Douchebag.
She yawns, her body screaming for a warm bath and pillow as she combs through the posts. Her finger hovers when she sees his name.
So, you’ll be here the whole semester then?
“Roman Hayes,” she says, reading his response, and can’t help but think thatit suits him. Her skin flushes when she reads her name on the screen, and she shakes her head.You're his TA now. Nothing can happen,she thinks as she stands and she can't help the sting in her chest. Her phone rings, Imani’s name flashing across the screen, but she declines the call.
Jahlani
About to head home. I’ll call you when I get in.
A wave of dizziness reaches her, and she catches herself on the edge of the desk. Blinking slowly, she clutches her head as it throbs. Reaching into her bag, she fishes for her bottle of ibuprofen, only to get pricked by a loose pushpin and come up short.
“Shit,” she says, drawing her finger to her mouth.
Glancing at the clock, she tells herself she’ll eat when she gets to the house. Her mom is guaranteed to have some kind of homemade dish in the fridge. Brown stew chicken, maybe some oxtail. Jahlani skirts around her mother as much as possible, unpacking, decluttering, and always waiting for the click of the front door before she leaves.
If she didn't know any better, she’d think she was living alone. It wasn’t always like this with her mom. There was a time when they were together. Normal.
But the older she gets, the more out of reach it seems.
With the door locked, her steps falter as she makes her way through the desolate hallway, her head heavy and her body trembling. The day had been a whirlwind of lectures, assignments, and a string of impromptu group meetings. She hadn’t had a moment to herself, let alone time to eat or drink. Her stomach twists in protest, but she forces herself to keep walking.
The sun has long since set, but the campus is still alive with movement, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights accompanies her footsteps. She reaches the exit, her hand grazing the handle, but as she takes a step forward, the room tilts. The world spins around her, dizzying her further. She manages to push the dooropen but barely has time to brace herself as her body sways dangerously, and her shoulder collides with the wall.
No, that’s not right.
It isn’t as solid as it should be. It’s smoother. Warm. A deep, powdery scent lingers.
Jahlani blinks, trying to clear the fog in her brain. The wall shifts again, and she teeters, her knees unsteady beneath her. With great effort, she lifts her head, her heart pounding in confusion. A sturdy frame stands directly in front of her, a pair of robust arms outstretched, holding her upright.
Her gaze travels up, and her breath hitches in her throat.
Olive-hued eyes. Crimson cheeks. Fair skin.
Roman.
His features are so vivid, so striking against the shadowed light of the exit. His face angles slightly, brows furrowed, lips parted as if debating whether to speak. A few sable curls frame his forehead, and her hand, still resting against his chest, recoils as she untangles herself from him.
“Are you okay?” His voice is low, warm, and edged with a concern that makes her feel a strange mixture of deliriousness, comfort, embarrassment, and something else.
“I—yeah. I’m fine,” Jahlani mutters, though her body still sways and her thoughts are hazy.
“Here,” he says, stepping closer, one hand gently pressing to her back to steady her. “Let me help.”
“I said I’m fine,” she clips, trying to create space. But her voice sounds far away, and there’s a low buzz in her ears. She stumbles again, and this time he keeps his hands firm on her arms as he guides her to a bench.
“Jahlani, you practically fell into my arms.”
She tries to protest, but the words are caught in her throat, and she ends up leaning more heavily into him.
“Here,” he says, his voice a steady anchor in her foggy mind as he pulls out a bottle. “Drink this.”
She looks up at him, which is abad ideabecause her head is clearing, andGod, he’sunreasonably attractive,she thinks. The movement makes her stomach clench again, and she feels the faintest tremor of nausea bubbling to the surface.
As she takes in the crease on his forehead, she folds her hands under her thighs. Her pulse is like a drum in her ears. She looks down at the drink in his hand, then back at him and she’s suddenly hyper-aware of how dry her mouth is. She squints harder, soaking him in. His torso seems longer than she recalls, his muscles more toned. And his scent.
She didn’t remember him being so …
