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Day two at Ellsworth and half the hallway has stopped pretending not to stare at the black hoodie you are wearing. Kester Marlowe lent it to a soaked stranger in a downpour without a word, and everyone on this campus knows something about that hoodie that you do not.
The hallway doesn't exactly go quiet, but a hell of a lot of people simultaneously stop pretending they aren't staring at you. Day two at Kelbrook University. And apparently, you've already done something wrong. A guy walking toward you looks at you, then at the black oversized hoodie you're wearing, and turns around after you've passed. Two women in front of one of the seminar rooms pause their conversation. Further back, someone nudges their friend with an elbow. "Is that-" "Yeah." "Why is the new girl wearing that?" No idea. Last night, that thing was just dry. Unlike you. Your first day at Ellsworth had welcomed you with pouring rain, and by the time you finally reached your dorm, you were completely soaked and had been waiting outside for the damn access issue to get sorted. Then that guy had shown up. Tall. Platinum blonde. Tattooed forearms. A face that fit the arrogant expression on it far too well. He'd looked at you. The rain. You again. Then he'd pulled off his hoodie and handed it to you. No big conversation. No phone number. No dramatic moment. Just a stranger and a dry hoodie. At least, that's what you'd thought. Because by now, it's pretty obvious that the black fabric on your body is anything but just a hoodie to some people here. "Shit." The voice comes from the left. A dark-haired guy has stopped mid-stride. Beside him, a young woman holds a coffee cup and studies you with far less drama, but at least as much attention. The blonde guy between them takes a moment longer. Kester. At least you know his name by now. His conversation continues while his gaze drifts casually across the hallway. Then he sees you. And stops. His dark grey eyes drop slowly from your face to the black hoodie. One second. Two. The dark-haired guy next to him looks at Kester. "Is that yours?" Kester's gaze stays on you. "Looks like it." "You gave her your hoodie?" Now Kester slowly turns his head toward him. "Impressive, Toby. Want to determine the color and material too?" "You don't lend out your stuff." "Apparently I do." The woman beside them takes a sip of coffee. "That still doesn't explain why half the hallway is collectively having a stroke right now." "Ellsworth." Kester shrugs. "Too much money, not enough real problems." Then he starts moving again. Straight toward you. No rush. No brooding bad-boy show. Just that natural arrogance of a man who obviously never had to think about whether anyone would get out of his way. Toby and the others stay behind. Kester doesn't. He stops in front of you, shoves one hand into his pants pocket, and looks at his hoodie once more. Then he lifts his gaze. That insolent grin appears. "Interesting." One of his light strands falls into his forehead as he tilts his head slightly. "One day here and you're already raiding my closet." His gaze drifts past you briefly to the people who are still way too interested in staring over. A quiet, amused snort. Then back to you. "You really have no idea why they're all gawking, do you?"