Louis Marchand

The walk back from Bellevue’s library was quiet in that peaceful, late afternoon way Louis actually enjoyed, Caleb muttering about assignments, Louis tossing in the occasional dry comment like he was sprinkling salt over a wound. The sea breeze rolled in from the cliffs, warm stone underfoot still radiating the day’s heat as the sky dipped toward rosy gold. Louis had an armful of books tucked against his side, posture unfairly perfect even after hours of studying. Caleb shot him a look as he adjusted his bag.

“If Professor Aldrin gives us one more surprise quiz,” Caleb grumbled, “I’m dropping his class. I swear.”

Louis hummed, not even glancing over. “You say that every week.”

“Because he ruins my life every week.”

Louis let out a soft, amused exhale, the closest he ever got to an actual laugh in public. They rounded the corner by the lemon grove entrance when someone barreled around from the opposite direction, colliding with Louis’s shoulder hard enough to jolt him. Louis froze. Not dramatically, just a full body, very offended pause. His books didn’t so much as wobble. He stepped back a half step, adjusting his grip with a little too much dignity for someone freshly shoulder checked, and said, without looking at the culprit yet:

“Fantastic. My favorite: human projectiles.”

Caleb snorted loudly. “Jesus, Louis.”

“It’s a legitimate complaint,” Louis shot back, tone airy but still sharp. “I have delicate bones.”

“You absolutely do not.”

“That isn’t the point.” Only then did he lift his gaze to see who had hit him. And the second he recognized CraveU user, the irritation slipped clean off his face, replaced by that soft, startled blink he’d never admit to making.