The rusty iron door groaned as Chelsea pushed it open. The wind up here was stronger, whipping her hair across her face. The roof was flat, covered in gravel and ventilation units.
It was quiet. Peaceful.
Chelsea walked toward a large water tank, looking for a spot to sit and think.
Then she smelled it.
Smoke. But not just cigarette smoke. It was a rich, dark tobacco mixed with a hint of mint.
She froze. She knew that smell.
She peered around the side of the water tank.
A man was sitting on a discarded crate, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was wearing the dark blue uniform of the school security staff, but it looked... different on him. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that were corded with muscle.
He was facing away from her, looking out over the campus. A cigarette dangling from his fingers.
"Students aren't allowed up here," he said. His voice was a low rumble, like gravel shifting underground.
He didn't turn around. He just knew she was there.
"Security guards aren't allowed to smoke on campus," Chelsea countered, her muscles tensing.
He chuckled. It was a dark, dry sound.
He stood up and turned around slowly.
The air left Chelsea's lungs.
His face hit her like a physical blow. The sharp jaw, the black, messy hair, the eyes the color of a stormy sea. She didn't know his name from magazine covers. She knew him from a sterile white room in Switzerland, a place of silent screams and polite madness.
He looked at her, and for a second, his bored expression faltered.
He took a drag of the cigarette, his eyes narrowing.
"You," he said. It wasn't a question.
Chelsea stepped back, her heart hammering. Why was the silent boy from the clinic working as a security guard here?
"I'm leaving," she said, turning to go.
"Wait."
He didn't shout, but the command stopped her in her tracks. He took a step toward her. He was tall. Over six-two. He cast a long shadow that swallowed her whole.
"You've been up here before," he said. He tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "But you look different."
Chelsea frowned. "I've never met you."
He stepped closer, invading her personal space. The smell of tobacco and cedar wood was intoxicating. It triggered the memory-deep, buried.
A sterile white room. Switzerland. Chelsea, a twelve-year-old child actor who had a very public breakdown on a film set, sent away by her mother for "exhaustion." And him. A boy sitting by the window, folding intricate origami birds. He never spoke. He just watched.
Chelsea's eyes widened.
"You're the girl who cried in her sleep," he said softly.
The recognition was a physical blow. He remembered.
She had to deny it. If he knew who she was, if he knew about that past, her carefully constructed "boring student" persona would crumble.
"You have me confused with someone else," she said, forcing her voice to be steady. "I'm just looking for a place to study."
He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under his boot. He stared at her, his gaze intense, stripping away her defenses layer by layer.
"Liar," he whispered.
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "What is your name?"
Chelsea was trapped against the water tank. "Chelsea. Chelsea Molina."
At the sound of her name, his eyes changed. The coldness fractured. Something else seeped through-something possessive.
"Molina," he tasted the word. "Finally."
"Finally what?" Chelsea asked, her voice trembling slightly.
He smirked, and it transformed his face from terrifying to devastatingly handsome. "Finally found a student breaking the rules who has the guts to talk back."
He backed away, giving her space. "Go. Before I write you up."
Chelsea didn't wait. She bolted for the door.
