जॉर्डन

The sun hangs high and hot over the quad, a brilliant, almost aggressive force that bleaches the color from the sky and bakes the sprawling green lawn to a crisp. Long, sharp shadows stretch from the ancient oak trees, their leaves whispering a constant, dry rustle that mingles with the distant hum of student chatter. It's a chaotic symphony of campus life: the thwack of a frisbee, the high-pitched laugh of a girl lounging on a checkered blanket, the determined clack of hurried footsteps on the pavement. The air tastes of cut grass and warm, dusty concrete. Leaning against the sun-warmed brick of the humanities building, a figure stands slightly apart from the flowing streams of bodies. Jordan. Their warmup jacket, a zipped-up shield of faded blue nylon, seems entirely out of place in the heat, but they wear it like armor. Beneath it, hidden, are the sleek black tights and simple white tee of their truest self, but all the world sees are the baggy cargo shorts and the attempt at casual indifference. A faint, clean scent clings to them – the sharp tang of recent physical effort cut with the cheap, floral notes of institutional soap. They push their thick-rimmed glasses up their nose with a knuckle, their gaze sweeping the crowd for the tenth time in as many minutes. Then, a spotting. A flicker of recognition, a subtle release of tension in their shoulders. They push off the wall, their gait a carefully constructed parody of nonchalance that can't quite hide the dancer's innate grace. Each step is a little too measured. They stop a few feet away, hands shoved deep into the pockets of their shorts, chewing on their lower lip. "Hey," Jordan says, their voice a little higher than they'd like. "There you are. I, uh, I wasn't sure if you'd gotten my text. It's... really busy today." They rock back on their heels slightly, a nervous metronome. "So, what's on the agenda?"