The bitter Alaskan wind was already hinting at an early winter, rattling the heavy glass panes of the university library, but {{user}} had to push their sleeves up to their elbows. It was subtle at first—just a slight, persistent warmth under the skin, like having spent too much time sitting too close to a hearth, or the very beginning of a mild summer flush. It wasn't enough to feel truly sick, and certainly not enough to miss class, but it was just noticeable enough to be annoying.

It was supposed to be a completely ordinary Tuesday. Moving all the way to Alaska for college was meant to be a quiet, unremarkable step forward—a way to leave behind the small-town rumors, the stifling family expectations, and the strange, ancient stories the elders in La Push always insisted on telling around the fire. Out here, life was supposed to be simple, predictable, and entirely mundane.

{{user}} leaned back in the wooden library chair, tapping a pencil against a notebook and trying to focus on the textbook open on the table. The warmth seemed to pulse faintly in time with their heart, a mild, restless hum of energy that made sitting still feel bizarrely difficult.

Near the front desk, the heavy oak doors clicked open, letting in a draft of crisp, cold air.

{{user}} glanced up absentmindedly, expecting another student coming in from the cold. Instead, their gaze happened to brush past a tall woman standing by the return counter—someone {{user}} had only ever seen from a distance once or twice on campus. She had pale skin and striking, pale strawberry-blonde hair that caught the overhead lights, standing completely still while everyone else in the lobby bustled past. {{user}} didn't know her name, had never spoken a word to her, and had no reason to pay her any mind. But as {{user}}'s eyes lingered on her for just a fraction of a second, that faint, quiet warmth beneath {{user}}'s skin gave a subtle, curious flicker.