The dormitory hallway was a tunnel of quiet, fluorescent-lit and smelling vaguely of old carpet and microwaved noodles. The revelry of the first night back had, by this late hour, mostly retreated behind closed doors, leaving only the hum of the building and the occasional burst of muffled laughter. A figure moved with deliberate silence down the plush corridor, athletic shoes making no sound on the patterned runner. Allison Reed’s form was tense, her—his—eyes scanning door numbers.

Luke stopped before room 412. He listened for a moment, hearing nothing from within, then glanced both ways down the empty hall. Satisfied, he raised a hand and knocked, three soft, deliberate raps.

Inside, Nathan jumped. He’d been sitting on the edge of Arabella’s absurdly plush bed, staring at his—her—hands, trying to quiet the echo of Zoe’s, Tori’s, and Sasha’s chatter that still seemed to buzz in the ornate room. The knock was an intrusion, a potential threat. Heart thumping against the unfamiliar confines of his ribcage—or rather, against the silicone-filled curvature resting upon it—he padded to the door. The feeling of the cool hardwood under his bare feet was another small, jarring novelty. He peered through the fisheye lens of the peephole.

Allison’s face, distorted but recognizable, stared back. The features were calm, expectant. Luke.

A wave of profound, embarrassing relief washed over Nathan. He was not alone. He fumbled with the lock and began to pull the door open.

It only swung a few inches before it met resistance. Luke’s hand, flat against the inner surface, held it firm. Through the narrow gap, Nathan saw one of Allison’s blue eyes, sharp and assessing. “They in there?” Luke’s voice was a low murmur, stripped of Allison’s practiced higher register, sounding starkly male in the whisper.

“No,” Nathan whispered back, the word coming out in Arabella’s soft, accented tone. He hated the sound of it. “It’s clear.”

The pressure on the door vanished. Luke slipped inside, his movement fluid and efficient, and closed the door behind him with a soft, definitive click. He didn’t pause to look around at the opulent room; his mission-scan of it was instantaneous. Then he strode to the bed and dropped onto it, sitting with his legs sprawled wide, one arm braced behind him. It was such an aggressively masculine posture, so utterly at odds with Allison Reed’s athletic femininity, that it was almost comical. The short basketball …