classified

I

Pov: Lauren

I sink into the leather seat and glare at the sun like it personally owes me an apology which it does for being so damn hot. Harvard's coming up fast, all brick and glass and people walking like they own the world, and me? I'm trying to convince myself I'm calm while my stomach does somersaults. Not because I'm scared—I'm Lauren Gracelynn García, after all—but okay, maybe I'm a little scared .

Kehlani leans forward from the backseat, tugging at her jacket like the universe is personally out to ruin her. "Ren, you're freezing me. Like, actually freezing me."

I squinted in the rearview mirror. "It's like 100 degrees out side, stop trying to make me responsible for your survival."

She throws her hands in the air. "Responsible? Girl, I don't want responsible. I want comfort. Warmth. Maybe someone to rub my feet. That's all I'm asking."

I snort. "You're insane if you think I'd ever rub your feet."

Mason glances at us from the driver's seat, smirk curling. "You two are exhausting. I can't believe I agreed to drive you halfway across the state. My arms are tired from gripping the wheel and listening to your nonstop drama."

Kehlani spins around. "Excuse me, sir, do you realize the audacity of your tone? The queen's comfort is at stake here!"

I bite back a laugh. Mason and Kehlani arguing is like watching a slow-motion car crash I can't look away from. He's her golden-boy foil, and she's her dramatic, chaotic self—me sitting in the middle is like being sandwiched between a hurricane and a hurricane in stilettos.

"You two are literally an old married couple," I mutter under my breath.

Kehlani freezes. "Did you just—"

"I said nothing," I grin. "Absolutely nothing."

"Liar!" she screeches.

Mason snorts. I laugh so hard my cheeks ache. Somehow, chaos feels normal when they're around.

*****

The drive stretches on, long and loud, full of teasing, sarcasm, and Kehlani's occasional dramatic groans. Harvard is approaching now in earnest—the sun bouncing off red-brick buildings and students striding past like they own the world. My stomach does a little flip. It's exciting, terrifying, and... fine, mostly terrifying.

When we finally arrive, I drag my suitcase up the stairs, ignoring Kehlani taking selfies and Mason smirking like this is some heroic moment he doesn't need to brag about but is doing anyway.

The apartment looks exactly like I expected it to.

Too clean. Too expensive. Too put together for three people who are barely legal adults pretending we have our lives together.

Boxes line the walls, half-open, half-forgotten. Sunlight cuts across the living room in wide stripes, catching dust in the air. It feels temporary. Like a place that hasn't decided who it belongs to yet.

I step inside and drop my bag by the door.Someone's already on the couch.

Not Mason. Obviously.

He's sitting back, relaxed, legs spread like he's got nowhere else to be. Phone in one hand, attention split between the screen and the room like he's waiting for something—or someone—to arrive.

So this must be Ares.

Mason's best friend. The quiet one. The one everyone trusts because he doesn't say much and never looks surprised.

I register the obvious things first. Tall. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Attractive in a way that doesn't ask for permission or applause.

Okay. Noted.

And then I move on.

My eyes slide away almost immediately, scanning the apartment again like he's just another piece of furniture I'll have to get used to. Couch. Windows. Kitchen island. The place is nice, I guess. Too nice for students. But Mason's never cared about subtlety.

I hear Kehlani behind me, already mid-commentary, and Mason sighing like he's lived this exact moment a thousand times before.

Ares looks up then.

Not quickly. Not slowly. Just enough to acknowledge I exist.

Our eyes meet for maybe half a second.

There's no spark. No dramatic pause. No cinematic moment.

Just recognition.

His expression doesn't change. Mine doesn't either.

Good.

I look away first—not because I'm flustered, but because there's nothing else to look at. He's here. That's it. Mason's friend. Temporary. Irrelevant.

I grab one of my boxes and head toward my room, already mentally rearranging the space, already thinking about how long it'll take before this place feels lived-in.

Still, as I pass the couch, I clock one thing without meaning to.

He hasn't gone back to his phone.

Not immediately, at least.

Interesting.

I don't over think it.

I never overthink things that don't matter.

***************************************

Thanks for reading
word count:770