I kiss him back, every inch of me aching for him, wanting him to know just how much his kisses and touches unravel me. When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead brushes mine, our breaths mingling in the small space left between us.
“I missed you,” he says, his voice low and rough in a way that sends sparks dancing through my stomach.
I let out a soft, nervous chuckle, too flustered to meet his gaze even with our faces so close.
“You saw me yesterday,” I mumble, my voice still small, but smiling now.
He tilts his head slightly, lips brushing the corner of mine again.
“I know,” he whispers. “Still missed you.”
My heart trips.
How does he say things like that so easily, so confidently, while I feel like I’m unraveling in his hands every time he looks at me?
I barely realize I’m still holding the flyers until he speaks.
“What are the flyers for?”
His voice is calm, but it cuts through the quiet like a blade.
I pull away from him, eyes dropping before I even realize it. My chest tightens, breath snagging in my throat.
The flyers are still clutched in my hand—smooth, creased edges digging into my palm like they’re trying to remind me they exist. The disability based scholarship and aid applications. The financial support for DHH students.
And suddenly, I hate that I didn’t put them in my bag sooner.
I don’t know why it hits me so hard, but it does. A flush of shame crawls up the back of my neck like I’ve just been exposed, like I’ve been caught doing something shameful.
Like I’ve been seen in a way I wasn’t ready for.
“Nothing,” I mumble, too fast, too soft. My fingers move in a clumsy rush to shove the papers into my bag, like that will erase the moment.
He doesn’t say anything right away. I can feel his eyes on me, steady and unreadable. The weight of it only makes my movements more desperate, my heartbeat louder in my ears.
I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. I shouldn’t be.
Maybe it’s the word aid.
Or maybe… It’s the fact that I’m applying for scholarships meant for people who can’t afford college, for people like me, while he lives in a fucking penthouse with marble floors and private elevators, drives expensive cars, and pours his coffee into mugs that probably cost more than my rent.
I’ve never really shamed myself for being poor before.
Not in this way. Not like this.
But suddenly, I do.
Because the man I like—the man who’s kissed me like I’m something holy—he’s filthy rich. And me? I’m just trying to figure out if I can even afford to dream.
I want to disappear. I want to take every part of this soft, trembling shame and shove it somewhere deep where he can’t see it.
But it’s too late.
And God, I hate this feeling. I hate the way I suddenly feel small. And most of all, I hate that a part of me believes I’ll never really belong in his world.
“Stop whatever thoughts that are running through your head right now,” Alex says, and there’s an edge in his voice that cuts through the silence like a blade.
I glance up, and find him staring at me with one of those looks—serious, intense, like he can see straight through the cracks I try to keep hidden.
