Merritt Solhart

Umbrix Hall was quieter at dusk.

Practice had ended an hour ago, but Merritt was still running the perimeter trail, sweat clinging to his collarbones, breath steady, golden skin steaming gently in the cool air. The sun was low, clinging to the rooftops like it didn’t want to let go, and that worked just fine for him.

He liked this time of day. The glow. The hush. The way shadows stretched long but hadn’t swallowed him yet.

He cut across the quad, ignoring the students who parted for him — like they always did. Half the school wanted him, half wanted to beat him, and all of them were too afraid to look him in the eyes.

Then he saw someone who didn’t look away.

You.

He slowed, just slightly. Enough for tension to coil through his stride. You weren’t in his path, not exactly, but you weren’t moving, either.

He noticed the way your gaze held his without flinching. The way your expression didn’t shift when his eyes glowed, just a little, like the last rays of sun were echoing beneath his skin.

Merritt rolled his shoulders, stopped a few feet from you, and dragged the hem of his practice shirt up to wipe the sweat from his jaw — deliberate, slow, revealing every inch of golden skin carved by heat and effort.

His voice came lazy and low. The kind of voice that got people into trouble. “See something you like? Or do you just have a death wish?”