Fabian walked beside me, clipboard tucked under one arm, stride steady like he'd been rehearsing this role his whole life.
"So, Veronica," he said casually, eyes flicking toward me, "ready for the next advisor?"
"Ready as I'll ever be," I muttered, though my attention kept betraying me—sliding back to him when I thought he wouldn't notice.
His height was impossible to ignore. Easily six two, maybe taller, he towered just enough to make me feel small but not overshadowed. His build was athletic, muscles defined under the fitted USC shirt, the kind of physique that looked like it belonged on a track or in a gym, but carried itself with calm restraint.
"You're staring," Fabian teased lightly, a quick smirk tugging at his mouth.
"I'm… observing," I shot back, cheeks warming.
His jawline was sharp, cheekbones catching the light as we passed under the glass ceiling of the Welcome Center. His skin held a warm bronze complexion, sun kissed like he lived outdoors. His hair was short, dark, neat—practical but stylish, the kind of cut that didn't need effort to look good.
We were halfway down the corridor when I caught it again—his right arm, bare from the short sleeve of his USC shirt, flexing as he adjusted his clipboard.
The tattoo was impossible to ignore. It wrapped from shoulder to wrist like a story inked in shadows and fire.
A dragon's head curled near the top, fierce and regal, its eyes locked in a permanent snarl. Scales shimmered down his bicep, each one shaded like armor, like he'd earned every inch of it. Floral patterns twisted through the design, softening the edges just enough to make you wonder—was this about power, or protection?
The ink followed the curve of his forearm, winding through muscle and motion, ending in sharp ornamental lines near his wrist. It didn't look random. It looked intentional. Like whoever Fabian Trace was, he'd already lived through something worth remembering.
I tried not to stare, but damn. That tattoo was art.
"You okay?" he asked, glancing sideways.
"Yeah," I said quickly, eyes snapping up. "Just… admiring craftsmanship."
He smirked, just barely. "It's a dragon. Got it when I turned eighteen. Reminder to stay fierce."
Of course he did.
I nodded, pretending I wasn't impressed. But inside, I was screaming.
Because Fabian Trace wasn't just a guide. He was a walking anime character—tall, sculpted, mysterious, and inked with a dragon that looked like it could breathe fire.
And I was supposed to focus on my advisor meeting? Good luck with that.
"Anime and games, huh?" he asked, breaking the silence, his voice smooth but clipped.
"How long did it take," I asked at the same time he spoke.
"How long did what take?" He looked a little confused, caught off guard.
"The tattoo?" I pressed, curious.
Watching him smile, he sighed—a long, heavy sigh—before revealing his shocking answer.
"50 hours."
"Really… Wait, what!!!" I responded, shocked, yanking his hand to stop him from walking.
Trailing the tips of my fingers along this beauty, I was fascinated. Smiling, I started imagining creating something like this in an anime.
"It uummhmm… took me umhhhhmm—"
"It took what?" I asked, looking up from the tattoo. Our bodies had already pulled toward each other without notice. His eyes blushed, staring down into my soul, his bottom lip slowly taken in his mouth, his tongue moistening it just enough… ready for a kiss.
Pulling away, he stepped back, clearing his throat quickly, trying to compose himself. He ruffled his hair a little, looking everywhere but me.
"I like the idea of worlds, characters, apps… things that last longer than a first impression," I said, trying to break the awkwardness between us.
His eyes—deep brown, steady, unreadable—shifted toward me again. For a second, they lingered, and I swore he was checking me out. But then he looked away, professional again, stride unbroken.
"Ten sessions," he finally explained, "sometimes a one week and sometimes two week break for healing. So I didn't get this masterpiece done until about 20 weeks—roughly five months." He smiled, showing those perfectly pearly white teeth.
And I can tell you, that smile—even though it was breathtaking—was quick, subtle, like he didn't hand it out freely. When it appeared, it was dangerous. It made me feel like I'd won something without even playing.
"Am nervous," I finally admitted, and it wasn't because of college but because of this beautiful hunk of creation standing just a few feet away from me.
