hear it from twenty feet away.
“Let go,” she says. Her voice is small and razor-edged at the same time.
He laughs like it’s cute. His fingers tighten.
That’s as far as he gets.
I step in.
Three strides and I’m there, coming in at an angle that puts me between them without slamming into either. I plant myself just close enough that he has to register me—height, bulk, presence.
“You heard her,” I say, voice even, low. “Let go.”
He startles, finally noticing there’s someone else on the path. Up close, he reeks of cheap vodka and stale weed. His pupils are blown, tracking slow.
He looks me up and down, takes in the Briarcliff jacket, the taped knuckles. “Who the—” he starts, irritation winning over sense.
My hand closes around his wrist before he can finish.
My fingers wrap over his radius, below the joint, my thumb digging into the tendons. Not enough to break. Enough to compress. Enough to remind his nervous system that I’m more of a problem than she is.
He yelps and reflexively releases her.
“Hey, man—what the hell—”
