It was raining, but not enough to matter.
Just enough to turn the courtyard into a dull watercolor of wet backpacks and soggy hair.
Hale stepped off the bus, dragging his hoodie tighter around him. A low yawn escaped his lips—half exhaustion, half emotional hangover. Two days of relative quiet and his brain didn't know whether to relax or prep for war.
Then he saw them.
Across the quad.
Barney and Ivy. Talking.
She was leaning against the vending machine. He was doing that stupid exaggerated hand gesture thing he always did when telling a story. She laughed. Genuinely.
Hale stopped walking.
It wasn't like Ivy didn't talk to people. But… Barney? Since when were they on sitcom chemistry levels?
Barney said something else, and Ivy tilted her head back laughing.
Hale felt it in his chest. Not like heartbreak.
More like disorientation.
Like watching your reflection wink at someone else.
They passed each other a few minutes later in the hall. Barney smacked Hale's shoulder as he strolled past.
"She's like if sarcasm put on lipstick and learned how to murder people with just eyebrow raises.
Dangerously dry. Intellectually hot. Probably keeps a hit list alphabetized by IQ.
Like a beautiful machete in a librarian's dress."
Hale didn't answer.
Art class.
Rain tapped the windows in a slow rhythm, background noise to charcoal and erasers.
Hale sat down next to Ivy. She didn't look over, but her pencil was already dancing across the paper.
Today's sketch was abstract. Twisting shapes. Curves. Something that looked like a spiral caught in barbed wire.
"Looks intense," Hale muttered.
Ivy smirked. "I call it 'emotionally unavailable with benefits.'"
He blinked. "What?"
She didn't elaborate. Just kept drawing.
Then, without looking up:
"Did you know if you stack three bad decisions and a Diet Coke, you can legally call it a personality?"
Hale snorted, unprepared. "Jesus. That's a Barney joke."
She finally turned to him, deadpan. "Is it? I thought it was a Tuesday joke."
That's when Hale really noticed it. The tone. The timing. The delivery.
She wasn't imitating Barney.
She was channeling him.
The sarcasm. The rhythm. Even her body language.
It was like he'd brushed off on her… too well.
Later, walking home alone, Hale kept replaying the moment in his head.
Her laugh with Barney.
Her joke in class.
That flicker of déjà vu that made his teeth itch.
And he thought:
Maybe this is what people call... the Barney effect.
But something deeper in his chest whispered:
No.
Barney doesn't rewrite people.
Something else is happening.
Something Hale still couldn't name.