"You'll do fine," he said, voice low, almost reassuring—as if he was reassuring himself just the same.
I inhaled, nerves crashing through me, but under his gaze—under those quick, subtle glances—I felt even worse, like he was sizing me up, ready to devour. Oh shit… He's your guide, god dammit, and wayyyyy older, sooo stop fantasizing… aaaahhhhh.
"Heeey, you sure you okay???"
NOOOOOOOO!!!!!!
"Yes… Never been better, just excited to be here." I lied, smiling.
"That's the spirit," he cheered, pulling me along, letting go just seconds after as if I'd burnt him.
Finally arriving at my next advisor's office, I felt relieved. Standing in front of me were the words boldly written: School of Cinematic Arts (Animation) Academic Advisor. Fabian, like before, knocked softly.
"Come in," a male voice answered from the other side.
Opening the door, I entered, smiling, trying to ignore the knot gut feeling in my tummy. Fabian's hand slowly found its way to my lower back, pushing me inside as his figure entered behind.
"Mr. Tuckingham, the man wanted to see," Fabian announced loudly.
"Fabian, if this is not about something important… choke on it," he answered, somewhat annoyed.
"My dad—"
"Makes it worse. I don't care," he clapped back, turning his attention to me. I listened to their conversation but was smart enough not to intervene.
Looking around, this advisor's office felt like stepping into a gallery of moving worlds—sketches pinned to corkboards, monitors looping student films in crisp 4K, and a shelf stacked with art books that smelled faintly of ink and ambition. Suddenly feeling a heavy stare from Mr. Tuckingham, I sat down quickly, realizing this advisor was a sassy one. My notebook balanced on my knee, eyes wide at the possibilities.
Soon my advisor leaned forward, a spark in his eyes. "So, Veronica. You want to major in Animation, but not just any animation. You're talking HD, 4K, 2D, 3D—the full spectrum. You want to build anime that can stand shoulder to shoulder with Demon Slayer. Ambitious. I like ambitious… And I really do hope you don't drown before senior year."
I nodded, my voice steady. "I don't want to just learn the basics. I want to create worlds that feel alive, cinematic, and powerful. I want people to watch my work and feel like they're inside it. And no, I won't drown."
"That's what they all say. Big words, big promises, the whole work. I've heard it all from all kinds of the likes of you," he said, his tone dripping with doubt.
"First off, Mr. Tuckingham, is it?" I spoke with sternness, letting him know I wasn't going to be intimidated. Watching him nod, I continued.
"I don't know who pooped in your dreams, who tore it up, who shredded it, or who lit it and watched it burn, but I am not going to sit here and let you tell me I am a failure. I know what I want because life isn't easy. It's not a playfield with hugging teddy bears and Elmo from Sesame Street. It's the kind that says be killed—"
"Ms. Thompson—"
"I am not finished," I snapped, teeth gritted, watching him lean back in his chair with raised brows, interested in the challenge at hand.
"I will create a world where people feel like they are escaping… like they are living it, tasting every moment, every word, every scene. I will not let people like you crower me down, tell me I can't, that I won't, and that I couldn't. So if you feel like you want to put me in a category because I look like the majority that quits… then get on board and know me before throwing your bull crap ideas and feelings. Because I am not a failure, Mr. Tuckingham. I am a fighter. So if you want to continue steering me on the path I need, do your job as an advisor—or steer me to someone who actually wants to do their job."
He was either going to be my advisor or he can kiss my fucking ass because no one, and I mean no one, was about to fuck with my dreams, goals, or career.
"Oh shit… I like you," Fabian mumbled from behind, completely impressed as it was evident in his voice.
The advisor smiled knowingly. "Then here's how we'll do it. Year one, you'll master foundations—storyboarding, character design, visual culture. That's your canvas. Year two, we'll push you into digital painting and 3D modeling. By year three, you'll be working with motion capture, visual effects, and real time rendering. And by year four, you'll have a capstone project—a short film or interactive piece—polished in 4K, ready for festivals, studios, or game showcases."
