Page 2 of For the Plot

Archer stands up straighter, wiping his hands on his jeans. “He’s home.” The footsteps pause outside the room, then the door creaks open.

Reece Blackwood stands in the doorway, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a phone in one hand. His jaw is tense, eyes scanning the room in a second flat before landing on Archer.

“Hey,” he says. With a brief glance in my direction, he adds, “Skye.”

My throat goes so dry, I am barely able to nod and utter the words, “Hi, Mr. Blackwood.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t come in. He just stands there like he’s about to deliver bad news.

“I have to leave for New York tomorrow,” he says, tone clipped and apologetic in the most superficial way possible. “Meeting with a group of Series A investors. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to drive you up to school.”

Archer stiffens beside me. “Okay.”

“I know I said I would. But this came up, and it’s?—”

“It’s fine,” Archer cuts in, voice flat. He goes back to stuffing socks in his bag, a little more forcefully this time, and it’s obvious it bothers him.

Reece’s gaze lingers on him for a beat too long. Then he nods once. “I’ll have Marie schedule a car service if you need it.”

Archer shrugs. “We’re good. I’ll just take my Jeep like I originally planned.”

Reece briefly looks at me again, and then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence stretches between us. I wait five seconds. Ten. Then I say quietly, “That kind of sucks.”

Archer grabs the pillow I threw earlier and flops down beside me. “It’s whatever. He’s always like that.”

I study his profile. “You okay?”

He stares at the ceiling. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know why I still expect anything different.”

I roll onto my side, inching closer. “He should’ve told you sooner.”

He shrugs again. “He’s busy. Always is.”

And just like that, the subject is closed. But I don’t stop thinking about it. About the way Reece looked at him. About the way Archer’s shoulders tensed like he was trying to take up less space. About the quiet disappointment in his voice that he tried to mask as indifference.

Maybe it’s not my place, but I want to protect him. To love him hard enough that none of it matters. I lean down and press a kiss to his jaw, hoping it’s enough.

Something’s wrong.

I can feel it in the way Archer kisses me. Too quick. Too distracted. Like I’m a task he’s checking off before something else steals his focus.

We used to spend nights tangled up in his twin XL bed, whispering plans for summer internships and spring break getaways and all the things we’d do when we weren’t buried under coursework and chaos.

Now I’m lucky if he texts back within an hour.

He blames his fraternity. His econ classes. His T.A. schedule. “You know how it is,” he says, smiling like it’s normal. Like it’s fine. But it doesn’t feel fine.

It feels like I’m holding my breath every time I see his name light up my phone. It feels like trying to keep something alive without knowing where the wound is. And tonight? Tonight feels like a heavy burden that I cannot ignore, no matter how many times my best friend Maya tries to tell me I’m reading into things.

Maya watches me from our dorm bed as I swipe on mascara for the third time. “You sure he’s at the library?”

“He said it’s a group study session,” I say, capping the mascara like I believe my own words. “Econ midterm’s next week.”

She gives me a look but I ignore it. I grab my purse and coat, pretending like I didn’t see the pity in her eyes.

“Text me if you need me,” she calls out as I shut the door behind me.

The walk to the frat house is brutal, cold enough that my nose burns and the wind cuts through my tights. The sidewalk’s wet with slush, and I nearly bust my ass dodging a group of drunk freshmen singing “Mr. Brightside” like it’s still 2005.