But I was trying.
God, I was trying.
Chapter 8: Alex
I shouldn’t have come here.
The thought arrived too late, after my knuckles had already rapped against Ethan’s door. Three sharp knocks that echoed down the empty hallway of Bradford Hall.
The Kingswell upperclassman dorm was quiet at this hour—past midnight, most people either passed out or still at parties.
I stood there, swaying slightly. My ribs ached where someone’s elbow had caught me, and my knuckles were split, dried blood crusting in the creases.
The door opened a crack.
Ethan’s face appeared, squinting against the hallway light. He was shirtless, wearing flannel pajama pants that hung low on his hips. His hair mussed from sleep, a crease from his pillow pressed into his left cheek—he must’ve been about to fall asleep.
“Alex?” His voice was rough with sleep, but it sharpened immediately when he saw my face. “Holy shit. What happened?”
“Can I—” My voice cracked. I swallowed hard, tasted blood and beer. “Can I come in?”
He didn’t answer, just opened the door wider and stepped back. I walked past him into the room, and something in my chest loosened. Safe. This was safe.
Ethan’s single was exactly what I expected—a controlled explosion of creativity. Christmas lights outlined the crack where the wall met the ceiling. Posters covered the walls: indie films I’d never heard of, a massive print of Call Me By Your Name, something in French that looked artsy and pretentious. A corkboard above his desk was layered with photos—Ethan at various parties, arms around people I recognized from campus, candid shots that captured moments mid-laugh.
His desk was chaos: laptop open, editing software paused on what looked like crew practice footage. Empty coffee cups forming a small graveyard and a ring light on a tripod in the corner.
“Sit.” Ethan gestured to the bed, then flipped on his desk lamp. He grabbed a water bottle from his mini-fridge and thrust it at me. “Drink this. You reek like a brewery.”
I sat. The mattress was softer than mine, and I sank into it. My whole body hurt, not just the physical aches—something deeper.
“There was a fight,” I said. My voice sounded distant, like it belonged to someone else. “At the party. Kappa Alpha Theta.”
Ethan lowered himself into his desk chair, spinning it to face me. “Yeah, I saw it on someone’s Instagram story.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Marcus started it, didn’t he?”
I nodded and took a drink of water. The cold helped.
“He said some shit to one of the Riverside guys. Remy, I think? I don’t— it happened so fast.”
I pressed my hand against my forehead. Marcus called Remy a faggot. I couldn’t tell Ethan that.
“Liam punched him. Then everyone was just—”
“Liam.” Ethan’s voice was careful. “Liam Moore?”
“Yeah.” I took another drink. I felt sick, and the room was starting to spin.
“And you were there.”
“I was there.”
Silence. I could feel Ethan watching me, that observant way he had. Like he could see through all the layers I’d built up. It was usually comforting, but tonight it felt dangerous.
“Did Liam hit you?” Ethan asked.
“No.” The word came out sharper than I intended. “No, he— Someone else came at me and Liam—” I stopped. Swallowed hard. “He stopped them.”
Another pause, but longer this time.
