My brain blanked. Behind me, Cillian went utterly still. His hand tightened on my waist, fingers pressing like he was anchoring himself.
"Jason," I said, scrambling for words. "He's just—"
"Family," Cillian finished, voice smooth as glass. He stepped forward, putting himself between us without shoving, his body language doing all the work.
Jason's eyes flicked up to him, then back to me. Confusion turned to something sharper. "Family? Evie, he just texted me from your phone threatening me. What's going on?"
I swallowed, throat dry. "Go home, I'll explain tomorrow."
Cillian tilted his head, that almost-smile appearing, the one that wasn't friendly at all. "You received her message. Now leave."
Jason's shoulders squared. He was tall for a college kid, broad from whatever intramural sport he played, but next to Cillian he suddenly looked younger. Less certain. "I'm not going anywhere until she tells me what's happening."
The air thickened. Cillian's gaze dropped to Jason's hand that was hovering too close to my arm, like he'd been about to grab me.
Something dark moved behind his eyes.
"Jason," I said quickly, stepping sideways to block. "Go home. Please. It's… complicated stuff. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" He laughed, short and disbelieving. "Evie, this guy shows up out of nowhere, texts me like some stalker, and now he's… what, manhandling you out the door at midnight? I'm not leaving you with him."
Cillian exhaled through his nose. It wasn't a sigh. It was the sound of a man counting to ten in a language without numbers.
"Listen carefully," he said. Low, even, every word precise. "You touch her again, text her again, look at her in class and you will regret it. Deeply."
Jason blinked, then flushed red. "You threatening me? Who the hell do you think you are?"
"The man who will end you if you don't walk away," Cillian replied. No heat. Just fact.
I'd seen men back down before. Drunks in alleys, rude customers at the café. Jason wasn't a coward, but he wasn't stupid. He looked from Cillian's face to mine, searching for confirmation that this was a joke.
"Evie," he said, voice dropping. Pleading now. "Come on. This isn't you."
"Go," I whispered. "Please."
He held my eyes a second longer, hurt flashing across his face. Then he shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and turned for the stairs. His footsteps echoed down the hall, fast and fading.
The hall fell silent.
I turned around.
He was watching me with that unreadable expression, hands loose at his sides, entirely unbothered. Like Jason had been a mild inconvenience. Like my whole carefully constructed life unraveling in the hallway was just Tuesday for him.
Something snapped.
"You can't do that," I said.
His brow lifted a fraction. "Do what?"
"That." I gestured at the stairs where Jason had disappeared. "Show up and just remove people. He's my friend. He was worried about me."
"He wants more than friendship."
"That's not your call to make." My voice was rising and I couldn't stop it, "None of this is your call. My dad made a call. You made a call. Everyone in my life has been making calls about me since the day I was born, and I just… I jumped out a window in a wedding dress to get away from all of it, and now I'm standing in my own hallway and I still can't—"
My voice cracked. I pressed my mouth shut.
Cillian hadn't moved. He was watching me with those eyes, dark in the low light, lashes casting shadows against his cheekbones. Unfairly, stupidly long lashes for someone who used them to look at people like that.
"Say something," I said.
"You're not done," he replied.
I blinked.
He said it like a simple observation. No edge. No impatience. Just that low, precise tone that somehow gave me more space than anything else had in months.
My throat tightened. "I feel guilty," I admitted, hating how small it sounded. "Jason's a good person. He doesn't know anything, and now he's…" I exhaled. "He's going to get hurt because of me. Because of my mess."
Cillian was quiet for a moment.
"Your father's mess," he said finally. "Not yours."
"I'm the one carrying it."
"Yes." He stepped closer, unhurried. "You have been carrying it alone."
I looked up at him, something in my chest twisting. He looked tired, actually. Not weak. Just like someone who'd been awake through too many long nights, same as me.
"Jason," he said, "is not your responsibility. His feelings are not your fault." A pause. "But he keeps walking towards something that will hurt him. That's on him."
"You'll actually hurt him," I said flatly.
Something shifted in his expression. Not denial. Not confirmation either. Just a muscle in his jaw, flickering.
"I don't want you worried about some boy," he said at last. "You have enough."
It wasn't romantic. It wasn't a declaration. But it sat differently than everything else he'd said to me, no possessiveness wrapped around it, no mine at the end.
His hand came up, fingers briefly tucking a strand of hair back from my face, the touch light enough to be almost nothing. Almost.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his jaw tightened.
"Change of plans," he said. "I've to go."
"Of course you do," I said, the words slipping out sharper than I meant.
He stepped closer, crowding me against the doorframe without touching.
"Eat something," he said. "Lock your door. If anyone knocks, don't answer."
It was not a suggestion.
His thumb brushed my wrist, quick and deliberate, over the spot where my pulse hammered. Then he turned and took the stairs two at a time, coat whispering against the railing as he disappeared.
The building door slammed below.
I stood there far too long, staring at the empty hallway. My phone buzzed.
Jason:I'm not dropping this, Evie. I talked to a few people. Campus security, some friends. We're going to figure out who this guy really is. I'll keep you safe. Promise.
I stared at the screen. My chest tightened.
Campus security. People asking questions. People looking into the girl named Evie Ross who enrolled three months ago with no transfer records and a Social Security number that didn't quite hold up under scrutiny.
Jason wasn't going to get himself killed.
He was going to get me found.