Kiera didn't wait for him to respond. She grabbed her phone from the coffee table and began dialing a number with shaking fingers.

"What are you doing?" Brendon asked.

"Calling the leasing office," she said, her voice tight. "There's been a mistake. A massive, disgusting mistake. I am not living with you, Brendon. I'd rather sleep in the subway."

Brendon watched her. She looked thinner than he remembered. The grey hoodie swallowed her frame. He felt a sudden, fierce urge to take the phone from her hand and make her look at him, but he stayed where he was.

"Richards," she said into the phone, her voice dropping into a professional, albeit strained, tone. "I'm in Unit 4B. My roommate just arrived. There is a serious problem. We need to be reassigned immediately."

She paused, listening. Her face went from pale to a frustrated red.

"I don't care if it's after hours," she snapped. "This is a safety issue. No, I am not being dramatic. I... I cannot share a space with this person."

Another pause. Brendon could hear the faint, tinny sound of a man's voice on the other end of the line.

"What do you mean 'no vacancy'?" Kiera's voice rose. "The Kensington has over two hundred units! Fine. Then I want to terminate my lease. Right now."

She went silent. Her eyes closed, and her shoulders slumped.

"Twelve thousand dollars?" she whispered. "That's the penalty?"

Brendon felt a pang of guilt. He knew Kiera's situation. Her family didn't have Hampton money. Her scholarship covered her tuition and a portion of her housing, but twelve thousand dollars might as well have been twelve million.

Kiera hung up the phone without saying goodbye. She stared at the floor, her chest heaving. She leaned against the wall, the number echoing in her head. Twelve thousand dollars. It was a debt that would follow her for years. She was trapped.

"They won't move us," she said to the rug. "And I can't afford to leave."

Brendon pulled his own phone out. He didn't call the office. He texted his broker.

Get me out of 4B. Now. I'll pay whatever it costs.

The reply came back almost instantly. Mr. Hampton, the university has a block on all Kensington transfers until mid-semester due to the housing crisis. Even with your father's influence, the SEC investigation has made the board... cautious about special favors. My hands are tied.

Brendon stared at the word SEC. It was a reminder of why he'd lost her in the first place. The investigation into Hampton Holdings had frozen his life a year ago, cutting off his phones, his bank accounts, and his ability to explain why he'd missed her biggest recital.

He looked at Kiera. She was still standing by the window, looking like she wanted to jump out of it.

"I can't move either," Brendon said. "The university won't allow transfers."

Kiera looked at him, her amber eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. "So what? We're just supposed to live together? Like nothing happened?"

"I don't want to hurt you, Kiera," Brendon said softly.

"You're a year too late for that," she spat.

She walked toward him, her footsteps heavy. For a second, he thought she might hit him. Instead, she just stopped a few inches away. The scent of vanilla was overwhelming now. It made Brendon's head spin.

"Here are the rules," she said, her voice trembling but determined. "You stay on your side of the apartment. I stay on mine. We don't share food. We don't share a bathroom. And most importantly, we do not talk. Ever."

Brendon looked at her. He wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind her ear. He wanted to tell her he was sorry until his throat bled.

"I'm staying in the master suite," she continued, "because I got here first. You take the guest room."

"Fine," Brendon said.

"And Brendon?"

He looked up.

"If I see one trace of that girl-Gloria-in this apartment, I will throw your things off the balcony. I don't care about the lease."

"You won't see her," Brendon said. "She's gone."

Kiera let out a short, bitter laugh. "Right. Until you get bored and need someone to stroke your ego again."

She turned and headed toward the master bedroom. She didn't look back. The sound of her door slamming shut felt like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Brendon stood in the living room for a long time. He looked at the city lights. He had wanted a new start. He had wanted to forget.

Instead, he was trapped in a four-wall cage with the only person who could truly destroy him.

The sun was streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows when Brendon stumbled out of his room the next morning. He was wearing nothing but a pair of grey Adidas joggers, his chest bare, his hair a tangled mess.

He went straight for the kitchen, his brain screaming for caffeine. He reached for the handle of the fridge, but stopped when he saw Kiera.

She was standing at the counter, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand. She was wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black yoga outfit that covered every inch of her skin. Her hair was pulled back into a tight, severe bun.

She looked at him, her gaze dropping to his bare torso before snapping back up to his eyes. A faint flush crept up her neck.

"Put a shirt on," she said. "This isn't a frat house."

Brendon didn't move. He leaned against the marble island, watching her. "My eyes are up here, Richards. Besides, you've seen it all before."

Kiera's expression didn't soften. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving his. "I've seen better. My standards have improved in the last twelve months."

It was a lie. Brendon could see the way her fingers tightened around the mug, the way her pulse was jumping in the hollow of her throat. She was just as affected as he was.

"Right," Brendon said, his voice dropping an octave. "I'm sure the guys in your Gap Year were real specimens."

