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.

Brendon sat in the dark kitchen, a glass of Macallan 12 in his hand. The amber liquid burned his throat, but it was the only thing that made him feel warm.

He heard the creak of a door. Kiera walked into the kitchen, wearing a silk robe over her pajamas. She stopped when she saw him.

"Drinking alone?" she asked, her voice devoid of emotion.

"It's a Hampton tradition," Brendon replied, raising his glass. "Want one?"

Kiera walked to the sink and filled a glass with water. "No thanks. I like to keep my head clear."

"Must be nice," he muttered.

He watched her as she drank. The way her throat moved as she swallowed. The way a single drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth and ran down her chin.

"Why Gloria?" she asked suddenly.

Brendon paused, his glass halfway to his lips. "What?"

"Of all the girls at this university. Why her? She's everything you used to hate. She's shallow, she's obsessed with status, and she treats people like accessories."

Brendon leaned back in his chair. "That's exactly why I chose her."

Kiera frowned. "I don't understand."

"She was easy, Kiera. She didn't require any effort. She didn't want my soul. She just wanted my credit card and a guy to look good in her selfies. Being with her was like being on anesthesia. I didn't have to feel anything."

Kiera looked at him, her eyes searching his face. "So you used her."

"We used each other," Brendon said. "But it didn't work. The anesthesia wore off."

Kiera set her glass down. She walked over to the table and sat across from him. "You're a mess, Brendon."

"I know," he said.

"This whole thing... us living together... it's toxic. We're just going to keep hurting each other until there's nothing left."

"Probably," Brendon agreed.

"So let's make a pact," she said. "No more talking about the past. No more 'I'm sorrys.' No more explaining. We just coexist until the semester is over. And then we walk away and never look back."

Brendon looked at her. He saw the wall she'd built around herself, and he knew he was the one who had provided the bricks.

"Okay," he said. "A pact. No past. No feelings."

Kiera stood up. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she stopped herself.

"Goodnight, Brendon."

"Goodnight, Kiera."

As she walked away, Brendon noticed something. She was still wearing the small, silver necklace he'd given her for her eighteenth birthday. It was a tiny treble clef, barely visible against her skin.

She hadn't thrown it away.

And as long as she was wearing it, Brendon knew the pact was already broken.