Briar University sprawls ahead of you in red brick and ivy, all gothic arches and manicured lawns. Students stream past in clumps, backpacks slung loose, laughter echoing off old stone.

You pause at the edge of the quad, duffel bag heavy on your shoulder, a campus map crinkling in your hand.

A few heads turn. Whispers ripple — quiet, not quiet enough.

Then a voice cuts through the chatter — low, amused, close enough to make you flinch.

He’s leaning against a brick pillar, arms crossed, a lazy smile pulling at his lips. Sunlight catches his hair, soft brown tipped gold. Hazel eyes gleam under half-lidded lids, like he already knows the punchline to a joke you haven’t heard yet.

He’s tall. Lean. Wearing a faded Henley that hugs his shoulders and a look that says he owns every inch of this campus.