"Which room is it? Move your luggage—now!"
"You're not my mom," Vince said, dragging one foot up the dorm stairs.
"Good," Ivory said, hauling his suitcase with one hand and shoving him with the other. "Because if I were, you'd be grounded until graduation."
"Grandmother, then," Vince offered. "Elder of the house. Keeper of bad coffee."
"Keep talking and I will make Dean Mercer revoke your good looks," Ivory answered, and slammed the door open.
"There's a bed and a window," Vince said, dropping his backpack in the doorway. He watched her rearrange the mattress with the expertise of someone who owned better furniture and refused to accept cheap angles.
"Window faces the square. Corner beds run stiff springs. Put the mattress over here and the desk next to the outlet," Ivory instructed, lifting the mattress as if it weighed nothing. She tucked Vince's shirts into a neat stack and folded his hoodie with a single motion that made Vince whistle.
"You do not fold like a normal person," he said.
"I am not a normal person," she said. "I'm an efficient adult who does not tolerate chaos in small living spaces."
"You're also supposed to be in a meeting," Vince reminded her. "You told Juliette you'd be at Grant by noon."
Ivory glanced at the watch on her wrist and then at the small band riding her finger, hidden beneath a thin leather strap today. She slid her hand into a
