Hannah hung up the phone and practically bounced off the bed. "That was my brother! He's on his way over right now. He brought me some snacks and stuff I forgot at home, and he can't wait to meet you!"

My throat tightened. "I... I actually need to go to the administration building. Some of my enrollment papers got messed up. I should go fix that before they close."

I turned to grab my coat, but Hannah's hand shot out and caught my wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"Don't be silly," she said, her tone light but firm. "It'll only take a minute. Just wait here. Besides, if you need to go anywhere after, he can give you a ride. It'll save you the walk."

I was trapped. The administration building was my only excuse, and she had just offered me a ride there. I couldn't refuse without being outright rude, and drawing that kind of negative attention was the last thing I needed.

"Okay," I mumbled, sinking down onto my desk chair. I folded my hands in my lap, my nails digging into my palms. I just had to get through this. I could be polite, distant, and then disappear.

A heavy, deliberate knock landed on the door. Three sharp raps. The sound vibrated through the small room.

Hannah squealed and ran to open it. "Dean!"

The door swung open, and he filled the frame. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that strained against the simple black t-shirt he wore. His hair was dark, styled neatly, and his jaw looked like it had been carved from stone. He stepped inside, carrying three heavy shopping bags from high-end stores as if they weighed nothing.

His eyes swept the room, landing on me. They were a piercing, icy blue. The air in the room instantly thickened, making it hard to breathe. He didn't just look at me; he assessed me. He took in my cheap jeans, my worn sneakers, the way I was shrinking back in my chair.

"Chloe, this is my brother, Dean," Hannah chirped, oblivious to the suffocating tension. "Dean, this is my roommate, Chloe Carrillo."

Dean set the bags down on Hannah's desk with a soft thud. He turned to me and gave a slight nod. "Dean Gibbs."

His voice was low, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate in my chest. It wasn't warm. It was a statement of fact, a declaration of his presence.

"Hi," I said, my voice cracking. I quickly cleared my throat. "Nice to meet you."

He didn't smile. He just kept looking at me, his expression unreadable. I forced myself to look away, staring at a spot on the floor near his expensive leather boots. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to run.

"Did you bring the sour gummies?" Hannah asked, rummaging through the bags.

"I brought everything on the list," Dean replied, his gaze still fixed on me. "And a few extras."

Hannah pulled out a box of expensive chocolates and cheered. She started showing Dean her side of the room, pointing out the photos she had pinned to the corkboard. Dean listened, nodding occasionally, but his attention never wavered from me. I could feel his eyes on my face, my hands, the way I was trying to make myself as small as possible.

"You're on scholarship?" he asked suddenly, cutting off Hannah's chatter about the dorm showers.

I blinked, startled by the directness. "Yes," I said carefully. "Academic."

"Full ride?"

"Yes."

He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's impressive. Blackwood doesn't hand those out easily."

I didn't respond. I didn't know if it was a compliment or an interrogation. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward. Hannah looked between us, her brow slightly furrowed, but she quickly recovered.

"You two are so serious!" she laughed, nudging her brother. "Lighten up, Dean. We're in college now!"

Dean's expression softened slightly when he looked at his sister. "Someone has to be careful," he said. His gaze slid back to me. "I'm relying on you to look out for her, Chloe. Hannah can be... trusting."

It wasn't a request. It was an order, wrapped in a polite sentence. A heavy responsibility dumped onto my shoulders without my consent.

"We're roommates," I said stiffly. "We'll look out for each other."

Hannah gasped, clapping her hands together. "Oh! We should exchange numbers! That way, if my phone dies or I can't reach mom and dad, Chloe can contact you!"

My heart hammered against my ribs. "That's really not necessary-"

"Great idea," Dean said, pulling his phone from his pocket. He held it out to me, the screen displaying a new contact page.

I stared at the phone like it was a live grenade. I didn't want his number. I didn't want him to have mine. But Hannah was already grabbing my phone off my desk, thrusting it into my hands.

"Put yours in his, and I'll put his in yours!" she commanded, her eyes shining with excitement.

I had no choice. With trembling fingers, I typed my number into Dean's phone. He did the same on mine. When he handed it back, the contact "Dean Gibbs" sat there, glowing on the screen. It felt like a brand.

Dean pushed off the doorframe, his presence seeming to shrink the room again. "I should go. Call me if you need anything, Hannah. Anything at all."

"Will do!" she promised, walking him to the door.

He paused in the hallway, turning back to look at me one last time. "That goes for you too, Chloe. If you run into any trouble, especially concerning my sister, you call me. Immediately."