"Sounds like we're getting somewhere… Future sounds bright already," I replied, glad he was on board.
Fabian, who had tagged along again, raised his hand like a student—FYI, he was a student, just not a sophomore anymore. "Question: will she also learn how to animate me into a taller, cooler version of myself?"
Mr. Tuckingham chuckled. "That's advanced coursework. Maybe senior year."
"Not maybe," I answered back confidently.
I laughed, tension easing. Mr. Tuckingham's tone softened. "Look, this isn't about copying anyone else's style. It's about finding your own voice while learning the tools that let you create at the highest resolution possible. You'll have professors guiding you in class, but I'm here to make sure you don't miss the steps. Think of me as your map. You're the one driving."
I closed my notebook, determination in my eyes. "Then let's build it. HD, 4K, 2D, 3D—whatever it takes. I want my worlds to shine… And I'm on board one hundred percent, ready to take whatever you say to make this work."
"Call me Marcus," he said, extremely drawn in by my confidence, with an outstretched hand ready for a handshake.
"Veronica," I answered, taking his hand.
"I hope you don't disappoint me," he spoke sternly.
My grip was firm, my eyes steady as our hands met. "I won't," I said, voice low but unwavering.
Marcus studied me for a moment, the kind of silence that weighed heavy, then broke into a faint smile. "Good. Because talent is common. Commitment isn't. If you keep that fire, you'll go further than you think."
Fabian, leaning against the doorframe, couldn't resist. "And if she doesn't, I'll just animate her into a success story anyway."
Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. "I would say something to you, Fabian, but you are a whole session by yourself… You've got your work cut out for you, Veronica. But I believe you're ready. Now go make something worth remembering."
I released his hand, notebook tucked under my arm, determination burning brighter than ever. As I stepped out of the office, the hallway lights seemed sharper, the air charged with possibility. I wasn't just a student anymore—I was on the path to building worlds, and Marcus had just handed me the map.
"Hey bitch," the theater kid with dramatic eyeliner from earlier spoke out of the blue, fist folded tightly and thrown in my direction.
With quick thinking and great reflex, I dodged just in time, missing her fist in my face at the last second. Suddenly Fabian appeared from Marcus's office, grabbing her hand and jerking her away, face hard as steel, completely pissed off.
"Titi, what the fuck is wrong with you?" he yelled, pinning her to the wall.
"So you broke up with me and decided your next victim already? And out of all the whores in the damn school… it had to be her, huh? This low life slut," she barked in his face.
"Excuse you," I stepped forward, ready to knock her teeth out, but Fabian released her and grabbed me, pulling me away.
"Fabian, this isn't over!" Titi yelled, stomping like a child who just got told no and had her favorite candy taken away.
When we were out of everyone's view, he stopped suddenly, pulling me closer, scanning me—my whole body. I think he was checking if I got hurt before he had intervened.
Fabian's grip tightened just enough to steady me, his eyes scanning every inch like he expected to find a bruise. His jaw was clenched, voice low but burning.
"She's my ex, Veronica," he said finally, the words heavy. "And lately she's been pulling this crap with every girl she thinks I'm dating. It's bullshit, all of it."
I blinked, the anger in my chest mixing with disbelief. "So she just… attacks anyone who even stands near you?"
Fabian nodded, frustration etched across his face. "Yeah. She can't let go, so she lashes out. But I'm done letting her drag me into her drama. And I'm sure as hell not letting her drag you into it."
I exhaled, tension easing just a little. "Well, she picked the wrong girl this time. I don't scare easy."
That earned me the faintest smirk from him, though his eyes were still stormy. "I know. That's why I pulled you out before you knocked her teeth in. You don't need to waste your energy on her. She's noise. Nothing more."
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. "Then let's make sure she learns that quick."
Fabian's hand lingered on my arm, protective but steady. "She'll learn. Trust me. I'm not letting her mess with you again."
And with that, the hallway fell quiet, the chaos left behind. For the first time since the punch was thrown, I felt the fire in me settle—not gone, but ready, waiting, knowing this wasn't the end of Titi's tantrums.