Chapter 1
Everett University: Early September
By the beginning of her third year, Casey Rivers had perfected the art of blending in.
She looked like someone who knew exactly where she was headed. Professors were impressed by her. Classmates liked her. Evan loved her.
The first morning of the semester was bright and warm, the very start of autumn that made campus feel cinematic. Sunlight came through the archways of the humanities building, catching in Casey's loose blonde hair as she climbed the steps toward the seminar room.
She wore a pale blue blouse tucked into neat trousers, subtle makeup, enough to brighten her eyes but not enough to draw comment. She always dressed slightly more polished for seminar classes. It helped her feel sharper.
Inside, the seminar room was already half filled, students catching up after the summer break, a buzz of chatter filling the air. The room smelled faintly of polished wood. Casey chose a seat near the middle of the table, placing her notebook in front of her.
The professor leading the seminar was Dr. Sinclair. She only taught second and third year courses. Casey had never had her before, though she'd heard enough from other students to form an impression. Professor Sinclair wasn't harsh, exactly, but she expected engagement, disliked surface level arguments, and had a habit of expertly dismantling weak analysis. Formidable.
When the professor entered, the atmosphere shifted almost immediately.
Casey had seen her across the grounds a few times before, but the distance hadn't done her justice. Up close, Sinclair was attractive in a way that took a second to fully land. Her dark hair was pinned back simply, black framed glasses she occasionally glanced over rather than through, a tailored charcoal blazer over a crisp white blouse, sleeves pushed up slightly. She set her leather satchel on the desk and arranged her notes with deliberate calm, unzipping the bag, aligning the papers, glancing briefly around the room as if taking stock of it. Casey watched her without quite meaning to.
"Welcome to Queer Narratives and American Identity," Sinclair said, turning to the board before writing the title across it in careful script.
Her voice was lower than Casey expected, smooth, the kind that didn't need to demand attention for others to pay attention.
"I don't grade on agreement," she continued, turning back to face the class. "I grade on engagement. Discomfort counts. Questions count. Risk counts. You don't get to hide in this room."
Casey felt her chest tighten. She had built her life around meeting expectations, the kind that were never spoken but always understood. Good grades. A stable boyfriend. A successful future. Anything that complicated that picture had been pushed aside, filed away.
When introductions began, Dr. Sinclair asked for name, major, favourite book, and why. No further instruction. No examples offered.
Casey listened carefully as the discussion circled the table. Some students answered quickly, confident in their choices, their explanations tidy. Others stumbled, searching for the right answer rather than an honest one. A few laughed nervously before settling on something safe, saying as little as possible.
Casey felt herself cataloguing the differences. Who performed. Who deflected. Who risked.
When her turn came she cleared her throat, suddenly aware of the way Sinclair's attention sharpened.
"Casey Rivers. English major," she began. "I Who Have Never Known Men."
"I think it's about survival," Casey continued. "About building a life around what's available to you, even if it isn't what you would have chosen. About learning to call that enough." The last sentence slipped out quieter than she intended.
Silence followed, not awkward but thoughtful. Professor Sinclair looked at Casey for a moment longer than necessary, dark eyes steady behind the clean lines of her black frames. There was no immediate reaction, just quiet consideration.
"That's a bold claim for the first day," she said evenly.
Casey met her gaze, refusing to move from it. "I like bold claims."
For the briefest second, something almost like amusement flickered across Sinclair's face before it disappeared.
"I can see that."
The seminar moved forward. Casey found it difficult to pull her attention fully back.
After class, chairs scraped softly against the floor. Students gathered their bags and drifted out in clusters. Casey lingered under the pretence of reviewing her notes.
"Ms. Rivers," Wren said, and Casey's head snapped up.
"Yes?"
"There's a graduate lecture next Thursday about isolation as a theme in dystopian novels. It may align with your interests. You're welcome to join us."
"Even though I'm not in the graduate program?"
"Curiosity isn't restricted by year level."
Casey felt herself being assessed and found she didn't mind it. "I'd like that."
"Good." The professor glanced down at her planner. "My office hours are listed on the syllabus. If you want to talk through essay directions this term, book early. The slots disappear quickly."
Delivered professionally. But the way Sinclair held her gaze made it feel personal. Casey left, took a breath of cool corridor air.
Outside, the grounds buzzed with familiar noise. Students were sprawled on the grass, backpacks tossed carelessly beside them. The sun was warm but the heat was softened by a gentle breeze. Casey's phone vibrated in her bag.
Evan.
Three texts. A missed call.
Evan: How was it?
Evan: Hot professor?
Evan: You alive?
She called him back as she walked toward the coffee cart near the library.
"So?" Evan answered almost immediately. "First day back verdict?"
"It was good," she said. "Intense."
"Intense how?"
"She doesn't let you get away with surface answers."
He laughed softly. "Sounds like your kind of thing."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You love a challenge."
"It's just a seminar."
"Sure. Just don't forget you have a life outside campus, okay?"
"I won't."
"Good. You coming over tonight?"
"I made dinner," he added.
"Sure, I'll be over after classes."
At his apartment that evening, Evan greeted her with an easy smile and a lingering kiss, one hand settling at her waist. He was the kind of person who filled space, broad shoulders shaped by years of training, dark curls perpetually tousled. When he wrapped an arm around Casey it wasn't forceful. It was claiming.
"You look nice," he said, stepping back just enough to look her over. "Trying to impress someone?"
She laughed, slightly too late. "It's the first day."
"Sure.”
Dinner was warm and comforting, the smell of garlic and tomato filling the small kitchen. Evan talked easily about his pre law courses, a practice session, plans for the weekend. Casey listened, nodding, inserting small responses where appropriate.
"And your new professor?" he prompted eventually.
"It's going to be challenging," she said. "She doesn't let you get away with surface arguments."
He smirked. "Sounds exhausting."
"I like it."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her face. "Just don't lose yourself in it."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I don't want you turning into one of those people who thinks academia is a personality."
She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. He was teasing. That was their rhythm.
Later, on the couch, he pulled her against him, his arm heavy across her shoulders. She fit easily against him, the way she always had.
"Remember you're mine, right?" he said lightly, brushing his thumb along her arm.
She pulled back slightly. "What?"
"I'm joking," he said quickly, laughing at her expression. "God, you take everything so seriously."
She forced a smile, though the question lingered long after he'd laughed it away.
That night, lying beside him in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, Casey stared at the ceiling while Evan's breathing settled into sleep beside her.
Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.
An email from Dr. W. Sinclair.
Ms. Rivers,
Attached is an article examining isolation as a constructed condition rather than a natural one. I think you'll find it particularly relevant to your comment in class.
W.S.
Professional. Brief. Thoughtful.
She noticed the W.S. Casey pulled up the syllabus on her phone. Wren Sinclair. She whispered it softly. It made her stomach dip in a way she couldn't quite explain.
Evan shifted beside her. "Who's that?" he murmured sleepily.
"Just class stuff," she replied.
He grunted and rolled onto his side. Casey stared at the email a moment longer before typing a response.
Thank you. I'll read it tonight.
A minute passed. A reply, already.
Try to get some sleep, there's a long term ahead of us.
W.S.
The words were simple, courteous, almost impersonal. Yet they felt like attention. She turned off her phone and lay back.
She closed her eyes and told herself it was just a class.
But the name Wren Sinclair lingered anyway as she drifted off into a restless sleep.