His tone left no room for argument. It was a command. I nodded once, my jaw too tight to speak.

He left. The door clicked shut, and the oppressive weight in the room finally lifted. I let out a shaky breath, my shoulders dropping.

"He's great, right?" Hannah said, flopping onto her bed. "A little intense, but he's the best brother ever. He just worries about me."

"Yeah," I muttered, staring at my phone. "Intense."

I deleted the contact. My finger hovered over the 'confirm' button, but I stopped. If I deleted it, and he ever tried to contact me for any reason, he would know instantly. With his controlling personality, that would only invite more unwanted attention and questions I couldn't answer. Keeping it, but never, ever using it, was the safest play. I locked the screen and shoved the phone into my pocket.

Over the next few days, I perfected the art of avoidance. I woke up at five-thirty in the morning, before Hannah's alarm, and showered in the communal bathroom down the hall. I left the dorm before she woke up and only returned after she was asleep. I spent my time in the library or the student union, hiding in the corners with a book.

It was exhausting. But it was necessary.

Hannah, however, was not easily deterred. She left sticky notes on my desk. Saw you left early! Have a good day! and Brought you back a cookie from the dining hall! and Movie night soon?

The guilt gnawed at me, but I pushed it down. I couldn't afford to get close to her. The closer I got, the closer I got to Dean, and the closer I got to the plot that would ruin my life.

Friday afternoon, I was sitting at my desk, headphones on, pretending to study. Hannah burst through the door, her cheeks flushed pink from the cold. She was talking loudly into her phone.

"Okay! See you soon!" She hung up and spun to face me, her eyes sparkling. "That was Dean! He's taking me to that new Italian place downtown tonight for dinner. The one with the truffle pasta? And you're coming!"

I pulled out one earbud. "I can't. I have a lot of reading to do."

"Chloe." Hannah's smile vanished. She walked over and stood in front of my desk, her arms crossed. "You've been avoiding me."

"I haven't," I lied, looking down at my textbook. "I'm just busy."

"You're never in the room. You don't eat with me. You barely talk to me." Her voice trembled slightly. "Did I do something wrong? Because if you hate me, you can just tell me. I'm a big girl."

I looked up. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Her bottom lip was sticking out in a pout that looked childish but completely genuine. She looked like a kicked puppy.

A sharp pang of guilt hit me square in the chest. I was hurting her. This fictional character, who had done nothing but try to be my friend, was hurting because of my paranoia.

"I don't hate you," I said softly. "I promise."

"Then come to dinner," she pleaded, her voice breaking. "Please? Just this once. Dean is paying, and I really don't want to sit in a fancy restaurant alone with my brother.That's strange, I need your help.

I was trapped. Again. The tears welling in her eyes were a weapon I had no defense against. I couldn't be cruel to her just to save myself. That wasn't who I was, even in a fictional world.

I sighed, dropping my pen. "Fine. I'll go."

Hannah let out a shriek of joy, pulling me out of my chair and into a bone-crushing hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're the best! Get dressed, he'll be here in twenty minutes!"

I changed into a simple black dress, the nicest thing I owned. It was still cheap compared to what Hannah was wearing, but it would have to do. I kept my makeup minimal, trying to look as invisible as possible.

At exactly seven, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. Dean stepped out to open the door for us. He was wearing a dark suit this time, looking even more powerful than before. When I climbed into the back seat, I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. He was watching me. His expression remained neutral, but his eyes held a glint of something intense I couldn't decipher before he looked away.

The restaurant was dimly lit, with white tablecloths and candles. It smelled like garlic and expensive wine. A hostess in a black dress greeted us at the door.

"Reservation for three," Dean said. "Under Crane."

My ears perked up. Crane? His last name was Gibbs. Why would he use a different name?

The hostess nodded, her demeanor instantly becoming more respectful. "Right this way, Mr. Crane."

I glanced at Hannah, but she was busy texting on her phone, completely unfazed. This was normal to her. My mind raced. Dean Gibbs was using an alias. That meant he was hiding. Or he was involved in something he didn't want traced back to the Gibbs name.

We sat down at a private booth in the back. Dean handed me a menu, his fingers brushing against mine. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up my arm. I pulled my hand back quickly.

"Order whatever you like," he said, his voice low. "Don't look at the prices."

I scanned the menu, the numbers blurring together. I settled on the cheapest pasta dish I could find. I wasn't here to enjoy the food. I was here to survive the evening.

Hannah did most of the talking, filling the silence with chatter about her classes and the cute guy in her English lit seminar. Dean listened patiently, nodding along, but his focus was clearly elsewhere.

