In theory, the first week of college was supposed to be the most fun one. Since half of it got taken up by going over syllabi, there was less homework. Instead of locking yourself up in your dorm room to study, you could go to all the events they set up to help the freshmen meet each other and get acclimated to campus. And there was so, so much free food.

But much more of Cora's energy than she would have liked was expended just in trying to avoid Rasmus North, which was pretty damn difficult considering that they were in the same major and had half of their classes together.

That first Friday night, a get-together was held for all the theatre majors. It was nothing fancy—just food and music and conversation—but Cora appreciated that an effort was made at all. Most of the other girls seemed nice enough (even if they sang along as loudly as possible to the cast recordings that were blaring out the speakers, as if this was necessary to prove that they were in fact theatre majors) and there was no world in which she would turn down free pizza.

She barely saw Rasmus. The black box theater was so dark and crowded that she only on occasion caught a glance of him—a flash of untidy black hair or a familiar jacket out of the corner of her eye and then he was gone again, disappearing as quickly as he had arrived. She remained tense, fearing that he would pop up behind her shoulder to taunt her the moment she let her guard down.

Eventually, when she had eaten so much pizza that she felt like grease was seeping through her pores and the playlist had cycled back to the beginning, she was ready to call it quits despite the fact that some of her peers were dancing and hollering like the party had only just begun. She was a new enough fixture here that she knew she wouldn't be missed, so once she saw that no one was looking her way, she slipped out the back door and plopped herself down on the concrete steps.

The cement was relievingly cool against her palms and through the fabric of her leggings after being in a room of crowded bodies for nearly two hours. It was too cloudy to see the stars tonight, but she could hear the soft sound of the ocean's waves singing their old melody in the distance, crashing and then retreating and then crashing again. The air was thick—it was still summer, after all—but at least here by the sea it carried with it that pleasant saltiness that lingered in her nose and on her lips.

Her reverie was rudely interrupted by the small click of a cigarette lighter.

Cora nearly jumped out of her own skin, then gaped when she looked around and saw who the other person on the steps was. Rasmus lifted the flame to his lips, then exhaled the smoke as nonchalantly as if he were simply admiring the night like she was.

"What the hell are you doing?" she coughed.

His eyes snapped onto her as intensely as a lion latched onto its prey, but his voice was astoundingly lazy. "Coraline," he drawled. "Tell anyone about this and I'll make sure your life is miserable."

Then, as if he had been possessed by something outside of himself, he held out the box to her. Offering her one.

"Are you crazy?! You're a singer."

He waved the cigarette around with a swirl of his fingers, watching it as though it were a curiosity and not a death trap. "And what if I don't want to sing?"

Cora stared at him blankly, unfathoming. He'd gotten all the lead roles in high school just because he was the only boy there who could sing. Who actually worked hard at it. She hated to admit it, but he had the voice of a damn angel.

"Then I'd say you've wasted a lot of time already," she said flatly, denying the impulse to wrinkle her nose at the smell. "And you're going to be screwed for the next four years of your college career, and you might be giving yourself lung cancer. What could this possibly be doing for you?"

When he leaned towards her slightly as if to offer her a piece of wisdom, she knew she'd want to slap him once he said whatever was about to come off of his lips. "Tell me, Cora, have you ever considered getting off your high horse and staying out of other people's business?"

"I'm just trying to help you," she retorted. "You're screwing yourself over big time."

"I don't give a damn what you think."

She wasn't going to sit there and let him take delight in her anger all night. Cora silently rose to her feet and stomped off, retrieving her phone from her purse to text Simon that they should meet somewhere else. But when she did, she saw from a text notification on her lock screen that he was running late.

The sane thing to do would be to go wait for him literally anywhere else. So naturally, she made a split-second decision to loop back the way she came and spy on Rasmus.

It wouldn't be too difficult to go unseen. The dark worked in her favor—the stairs were taller than she was, and the concrete slab cast a dark shadow to its side where she could be concealed. She crept over, tentatively standing on tiptoe to glance between the metal rails and watch him.

For a moment, his posture was unchanged from how she had left him. But then he suddenly jammed the cigarette against the concrete to put it out—even from here, she could see the ashen scar it left behind – and tossed it off the side of the steps and into the flowerbed. Right next to Cora. She nearly yelped; just a few inches closer and it would have landed on her sandaled foot.

The cause of his panic was quickly revealed, and it wasn't a teacher. In a whirlwind of bright red hair, Cora's roommate Natasha had appeared and run up to him.

She had heard that Nat and Rasmus had been friends from early childhood, much like herself and Simon, but she'd never actually seen them in action before. She didn't know how someone like Natasha could want to be friends with someone like him, but she eagerly grabbed his hands and pulled him to his feet like he was her favorite person on the planet.

