Chapter Text
Alex Danvers likes to know where she stands.
She likes clear expectations, defined parameters, and outcomes that make sense if you work hard enough. She likes professors who stick to their syllabi, classmates who come prepared, and lectures that follow a logical progression. College, for Alex, is not about self-discovery or experimentation. It is about execution. It is about building something stable enough to stand on later.
Which is why the girl who walks into Advanced Psychology halfway through the lecture feels like a disruption on a molecular level.
Alex hears her before she sees her.
The low creak of the lecture hall door. The soft but unmistakable sound of boots against tile. A few heads turn. The professor pauses mid-sentence, irritation flickering across his face.
“Miss—” he starts.
“Sorry,” the girl says easily, not sounding sorry at all. Her voice is warm, confident, threaded with something unapologetic. “Traffic.”
Alex’s pen stills mid-word.
Traffic is not an excuse. Not when you know the class schedule. Not when attendance counts. Not when everyone else managed to get here on time.
The girl flashes a quick smile—charming, disarming—and slips into a seat in the back row like she belongs there. Leather jacket shrugged off. Backpack tossed aside. Legs stretched out into the aisle.
Alex feels her jaw tighten.
She forces her attention back to her notes, but it’s useless. Something about the girl’s presence changes the energy of the room. It’s subtle, but Alex notices things like that. The way people glance back. The way the professor resumes, but with a faint edge to his tone.
Alex writes faster, neater, as if precision can compensate for the distraction.
She doesn’t look back again until discussion starts.
“Thoughts on the assigned reading?” the professor asks, scanning the room.
A few hands go up. Alex waits, heart steady, confident. She’s prepared. She always is.
Then a voice from the back cuts in.
“I think the author’s leaning too hard on trauma as a catch-all explanation.”
Alex’s head snaps up before she can stop herself.
The girl is leaning forward now, elbows braced on her knees, eyes sharp and focused. There’s nothing lazy about her posture anymore. She looks engaged. Intent.
“You can’t ignore environmental reinforcement,” the girl continues. “Not every maladaptive behavior comes from trauma. Sometimes it’s just what works.”
There’s a murmur of interest around the room.
Alex feels heat bloom in her chest.
The professor nods slowly. “Interesting. Care to expand?”
The girl does. Calmly. Confidently. She references studies Alex recognizes—ones she spent hours combing through, highlighting, annotating. The girl talks about conditioning, survival strategies, systemic influence.
Alex raises her hand before the girl finishes speaking.
“With respect,” Alex says when she’s called on, voice tight but controlled, “the neurological markers outlined in the text suggest a much deeper root. You can’t dismiss trauma responses when the evidence points—”
She stops.
The girl has turned her head.
Their eyes meet.
It’s brief, but it hits Alex like a physical thing. The girl’s gaze is dark and assessing, not hostile, not dismissive—just curious. Like Alex is something worth paying attention to.
Alex pushes through the rest of her point, grounding herself in the familiar rhythm of argument and citation. The professor listens, thoughtful, nodding.
“Excellent,” he says finally. “Both perspectives are compelling.”
Both.
Alex exhales slowly through her nose.
As class ends, she packs up with sharp, efficient movements. She’s already replaying the exchange in her head, analyzing it, cataloging it. She hates that the girl’s argument was solid. Hates that she hadn’t been able to poke a hole in it.
She feels a presence beside her.
“Good point,” the girl says casually.
Alex looks up despite herself.
Up close, the girl is… unfair. Dark hair pulled back loosely. A faint scar near her eyebrow. Eyes that seem to miss nothing.
“You’re close,” the girl adds, not unkindly. “I think you’re just underestimating adaptability.”
Close.
Alex bristles. “I’m not interested in being close. I’m interested in being correct.”
The girl grins. “Fair enough.”
She steps past Alex, gone before Alex can think of a better response.
Alex stands there for a moment longer than necessary, heart beating just a little too fast.
⸻
She learns the girl’s name two days later.
“Maggie Sawyer,” someone whispers during lecture, like it’s common knowledge. “Transfer student. Criminal psych double major.”
Of course she is.
Maggie Sawyer sits in the back row every class. Sometimes she’s early. Sometimes she’s not. She always participates. Always challenges. Always makes Alex work harder than she wants to admit.
They never speak directly again that week, but the tension is unmistakable. A push and pull threaded through every discussion. Alex starts staying up later, digging deeper into the material. She refuses to be caught off guard again.
What she refuses to acknowledge—what she absolutely will not examine—is the way her eyes keep drifting to the back row.
Or the way Maggie Sawyer seems to notice.