The stone steps outside the physics auditorium were still warm from a late-afternoon sun that hadn't decided if it was done with the day. Everlee sat on the edge, knees tucked under her, a backpack beside her like a loyal dog. She had class in an hour but had come early because Canon had said he'd be "there after recitation." He'd said it with the careless confidence that had lulled her into nights of shared pizza and the kind of easy quiet that meant home. So she waited, counting the footsteps and the way the campus chatter crouched around her like a chorus. A group of freshmen girls in matching Harbor Brew sweatshirts passed, whispering and nudging each other. "That's Canon, right?" one said, high and sharp. "Is he single? I heard—" "Don't. He's basically unreachable." A girl with a perfectly curated bun rolled her eyes but kept her voice low. "He's all brain. No heart." "That's the dream, though. Imagine the Instagram photos." They laughed too loudly under the ivy. Everlee watched them go, felt the sting of that last line like a thrown pebble. Canon was not just brilliant; he had a kind of neat, public mystery. People worshipped him for physics problems he solved in lecture and for the quiet way he kept his life folded and unread. Everlee used to like being part of that fold. Four years had stitched them together—dorm move-ins, weekends at