"So, Chloe," he said, cutting into his steak. He didn't look up from his plate. "Hannah tells me you're from out of state. Where exactly is home for you?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and pointed. I took a sip of water, buying myself a second to think. This was the interrogation I had been dreading. He was digging into my background, looking for inconsistencies.

"Here and there," I said vaguely. "We moved around a lot."

"Your parents?" he pressed, finally meeting my eyes. "What do they do?"

My heart pounded in my ears. I had to lie. I had to make myself as boring and uninteresting as possible, so he would lose interest and leave me alone.

I forced my face into a neutral mask, even though my pulse was racing. I had rehearsed this lie in my head a hundred times. It was the only way to keep him from digging deeper.

"They're archaeologists," I said, the words coming out smoothly. "They travel constantly. Mostly in the Middle East and Egypt. They're rarely stateside."

It was a half-truth. My real parents had been academics, but they were gone. This lie made them distant, unavailable, and most importantly, it made me independent. A lonely college student with absent parents wasn't unusual.

Hannah's eyes went wide. "Archaeologists? Like Indiana Jones? That is so cool!"

I smiled, a tight, practiced expression. "Something like that. It's mostly dust and old rocks."

Dean chewed his steak slowly, his gaze never leaving my face. He was analyzing every micro-expression, every breath I took. I kept my hands steady on my lap, fighting the urge to fidget.

"So you grew up alone?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual. "While they were off digging up history?"

"Mostly," I said. "I lived with my grandmother until I was in high school. She passed away a few years ago. After that, I just... learned to take care of myself."

The memory of my real grandmother's funeral flashed in my mind, sharp and painful. I pushed it down, burying the emotion before it could show on my face. I needed to sound detached, like I was reciting a grocery list.

Hannah reached across the table and grabbed my hand, her eyes full of sympathy. "That must have been so hard. I'm so sorry, Chloe."

"It's fine," I said, pulling my hand back gently but firmly. "I'm used to it."

I took another sip of water, hoping the subject was closed. I had given them a tragic backstory, one that should make them pity me and leave me alone. People didn't usually push for details when it came to dead relatives.

But Dean wasn't most people. He stared at me for a long moment, his blue eyes intense. Then, his expression shifted. The hard lines of his face softened, just a fraction. He set down his fork and leaned forward.

"You're very resilient, Chloe," he said, his voice quieter now, less interrogating and more... direct. "But you're my sister's roommate, living under the same roof. That makes your safety a concern of mine."

I froze. This wasn't right. This wasn't the reaction I wanted.

"Here at Blackwood, you can run into trouble you aren't prepared for," he continued, his gaze locking onto mine. "You can consider this a guarantee: if you have a problem, anything you can't handle, you contact me directly. I'll take care of it."

My stomach twisted into a knot. I had tried to push him away with a sad story, and instead, I had triggered his savior complex. In the novel, Dean Gibbs was a fixer. He saw a problem, and he dominated it. And right now, he saw me as a problem that needed fixing.

"Thank you, Mr. Gibbs," I said, my voice stiff. "But I can take care of myself. I always have."

"It's Dean," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm sure you can. But even the strongest people need backup sometimes."

Hannah beamed, clearly delighted that her brother was being so welcoming. "See? I told you he was great!"

I picked at my pasta, my appetite completely gone. I had played myself. I had tried to build a wall, and I had accidentally handed him a ladder.

The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of forced small talk and Hannah's cheerful chatter. I kept my answers short and my eyes down, trying to project an aura of complete unapproachability. But Dean's gaze kept returning to me, heavy and assessing.

When the check came, Dean paid without even glancing at the total. He stood up, helping Hannah with her coat, then turned to me. "I'll drive you back."

We walked out into the cool night air. Hannah skipped ahead, her heels clicking on the pavement as she answered a call from a friend. Dean slowed his pace, falling into step beside me. The silence between us was thick, charged with something I couldn't identify.

We reached the parking garage. The echo of our footsteps bounced off the concrete walls. Dean stopped walking. I stopped too, turning to face him. He was standing too close, his tall frame blocking out the overhead lights.

"You tell a very compelling story, Miss Carrillo," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

My blood turned to ice. The words hung in the air, a clear threat. Did he know? Had he seen through my lie?

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. His face was unreadable, half-hidden in shadow. He could be complimenting my storytelling skills, or he could be calling me a liar to my face.

I didn't wait to find out. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, and quickened my pace to catch up with Hannah. I didn't look back, but I could feel his eyes burning into my back the entire way to the car.