Silver had sworn she wouldn't let herself unravel again. Not in public spaces where other students could witness her falling apart, and definitely not where Eli Hayes could watch her crack like thin ice under pressure.
But she'd bolted from the dining hall anyway, leaving her untouched tray of curly fries sitting abandoned on the scarred wooden table while the heavy Gothic doors slammed shut behind her with enough force to rattle the ancient hinges. The humiliation had burned worse than the persistent ache in her reconstructed knee, following her across campus like a shadow she couldn't outrun.
By the time she'd reached the sanctuary of her dorm room, she'd slammed the door hard enough to make their diamond-paned windows rattle, ignoring Americus's knowing smirk and Riley's concerned glance. She'd spent the rest of the evening buried under her covers, furiously scribbling notes in the margins of assigned readings while her roommates tactfully pretended not to notice her self-imposed isolation.
Pathetic, she'd told herself on repeat, like a mantra designed to reinforce her own worst fears. She'd faced panels of Olympic judges whose expressions could freeze blood, handled reporters shoving microphones in her face after devastating losses, performed under camera flashes that could blind entire audiences. And one hockey player—one admittedly attractive guy with sharp jawlines and unreadable expressions—had her sprinting for exits like she was still thirteen years old and skating her first terrifying novice competition.
She'd stayed quiet through Americus's attempts at conversation, burying herself deeper in reading lists and course syllabi. Yale was supposed to be about reinvention, about literature classes and academic essays and professors who didn't care whether she could land a triple Salchow or execute a perfect spiral sequence. She would disappear into words and ideas, let her brain focus on something other than the constant awareness of her damaged knee and shattered dreams.
By Monday morning, she'd almost convinced herself that academic anonymity was possible—at least enough to drag herself across campus through the crisp autumn air to her first official seminar.
"Modern American Literature" occupied a classroom tucked into one of Yale's older academic buildings, the kind of space that looked like it hadn't been significantly updated since the university's founding. Tall leaded glass windows let in streams of golden morning light that highlighted dust motes floating through the air, and the wooden floors bore the scuffs and stains of generations of students who'd wrestled with Hemingway and Fitzgerald in these same seats.
Unlike the massive lecture halls she'd glimpsed during orientation, this classroom was arranged for intimacy—desks forming a rough circle that would force students to make eye contact, to engage with each other rather than hiding behind laptops and anonymity. Silver chose a seat near the corner where shadows from the tall windows might help her blend into the background, opening her notebook and positioning herself to look busy and unapproachable.
One by one, other students filtered in with the unhurried pace of people who weren't quite awake yet. A girl with purple-streaked hair and multiple piercings claimed the seat directly across the circle. Two guys who looked like they'd rolled out of bed five minutes ago slouched into chairs near the professor's desk. Silver kept her head down, focusing on writing the date at the top of a fresh page with unnecessary precision.
Then the chair directly across from her scraped back against the worn wooden floor.
Her stomach plummeted toward the stone foundation of the building.
Eli Hayes slid into the seat with the kind of casual confidence that suggested he'd never doubted his right to occupy any space he chose. He set down a notebook that looked suspiciously organized for someone she'd mentally categorized as just another hockey player, tucked a pencil behind his ear in a gesture that was somehow both practical and effortlessly attractive, and settled back in his chair like he belonged exactly where he was.
His dark hair was still damp from what had obviously been a post-practice shower, and his Yale Hockey hoodie stretched across shoulders that were definitely too broad to ignore in a small classroom setting. For a few blessed seconds, he focused on organizing his materials, giving Silver time to process the cosmic injustice of this particular seating arrangement.
Then he looked up, and their eyes met across the circle of desks.
Silver's pulse spiked hard enough that she could feel it in her throat. She gripped her pen until her knuckles went white, fighting the urge to either bolt for the door or slide under her desk until the semester ended.
The professor bustled in before either of them could acknowledge the obvious tension crackling across their shared space, dropping a stack of worn paperbacks on her desk with a thud that made several students jump. She was the kind of middle-aged academic who wore her gray hair in a messy bun held together with what appeared to be actual pencils, and her cardigan had seen better decades.
"Welcome to Modern American Literature," she announced, adjusting wire-rimmed glasses that had probably been fashionable sometime during the Carter administration. "Small enrollment this semester, which means lots of discussion, lots of participation, and absolutely no hiding in the back row. I'm Professor Chen, and I believe in the transformative power of uncomfortable conversations about difficult texts."
Silver's heart sank. Participation requirements were exactly what she'd been hoping to avoid.
"Let's start with quick introductions," Professor Chen continued, settling behind her desk with the kind of maternal authority that suggested arguing would be futile. "Name, year, hometown, and one thing you're hoping to get out of this class. We'll go around the circle."
Silver prayed to whatever deity protected awkward college freshmen that they wouldn't start with her. She scribbled meaningless geometric patterns in the margins of her notebook, trying to look like someone deeply absorbed in academic preparation.
When Eli's turn came, his voice carried clearly across the small space—steady and low, with just a hint of the Minnesota accent she remembered from their brief encounter outside her dorm.
"Eli Hayes. Freshman from Duluth. I'm on the hockey team." A small ripple of recognition passed through several students—nods, smiles, the kind of automatic social currency that came with being a recruited athlete at an Ivy League school. "I'm hoping to understand how American writers dealt with pressure and expectations. How they wrote their way through impossible situations."
The answer was more thoughtful than Silver had expected, and she felt an unwelcome flicker of curiosity about what impossible situations he might be thinking about.
Then Professor Chen's gaze landed on her, and Silver's throat constricted like someone had tightened a noose around her neck.
"Silver Preston," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. "Freshman. English Literature major."
She deliberately omitted any mention of her hometown, her background, or her hopes for the class. The less information she volunteered, the less likely anyone would make connections she couldn't afford them to make.
Professor Chen nodded and moved on without pressing for details, launching into an explanation of their semester project that made Silver's chest tighten with fresh dread. Partner assignments. Research essays due at midterm. Presentations that would require standing in front of the class and being seen, being heard, being evaluated.
Silver told herself that partner work wasn't necessarily catastrophic. She could fade into the background, let someone else take the lead, contribute just enough to earn a decent grade without drawing unwanted attention to herself.
Then Professor Chen smiled with the kind of efficient authority that had probably terrified students for decades.
"Since we're a small class, I'll save time and avoid the usual awkward partner-selection process by pairing students who are sitting across from each other. Convenient and democratic."
Her gaze moved around the circle, making assignments with casual finality. Silver's pen slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering against her desk with a sound that seemed to echo through the quiet classroom.
"That means you two—" Professor Chen gestured directly at Silver and Eli with the kind of smile that suggested she thought she was doing them a favor "—will be working together this semester."
Silver's stomach twisted into knots that would have impressed a sailor. Eli leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity that made breathing feel like conscious work. He didn't smirk or look away or show any sign that this arrangement bothered him. He just waited, letting the silence stretch between them like a challenge she wasn't equipped to meet.
Out of all the universities in the world, all the classes at Yale, all the possible seating arrangements in this one small classroom, fate had decided that she would be forced to work closely with the one person who might already know exactly who she used to be.
They were partners, whether she could handle it or not.