"—and it's not fair to you if I can't give you everything you need because let's be honest, you've never even been with a guy before me, so how do you know you want to be with just one, and?—"
"Oh, hell no."
I'm in the middle of pulling off my hoodie. It's too hot; I'm sweating. I can't have this conversation while slowly cooking to death, when the world tilts.
One second I'm standing there with my hoodie halfway over my head, arms tangled in fabric, and the next second I'm upside down.
Over Gavin's shoulder.
Moving.
"What the?—”
"Nope." Gavin's voice is cheerful and slightly unhinged. "Nope, nope, nope."
"Put me down!”
"Can't do that, Doc."
I struggle, but my arms are trapped in my hoodie, and my backpack is dangling from one hand, and I can't get anyleverage. Gavin's shoulder digs into my stomach as he starts walking, no, jogging.
He's jogging across campus, actually jogging, with me slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. His breathing isn't even labored, which is honestly insulting.
Here I am, having what might be a legitimate panic attack while dangling upside down, and he's treating this like a light warm-up jog.
My hoodie now completely covers my face, creating a makeshift blindfold that smells like fabric softener and my nervous sweat. I can hear pieces of conversation as we pass groups of students, feel the vibrations of Gavin's footsteps on pavement, then grass, then pavement again.
"This is assault!" I manage between bounces, my voice muffled by cotton blend. "This is definitely assault!"
"It's conflict resolution," Gavin corrects cheerfully, adjusting his grip on my legs. "There's a difference."
"Gavin, I swear to God?—"
"We are going to Communicate!” He sounds absolutely deranged. "I'm sorry, Doc, but Sylas told me to!"
"Sylas?”
"He gave me advice!"
"I'm going to kill him." I try to kick, but Gavin's arm is locked around my thighs like a steel bar. "I'm going to dump all his makeup in the toilet. I'm going to cut the laces on every single one of his corsets. I'm going to?—"
Someone laughs.
I freeze.
We're passing people. Of course, we're passing people. It's a Friday night on a college campus, and I'm being carried like a kidnapping victim by a six-foot-four football player while yelling about destroying someone's makeup collection.
"Oh my God," someone says, a girl's voice, delighted. "Is that?—"
"Nothing to see here!" Gavin calls out, not slowing down. "Just a minor communication emergency!"
"Put me down!”
"Not until we talk!"
My face is burning. The blood is rushing to my head, or maybe that's just the mortification. My glasses are sliding down my nose, and I can't push them back up because my arms are still tangled in this stupid hoodie.
"This is insane," I hiss. "You're insane. This is literally kidnapping."