"You smell disgusting."

"I'm sorry," Rasmus smiled apologetically, sheepishly running a hand through his hair. "It's from hanging around Cordell so much."

Cora wanted to scream that he was lying, but she obviously could not. She prayed that Natasha would look down and see the poorly-concealed evidence of his actions herself, but she didn't.

Instead, she asked, "You still up for a movie?"

He grinned that devilish smile of his. "Just you and me?"

"Don't be weird about it, dummy. We sat in the freaking bath together as toddlers—I'm pretty sure you can handle one movie."

His eyebrows lifted. "We could still sit in the bath if you wanted to," he suggested.

She elbowed him hard. "You're impossible. Impossible."

But as she took his hand again and dragged him off, Cora could hear the both of them quietly laughing.

She didn't like the thought of him running off with her roommate, but at least he was gone for now. She returned to her spot on the steps, hoping that Simon would come any minute now and distract her from thinking too hard about that demon of a boy.

To her relief, he jogged up just a moment later and smiled at her, oblivious to her off mood. Or perhaps he could tell and was already trying to cheer her up. If that was the case, it worked; his smile was like the sun.

"Do you still wanna go to the movies?"

Cora shook her head, thinking of how Rasmus had smiled as he lied to his best friend. "No, not the movies. How do you feel about the beach?"

Half an hour later, they were walking along the Long Island shore with drinks in hand—a smoothie for Cora and a milkshake for Simon. What had been a light breeze on campus was much stronger here right by the water, whipping strands of her hair around her face but providing some relief from the August heat. The wind did little to stop other students like themselves from coming down to the beach to start bonfires and drink and be otherwise rambunctious. But people were much more scared than they'd ever care to admit of something touching their foot in the ocean when the water was pitch black and they were unable to see what was beneath them, so Cora and Simon were relatively isolated as they waded calf-deep in the surf. Sand slipped out between her toes with the retreating tide, tickling her.

"So, we survived one whole week," Simon pointed out. "How are you feeling?"

Cora was experiencing a whole maelstrom of feelings, some of which had to do with Rasmus but many which were simply attached to all the change that came with starting college.

"Glad you're with me."

Next to her, Simon's pale hair was almost silver in the moonlight, and when he smiled, his teeth were nearly as white. "I'm glad I'm with you, too."

After allowing her eyes to flicker shut with contentment, Cora tilted her head back to embrace the breeze that lapped against her cheeks and ran its fingers through her hair. She soaked it all in for a moment, feeling more grateful than anything else. Her irritation about Rasmus was pulled out with the tide.

She reached for Simon's hand. He didn't let go of her but looked down at their intertwined fingers.

"People are gonna think we're a couple," he reminded her gently.

"They probably already think that, anyway," she shrugged. "And besides, do you really care? I don't. We're just Cora and Simon—that's all that matters to me."

Rasmus was back for another thrilling installment of therapy with Dr. Pierce.

So long as the working definition of thrilling was that it made one want to smash their head into the wall.

She had her stupid notepad out as always and a second painting of a koi fish had appeared next to the first painting of a koi fish. Because one koi fish apparently wasn't enough koi fish.

"Do you still smoke?" she asked him.

"Not really."

She clicked her pen, ready to make sure his trauma was forever preserved in writing. "Let's talk about what that means. When you say 'not really,' does that mean you still do it on occasion?"

Rasmus shrugged. "I have. When I'm really stressed. But I'm not going to anymore—with the show and all."

She vaguely nodded her approval. That was the other infuriating thing about therapists—they'll never tell you outright what they think you should or shouldn't do, just imply that it might help somewhat if you at least try something out.

"Do you have a plan for what to do if you get the urge to smoke again?"

Rasmus fought back a scowl. "I'm not addicted to nicotine, doctor."

His body language was clearly indicative of the fact that he wanted her to shut up and move on, but she was unrelenting. "Alright, what about alcohol? Do you still drink?"

"In case you didn't notice," he remarked dryly. "I kind of work during prime drinking hours now."

"That didn't answer the question, Rasmus."

He hesitated. He had been irked for the whole session—as he usually was—but for the first time, a true pit of discomfort settled in his stomach.

"Not around anyone I actually like," he finally offered slowly, reluctantly.

Dr. Pierce looked genuinely curious now. She'd set her notebook and pen aside and now folded her hands across her lap. "And why is that?"

The conversation was breaching dangerously close to topics he really didn't want to talk about with her, but Rasmus felt like he didn't have much of a choice but to confess.

"Because I don't want them to see me like that."

"Like what?"

Wasn't it obvious? "Like my dad." 

____________________

A/N:

did somebody say daddy issues?