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Right now, her hair is swaying in the breeze as she darts across the quad, heeled boots clacking soundly on the pavement, her chin held high.

Whether she’d admit it or not, Lily LaBlanc is as highbred as they come. Expensive tailored wardrobe. Porcelain skin that’s barely seen much sun, let alone a day without moisturizer. Glossy auburn hair that feels like silk, smooth and carefully taken care of. I’ve seen the way she cares for herself intimately. I know how much she feels like glass in my calloused hands.

Once upon a time, I was an expert in ruining her and putting her back together.

For now, my restraint hangs on by a thread, fury running my blood hot in a way I’ve been able to avoid off the ice at Waterfell. And I’m desperate to make it through the end of this semester with no more slipups. To have one last chance at the league. And now, with her and her father this close to me again?

I won’t let her, him, or myself fuck this up. But I can only fight against my instincts to follow her so much. It’s second nature to chase after her, ingrained into my very muscle.

Waiting until she’s far enough, I follow behind her as she veers right toward the parking lot.

When she steps toward where my own motorcycle sits in the slightly too-far cell lot, I pause, heart thundering as she reaches a black G-Wagon I remember well.

Lily is the worst driver I’ve ever had the privilege of riding with—if you can even call it that. Spending a whole summer trying to teach her how hadn’t helped, and she’d barely driven the shiny G-Wagon ever again, opting for the back of my bike instead.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter as she hops up into the cab, slipping on the slick wet of snow there, nearly falling backward.

I dart forward—the instinct to catch her is still there—but she manages fine on her own.

I wait until she’s closer to the exit of the lot to toss on my helmet and hop on my own bike, ready to follow her. She wanted to talk? Fine, let’s fucking talk.

• • •

I’m fuming mad by the time she pulls into the driveway of a fancy town house past the downtown strip of Waterfell—walking distance to the bars and restaurants there. She drives like a maniac, slamming on her brakes, never using a signal. I wonder when the last time she drove at all was. I rev the engine one last time, speeding in behind her as she parks and hops out.

My helmet comes off at the same time I engage the kickstand and kill the motor. Her eyes shoot wide only for a moment before she starts for the town house.

“Lily,” I say, following her backward, shuffled steps up to her front door. “We should talk.”

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her tone apprehensive but not afraid—never afraid of me. Her head dips to the left as she searches her bag for something.

“What are you doing in a freshman-level math course?” I ask, softly.

She doesn’t answer or even seem to respond physically to my question. As if she didn’t even . . .

“Hey.” I put my hand over the top of her head to turn her toward me. “Let me see your ear.”

Her momentary shock slides off to a temper I know well, hand slapping mine away like a buzzing insect. “Don’t touch me.”

I raise my hands in the air. “Then show me.”

She sticks her tongue out like a child, turning to unlock her dead bolt and head inside. Yet she leaves the door ajar behind her. I take the invitation, following her in and up the stairs, directly to the room I already know is hers by the poster tacked to the door—a printed copy of Café Terrace at Night.

Closing the door behind me, I slump against it, arms crossed as she settles on the edge of her bed.

The room is moderately dark, apart from the lamplight on the bedside table and the window on the back wall overlooking a small, abandoned, and dried-out garden. Every wall is plastered with art prints—Van Gogh, Monet, Gauguin, and other pieces I know well. Things I learned young, because the girl whose bedroom I kept sneaking into was obsessed with telling me every detail.

And I always listened.

“You’re not wearing it, then?”

“I don’t need to.” She crosses her arms and mimics my posture. “I can hear fine, and it bothers me anyway. Especially in lecture halls. It’s too . . . overwhelming. It makes me dizzy.”

A wave of worry unleashes, tamping down the anger that was fueling me. I step toward her. My hand is gentle as I raise it and tuck back her hair. Her fingers grip my wrist, but she lets me do it, my calluses harsh against the sweetened softness of her skin.

Something pinches in my stomach, eyes skimming across the almost unnoticeable scar across her pursed lips.

“We match,” she whispers, eyes staring at me adoringly and my stomach sinks.