The whispers don’t just shift—they die. The entire chaotic, buzzing, rumor-infested space falls into a suffocating hush.
He’s in a gray hoodie, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a duffel bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. His hair is damp at the temples, wilder than usual. Even from here, he looks like he’s been working. Like he spent the morning on the ice, skating until his lungs burned, working the rage out of his system the only way he knows how.
He came straight from the rink. Straight to me. This is not the man from the gala, polished and controlled, nor is it the broken boy from the quad or the icy ghost from the weight room. He's something else entirely. His eyes sweep the room once.
A single, calculated sweep.
And then—
His gaze locks on mine. A straight, clean, devastating line. There’s no smile. No softening. Just raw, unfiltered intention.
He jerks his chin toward the door.
A command.
A promise.
A claim.
I’m leaving. You’re coming.
A slow, warm tide crawls up my neck. Down my spine.
Zoë, of course, vibrates with delight. “Ooooooh,” she sing-songs loudly enough for nearby tables to hear.
“Shut up, Zoë,” I murmur—but I’m smiling.
Sliding out of the booth, I avoid looking at my friends. I ignore the dozens of staring faces, the raised phones, the wide eyes, and the silent gasps, focusing only on him. Walking toward him, I move past whispers, judgment, and everything people think they know about us.
When I reach him, he doesn't speak. He just extends his hand. His fingers brush the inside of my wrist first—light, warm, deliberate. A near-touch that feels like an electric jolt.
My breath catches.
Then he takes my hand—slowly, firmly, letting each finger slide into place like a lock clicking closed.
His palm is rough. Against my skin, I feel the raised ridge of a cut and the grit of dried ink he hasn't scrubbed off yet. The stain of the pen he destroyed. The physical proof of what it cost him to get here.
His grip is a silent claim.
Mine.
He doesn't wait another second. With a sudden, possessive tug, he pulls me against the solid wall of his chest. His free hand cradles the back of my head, tilting my face up just before his mouth crashes down on mine.
The kiss is long, slow, and devastatingly thorough. It’s an open declaration, a statement made for every single person watching, listening, and judging. He kisses me like he’s branding me as his, letting the heat and depth of his claim burn away the whispers. There is no doubt, no hesitation, only the firm, undeniable pressure of his mouth telling the world exactly where I belong.
And then—
He pulls back, his eyes locked on mine, a silent challenge in their depths. His thumb brushes the damp fullness of mylower lip, a lingering, possessive touch. He doesn't need to say anything; the message is crystal clear in the set of his jaw and the fire in his gaze.
He turns.
And we walk out of the Student Union together.
Hand in hand.
Whispers exploding behind us. The storm breaking open in our wake.
Chapter 30
