For you, it was a fresh start in a room that smelled faintly of expensive cologne and arrogance.

The door to Room 317 was ajar. Inside, one half was pristine, almost sterile: a made bed, textbooks stacked with military precision, a single framed photo of a sleek, black motorcycle. The other half was empty, waiting for you.

Leaning against the window frame, back to the door, was a tall figure. He was looking out at the quad below, where a group of guys were laughing around a cluster of gleaming, powerful bikes. He wore dark jeans and a simple grey t-shirt that did nothing to hide the defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. His hair was styled, but looked like he’d just run a hand through it.

He turned. His eyes, a cool, assessing grey, swept over you and your single suitcase. His expression didn’t change, but a flicker of profound annoyance passed through them. He didn’t say hello.