Until he shifts us.
His mouth claims mine with a surer edge, his hands firm on my waist, steadying and steering in the same breath. He takes over so easily that it makes my head spin.
One hand fists in my hoodie, dragging me closer, the other anchoring tight at my hip, guiding the roll of my body against his. Controlled, certain, unhesitant. He knows what I need and exactly how to give it to me.
He groans low, deep in his throat, and the sound does something dangerous to my insides. When I shift against him, he tightens his grip and grinds up to meet me.
He tastes like Red Bull and mint chewing gum. It’s disgusting. I can’t get enough.
His fingers slide softly along my back, tracing lower, exploring, until they catch at the crease of my hip bone. My stomach twitches—too sensitive, too vulnerable—but I don’t stop him. He moves slowly, tentative, asking despite the fact that he’s not speaking. Like I could stop this at any second, and he’d be fine with it. I won’t. I don’t want to.
"Tell me if?—"
"Shut up." I breathe, lips moving along his jawline.
His mouth crashes into mine again, more demanding this time. My thighs tighten around his hips. We’re fully dressed, and I feel like I’m utterly unraveling. Every shift of pressure, every slide of friction. It’s not enough, but it’s so much better than anything before now.
My body is buzzing from want. Fromneed.From him.
He pulls me harder against him, and I can feel just how not-casual this is for him, too. His breath stutters against my neck as I roll my hips again, chasing the edge of?—
Ding.
A notification tone pings from the laptop.
We both freeze.
His hands are still on me, fingers flexed mid-movement, breath hot against my neck. We’re still tangled close, sharing the air between our mouths. My body’s still reacting to him, but my brain has already spun sideways, latching onto that sound with immediate dread.
I twist just enough to see over my shoulder. My back pulls tight as I shift, every muscle tense, braced.
The screen flickers. The file we couldn’t open has launched itself. No prompt. No click. Just playing.
I go still, the air in my lungs caught somewhere between inhale and panic.
The screen stays black for a beat.
My stomach drops.
Then the video starts.
And I feel cold all over.
Not just physically—though the temperature in the room feels like it’s dropped ten degrees—but in that creeping, all-consuming way that says we just crossed a line we can’t uncross.
In more ways than one.
The footage is grainy, low-light. A room, windowless, crowded—maybe a basement under one of the dorms, cluttered with folding chairs and empty bottles.
I shift my weight forward, bracing my hands on Mads’ knees without thinking. The change in atmosphere is instant. Everything between us a second ago—the heat, the reckless pull—is replaced with cold focus.
In the video, there’s group of guys, early twenties, all jittery with the kind of adrenaline that curdles into fear. Each of them wears a creepy mask, blank and expressionless. There’s nothing identifiable about them—just the way they move. One of them paces while another stands stiff near a body slumped in the corner, the others hovering like they can’t decide whether to run or intervene.
The tension in their bodies mirrors the knot forming in my chest.
The audio is rough, but the words land clear enough.
“No one can know about this,” the one pacing says, voice panicked. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far. We have to make it look like an accident somehow.”
