Chapter 2: Hallway Collision Course
The walk back to the dorms felt longer than usual, the cool night air doing little to clear the strange static from Soren’s mind. He kept seeing it: Chloe’s frozen smile, the tight grip on her planner, and Taylor’s calm, assessing gray eyes. Most people left a blurry, pleasant impression, like a soft-focused photograph. Taylor was all sharp edges and high definition.
He reached his door, fumbling for his keycard in the pocket of his jeans. The hallway was quiet, the only sound the distant bass thump of someone’s music two floors down.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. And the cat looks tired.”
Soren turned. Zoe Grace was leaning against the wall opposite his door, a grin splitting her face. She wore brightly patterned leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that said ‘NOPE’ in giant letters.
“Hey, Zoe,” he said, a genuine smile finally breaking through his fatigue. Of all the girls who seemed to perpetually orbit him, Zoe was the easiest to be around. She felt more like a loud, chaotic sister.
“Long night stitching up the populace?” she asked, pushing off the wall. “I heard a rumor Chloe ambushed you at the clinic with her legendary chicken soup. Is it true? Did you succumb to her culinary wiles?”
“She brought soup,” Soren confirmed, swiping his card. The lock clicked open. “It was… nice of her.”
“Nice,” Zoe repeated, rolling her eyes. “Soren, she’s trying to wife you via broth. You need to watch out. That girl has your class schedule, your workout routine, and probably your dental records color-coded in that binder of hers. It’s not ‘nice,’ it’s a hostile takeover.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “You’ve got to diversify your portfolio. Let some other girls bring you soup. Let me bring you soup! My soup would be way funnier. Probably have cartoon-shaped noodles.”
Soren shook his head, laughing softly. “I don’t need a soup portfolio, Zoe.”
“You do! You’re like a magnet for these… these… I don’t know what to call us.” She threw her hands up in exasperated affection. “Your little harem.”
The door next to his, which had been slightly ajar, swung open.
Taylor stood there, dressed in a faded t-shirt and soft pajama pants, her bandaged hand resting on the doorframe. She looked from Zoe’s animated face to Soren’s slightly bewildered one.
“A harem implies willing participants,” she said, her voice flat and dry as dust. “Most of you just seem lost.”
Zoe’s mouth, which had been open to deliver another punchline, snapped shut. She stared, utterly speechless. Her eyes widened, flicking between Taylor and Soren as if trying to solve a complex equation.
Soren felt a jolt, part surprise at seeing her, part amusement at her brutal accuracy. “You live here?”
“Apparently,” Taylor said, her gaze lingering on his for a moment before shifting back to the stunned Zoe. “The walls are thin. Try to keep the cult meetings down.”
She began to close her door.
“Wait,” Soren said, stepping forward. “Your hand. Is it okay? No throbbing? Heat?”
Taylor paused, looking down at her bandaged knuckles as if she’d forgotten about them. “It’s fine. It’s a couple of stitches, not a battlefield amputation.”
“Right. Still.” He shifted his weight, the worn strap of his backpack digging into his shoulder. “If you need anything… I’m right here.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “Noted.”
The door clicked shut.
The silence she left behind was profound. Zoe finally let out a long, slow breath, as if she’d been holding it the entire time. “Wow,” she whispered. “Okay. Who was that?”
“Taylor. She’s a transfer student. I just stitched up her hand at the clinic.”
“She’s… a lot,” Zoe said, her usual bravado completely deflated. She shook her head, a slow grin finally returning. “You know what? I take it back. You don’t need a soup portfolio. You need a security detail.” She punched him lightly on the arm. “See you tomorrow, Soren. This is gonna be interesting.”
She wandered off down the hall, still shaking her head in disbelief.
Alone again, Soren looked at Taylor’s door, a plain, numbered slab of wood identical to his own. From behind it, he could hear the faint, muffled sound of music, something with a steady, rhythmic beat. He thought of her room inside, wondering if it was as stark and practical as she was, or if it held surprises. He thought of the clay under her skin and the directness in her eyes.
For the first time, the hallway outside his dorm didn’t feel like a transit zone between class and sleep. It felt like a border.