Kiera set her mug down with a sharp clack. "At least they were honest. They didn't hide behind a daddy's credit card and a fake personality."

Brendon felt the familiar sting of her words. He reached into the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Evian. "I'm a freshman, too, Kiera. Technically. The university put me on a mandatory leave of absence for a year during my father's investigation. I lost a year of credits when I... when I went away."

Kiera's eyes narrowed. "You didn't go away. You vanished. There's a difference."

"I couldn't call you," he said, the words feeling like shards of glass in his throat.

"Save it," she snapped. "I don't want to hear the 'family business' excuse again. You were seen at a club in the Hamptons three days after you ghosted me. My roommate saw the pictures on Instagram."

Brendon froze. The Hamptons. His father had forced him to attend a fundraiser to prove to the investors that the Hampton family was "stable" while the SEC was raiding their offices. He had been a puppet, smiling for the cameras while his heart was being shredded.

"It wasn't what it looked like," he said.

"It never is with you," Kiera replied.

She picked up her mug and moved toward the door. "I have orientation in twenty minutes. Don't be here when I get back."

"I have classes too, freshman," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

Kiera stopped at the door. She looked back at him, her eyes cold and distant. "Don't call me that. We aren't friends. We aren't even acquaintances. You're just the person who happens to occupy the same square footage as me."

She left, the scent of her vanilla perfume lingering in the air like a taunt.

Brendon leaned his head against the cool surface of the refrigerator. He felt exhausted. Being near her was like trying to breathe in a room with no oxygen. He wanted her to scream at him, to hit him, to do anything other than look at him with that icy, professional indifference.

He went back to his room and pulled on a black t-shirt. He saw his reflection in the mirror-the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

He looked like a man who was haunted.

He grabbed his bag and headed for the door. As he passed the living room, he saw her violin case. It was tucked away in the corner, almost as if she were trying to hide it.

He remembered the way she looked when she played-the way her eyes closed, the way her body swayed with the music. She looked free.

He wondered if she still played the songs he liked. Or if she had burned the sheet music along with his photos.

The apartment was quiet when Brendon returned that evening. He had spent the day in a haze of macroeconomics and business law, his mind constantly drifting back to the girl in Unit 4B.

He found her in the living room, curled up on the far end of the sofa. The TV was on, a mindless Netflix reality show playing at a low volume. She was eating a salad out of a plastic container, her eyes fixed on the screen.

Brendon didn't say anything. He went to the kitchen, made himself a sandwich, and then sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.

For twenty minutes, the only sound was the chirpy voices of the people on the TV.

"You're still using my Netflix account," Brendon said suddenly.

Kiera didn't look at him. She jabbed a piece of kale with her fork. "I forgot to log out. I'll do it tonight."

"You don't have to," he said. "I noticed you're halfway through Bridgerton. You always liked the ones with the forced marriages."

Kiera finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired. "I like the ones where the guy actually shows up to the wedding, Brendon."

The jab hit home. Brendon put his sandwich down. "Kiera, talk to me. Really talk to me. How have you been? Why did you take a Gap Year?"

Kiera set her salad container on the coffee table. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

"I couldn't play," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Brendon felt his heart stop. "What do you mean?"

"After you... after that night. I went to the stage for the concerto. I picked up my bow. And my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't even play a basic scale."

She looked at her hands now, as if they were treacherous objects.

"The judges thought I was ill. My teacher thought I was having a breakdown. I lost my spot at Juilliard. I lost everything, Brendon."

Brendon moved toward her, his hand reaching out instinctively. "Kiera, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"Don't," she said, pulling away. "Don't you dare be sorry now. You weren't there. You weren't there when I was sitting in my dorm room for three weeks, waiting for a text that never came. You weren't there when I had to tell my parents I'd failed."

"I was in a room with five lawyers and a federal agent," Brendon said, the truth finally bursting out. "They took my phone. They froze my accounts. My father had a heart attack that night, Kiera. I was at the hospital, and I couldn't tell anyone."

Kiera stared at him. For a second, he saw a flicker of the old Kiera-the one who would have held him while he cried.

Then, her expression hardened again.

"And the Hamptons? Three days later? Was your father still having a heart attack while you were sipping champagne with Gloria Talley?"

Brendon felt the weight of the lie he couldn't explain. He couldn't tell her that the "champagne" was a staged photo op to keep the stock price from plummeting. He couldn't tell her that Gloria was the daughter of the lead investigator, and his father had practically sold him to her to get the charges dropped.

"It was complicated," Brendon said, his voice weak.

"No," Kiera said, standing up. "It was simple. You chose your family's reputation over me. You chose your money over the girl who loved you when you were just a boy with a dream."

She walked toward her room, her footsteps echoing in the large space.

"I'm not that girl anymore, Brendon. And you aren't that boy. So stop trying to find us."

She shut the door, and this time, he heard the lock click.