Violet’s POV
The library is supposed to be a sanctuary.
Quiet rows of books that don't ask questions. Tables where anonymity wraps around you like armor. A place where my thoughts can untangle themselves without anyone demanding explanation.
Three days back on campus, and I'm finally finding my rhythm again. The textbook open in front of me makes sense in ways my heart doesn't, and I'm grateful for the simplicity of economic theory when everything else feels impossibly complicated.
Then Marvin slides into the chair across from me.
"There you are." His voice is warm, certain, carrying that easy confidence of someone who's never been told no. "I was starting to think you'd transferred."
I close my textbook slowly, buying time my racing pulse needs. "Just a family trip. Nothing dramatic."
"Family trip." He leans forward, elbows on the table, attention focused entirely on me. "To where?"
"New York." The partial truth comes easier than lying would. "My best friend had a baby. I'm the godmother now, so there were obligations."
"A godmother." His smile widens, and something in my chest responds despite every wall I've constructed. "That's a big deal."
"It is." I think of Elijah's weight in my arms, the way his tiny fingers curled around my shirt. "He's perfect. Terrifying and perfect."
"Terrifying?" Marvin laughs, and the sound draws glances from nearby tables. "Babies are terrifying?"
"The responsibility is terrifying." I meet his gaze directly. "Being trusted with something that important."
He nods like he understands, and maybe he does. The attention he's giving me feels singular, specific. Like my words matter more than whatever he was doing before he found me here.
I recognize this. The focused charm in a way he makes whoever he's talking to feel like the only person in the room.
I've watched him do it with others. The sorority girls who orbit him at parties. The teammates who compete for his approval. The professors who somehow forget to enforce deadlines when he smiles.
I know I'm not special. Know that half the women on this campus would trade places with me without hesitation.
And yet I feel myself responding anyway.
"I missed seeing you around." Marvin says it simply, without performance. "The campus felt different."
Something flutters beneath my ribs before I can stop it.
"You probably didn't even notice I was gone." The deflection is automatic. "I'm sure you were busy."
"I noticed." His eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes breathing harder. "Trust me. I noticed."
The silence stretches between us, filled with things neither of us is saying. I should look away. Should remind myself that warmth isn't the same as depth. That, uncomplicated doesn't mean safe.
"Listen." Marvin shifts slightly, and I watch his expression arrange itself into something careful. "I've been wanting to ask you something."
"Okay."
"Would you want to grab coffee sometime?" He asks it like it's simple. Like the question doesn't carry weight that presses against my chest. "There's that place on Amsterdam I've been meaning to try."
Yes sits on my tongue before rational thought catches up.
"Sure." The word escapes, and I hear myself adding immediately: "As friends, though. Just—friends."
The clarification lands between us like something thrown.
Marvin's smile doesn't falter. Not even slightly. But something shifts behind his eyes—a flicker of adjustment, of recalibration I pretend not to see.
"Friends." He nods once. "That's exactly what I was thinking."
The lie is seamless. Polished. And we both know it's there.
"Great." I manage a smile that probably looks more nervous than intended. "So. Coffee. As friends."
"I'll text you about when." He stands, gathering his bag with the athletic grace that makes people stare. "Welcome back, Violet."
He's gone before I can respond, disappearing between the stacks like a question I didn't finish answering.
I pack my things slowly, giving my heartbeat time to settle. The walk back to my dorm takes longer than usual because I'm examining the conflict expanding in my chest.
The pull toward something uncomplicated. Warmth without history. Interest without the devastating weight of everything Zachary carries.
And the voice—quieter but persistent—insisting I'm not ready for anyone. Not even someone who asks for nothing.
Gemma is sprawled on her bed when I push through our door, and she sits up immediately like she's been waiting.
"Your face." She points at me with accusation. "What happened to your face?"
"Nothing happened to my face." I drop my bag and collapse onto my own bed. "My face is fine."
"Your face is not fine. Your face is doing something complicated." She swings her legs over the side of her mattress. "Spill. Now."
I stare at the ceiling, weighing how much truth to offer.
"I ran into Marvin." The name feels heavier spoken aloud. "In the library."
"Oh my God." Gemma's voice pitches higher. "And?"
"And nothing. We talked. He asked about my trip."
"Violet." She says my name like I'm being deliberately obtuse. "What else?"
"He asked me to get coffee." I keep my eyes on the ceiling. "I said yes."
"You said yes." The words carry celebration that I immediately need to temper.
"As friends." I sit up, meeting her gaze. "I made that very clear. Coffee as friends."
Gemma's eyebrows rise in that particular way that conveys judgment without words. I've seen that expression enough times to know exactly what it means.
"Don't look at me like that." I pull my knees to my chest. "It's just Marvin. Just coffee. Just friends."
The repetition sounds like convincing myself more than explaining, and we both hear it.
Her expression softens into something that looks like concern dressed as acceptance. She moves to sit beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.
"I'm not judging." Her voice is gentler now. "I'm just watching."
"Watching what?"
"You." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "Figuring out what you actually want."
I don't have an answer for that. Don't know how to explain that wanting feels like a language I've forgotten how to speak. That Manhattan broke something open in me that this campus can't close. That saying yes to coffee felt like both progress and betrayal.
"Just watching," Gemma repeats. "That's all."
I wish it felt more reassuring than it does.
That night, I lie awake listening to her breathing settle into sleep, and I think about Marvin's smile that didn't falter. About the shift behind his eyes when I said friends. About the way he agreed, like friendship was exactly what he wanted, and how we both pretended not to notice the lie.
Some things can't be contained by the words we use to hold them.
Some distances can't be maintained just because you're trying.