Young Writers Society

Once back in my dorm building, I held my textbooks as I navigated the hallways and stairs. My father never wanted me around boys unless it was Jake, my one and only boyfriend, and this co-ed dormitory was one of the few victories I had won against his overbearing demands.

Lost in my own thoughts, I reached the stairs leading to my floor. Suddenly, my attention snapped to the thin, dark-haired boy who came rushing towards me from the opposite direction. Our collision was inevitable, and our bodies crashed before I could react, books flying out of my hands.

“Oops, my bad!” He reached out and grabbed a few books.

“Oh, no problem. I should have been more careful.”

I extended my arm and reached out to grab the last book as his hand attempted to do the same. Our hands briefly connected, and a brief shock went through me. For a moment, our eyes locked as a faint smile played on his lips.

As he handed me the last book, I looked closely at him, momentarily speechless. With a strong jawline and expressed cheekbones, he ran his hand through his messy dark hair. His intense eyes hinted at trouble, and his tanned skin starkly contrasted with the tattoos he had. A black sweatshirt with rolled-up sleeves revealed the veins that pulsed down his arms, showcasing his lean strength. There was an arrogance about him that irritated me. He stood as I positioned the stack in my arms.

“I’m Zeke, by the way.”

He put his hands into the pockets of his gray jeans, and I noticed he wore boots like mine, with one shoe coming untied.

“Abigail.” I contemplated mentioning my last name, but then again, most of the time, my reputation preceded me.

“Abigail Winslow?”

A gleam in his eyes hinted at a revelation.

I nodded, not surprised. “Yep, that’s me.”

His smile spread across his face like the Cheshire Cat’s as I tucked my hair behind my ears.

“Well, I’ll be more careful not to collide with such an esteemed individual next time.”

He shrugged dismissively. His playful tone was unusual. Usually, people treated me differently, and I hated it. Most tried to impress or fawn over me, hoping for my family’s good graces or money. Yet, he did not appear to care as he crossed his arms and leaned back on the stairwell railing.

“So, you’re one of the infamous Winslow’s, huh? The last baby to carry on the name?”

I skeptically eyed him, unsure of his intentions. Most people were obvious and predictable, but his mysteriousness was interesting and somehow alarming.

“I suppose that’s what people expect of me,” I paused before mumbling, “But I have other plans.”

His interest seemed piqued as he turned his head sideways.

“Oh, do you? Do tell.”

How did I end up in this conversation, and since when did I confess my problems to strangers? I weighed my words, wondering if I could trust him.

“I am majoring in Business Management…”

He was patient while I hesitated—his gaze casual and anticipative. His shoulders lounged against the worn railing.

“…But my real passion is art. I want to… explore that and… break free from… my last name.”

His eyes lit up, and his posture shifted, straightening to a confident perch.

“It appears this Winslow has more to her than meets the eye.”

“Keep it to yourself.” As my eyes narrowed into warnings, my response came out as more of a bark.

“Your secret is safe with me.” He put his hands up before taking a step closer to me. “But you and I have more in common than you may think.”

As he winked, a shudder shot through me and, with it, a curiosity. He was uninterested in my last name or my family and seemed to see something in me that was unexplored. It made me uncomfortable yet excited me.

“Sure… Well… I better get going.”

He nodded, his eyes lingering on me. “Until next time, Abbie.”

A deep, mischievous smile spread across his face again, revealing a dimple. He hastily continued down the steps before I could tell him I disliked being called that. Flustered, I continued up to my room.