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should be, and he is where he should be in this world. Every rule he’s made has brought him here to good food, good friends and a great life. The build­ings around him crowd like friends and family. He loves this, because so many small pleasures and great distractions mean he never needs to feel lonely.
    * * *
    Despite his strict rules and his need to have everything in its place, to plan ahead, Wren knows that spontaneity has its own plea­sure and that getting caught up in something provocative and impetuous can be a liberating experience, made hotter by its unexpectedness. Sometimes even he feels constrained by the structures he uses to protect himself from the world.
    Wren hadn’t planned for this, but as soon as the elevator doors open to the basement level of the library, Wren knows Cam is there. He checks his call number. To find that section of books, he should follow the blue line, one of the colored trails taped to the floor to guide students. The blue line forks to the left, but Wren can sense that’s the wrong way if he wants to find Cam. He takes a shaking breath, tries to control the excitement that shivers up from his core and turns right instead of left.
    In the dead quiet of the library, Cam is too aware of the silence; the grinding hum of the movable stacks being opened startles him. The sound of faraway footsteps draws his gaze up from his bewildering class notes, and a cough from the other side of the reference stacks, where other study tables are tucked away, distracts him easily.
    He’s chosen this table in the basement because it’s quiet. He can’t study in his room, not stats. He can’t focus on notes from that class because all he sees is him, the boy who has been cease­lessly drawing his attention all semester. Now, everything he’s jotted down seems disjointed. In class, his hands take notes on auto-pilot; his ears are half tuned to the professor while his eyes stub­bornly stray to whichever corner of the room that boy is in.
    Math has never been his thing, and attempting to learn in such a distracting environment isn’t working. Not only is he unable to pay attention, but what they’re learning is also far beyond what he thought it would be. He’s pretty sure that he’d be lost even without the added distraction.
    Cam never struggled in school. Stubbornly, he wants to avoid having to admit defeat and go to the help lab. Dry-eyed and frus­trated, he puts his head down on the table and takes a deep breath. With the final exam looming, he’s beginning to feel a crest of panic. Cam doesn’t get poor grades. He’s steady, he works hard and he has faith in his intelligence. Well, that and a scholarship that demands his high performance.
    Maybe it’s the anxiety stealing in, or maybe some inher­ent grace and lightness of tread keeps Cam from hearing foot­steps approach; Cam is startled by the sound of a voice.
    “Rough day?”
    Cam’s head pops up, and he barely manages to keep his mouth from dropping open: it’s him. There’s a long silence, crackling with energy, during which Cam stares stupidly. The boy is wearing an asymmetrical black cotton sweater that unzips diagonally from his neck to his shoulder and bright blue tunnel plugs in his pierced ears. Cam can see the exposed left side of his collarbone. His mouth is suddenly too dry, and his heart rate picks up until the hard, battering beat feels as if it’s shaking his ribs.
    “Cat got your tongue?” the boy asks, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. Cam’s eyes follow the movement of his lips.
    “N–no,” he stammers a beat too late. “I mean—”
    “Yeah,” the boy says, eyes brightening. This close, Cam’s curi­osity is finally assuaged: the boy’s eyes are a startling green and mischievous, as if he knows something Cam doesn’t. His hair is a true jet black—not dyed, but rich, genuine and thick.
    “I’m Cam,” Cam offers inanely, barely suppressing a wince.
    “Wren.” The boy doesn’t offer