He chuckles under his breath, then lights a joint and passes it to me.
We smoke. The air goes soft and slow, thick with silence.
I don’t forgive him. But for now, this is fine. The two of us, sitting in the dark, half-broken, half-loyal, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.
Because that’s whatAvalonwas always meant to be. A place out of reach. A promise between brothers that we’d always have each other’s backs.
18
Chloe
Sleepdoesn’tcomeeasy.
Every time I close my eyes, I see him. The cut of his jaw in the dim light, the way his breath had ghosted against my throat. I tell myself it’s just leftover adrenaline, just confusion, but that’s a lie even I can’t swallow.
I hate myself for wanting him. For remembering the warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the way his voice dropped when he said my name.
It’s wrong. He’s wrong. And I’m worse for letting him under my skin.
So I make a decision.
I’ll ignore him. I’ll bury it. I’ll throw myself into classes, practice, and sorority life until there’s nothing left of this… whatever this is.
By the time morning light filters through my blinds, I’ve repeated that promise so many times it almost feels real.
The Delta Pi common room smells like coffee and toasted bagels and expensive perfume. Sunlight spills through the tall windows, hitting every glittering surface just right—framed photos, trophies, the chandelier that never stops swaying.
It should feel warm, familiar. It doesn’t.
Conversations hush the second I walk in.
It’s subtle at first—eyes sliding toward me, whispers under breath, the clatter of forks slowing against plates. Then someone giggles, and the sound slices straight through the air.
I freeze by the doorway, tray in hand.
Brielle and Maggie are perched at the corner table, hair perfect, smiles painted on like armor. Across from them, Bella laughs at something one of the girls says.
I take a step forward, pretending not to notice, but every instinct screams that I’m being watched.
“Morning,” I mumble, forcing a smile as I grab a coffee mug.
No one answers.
Leslie—sweet, quiet Leslie—sits near the end of the table. She gives me a look that’s half pity, half warning. Since I started sleeping with Jamie, I have kind of come to like her.
I mean, she’s pretty and I get why Miles would want to hook up with her.
The memory of me doing the same very thing sours in my stomach.
I set my tray down, but before I can sit, Brielle says, “Oh—sorry, that seat’s taken.”
It’s not. It’s empty except for her phone and a napkin, but the challenge in her eyes dares me to argue.
I back away, my smile cracking at the edges. “Right. My bad.”
I move to another table, sit alone, and scroll through my phone like I don’t care.
The whispers start again.
