“Yeah. Lindy. Nineteen. She stayed back home in Wisconsin.” His mouth tightens just a fraction, like he misses her in ways he doesn’t say out loud.
The space between us feels more intimate suddenly, like we’ve closed a gap I didn’t know existed.
“Guess that makes us both big brothers,” I say, softer than my usual snark.
He nods, eyes meeting mine across the mugs.
We keep talking, the conversation weaving from sisters to professors who suck, from music to basketball, from why the weather here still feels wrong in December to which food trucks on campus are actually edible. Every time he laughs—quiet, guarded, but real—I feel like I’ve scored a point I didn’t know we were keeping track of.
By the time our mugs are empty, the café feels warmer than when we walked in. And the thought that on Sunday, it’ll justbe us and guitars? It sits in my chest like a song begging to be written.
CHAPTER
SIX
I’m pacing.Which is bullshit, because I don’t pace. Not before shows, not before exams, not even when my parents are visiting and my mamá is checking the state of our fridge like the number of expired yogurts is some kind of moral failing. But right now? I’m a goddamn metronome wearing a path into my shitty secondhand rug, running scales in my head, tapping out rhythms on my thigh, trying not to check my phone again.
He said Sunday. He said yes. He’s coming.
And I hate that I’m worked up over it.
It’s not like I don’t know how this probably ends. His teammates joke about girls, his face is plastered on flyers, he shakes hands with boosters and church ladies.Straight, every signal screams. I should take the hint. But then there was that look. The way his gaze snagged mine and wouldn’t let go. The heat that flushed his cheeks like someone lit a match under his skin.
So now I’m stuck in this loop. Am I a total idiot for reading into it? Or worse, am I just some asshole convincing myself a straight guy’s blush meant something? Either way, it makes me feel like a dick, and I hate feeling like a dick.
Before I can spiral any harder, there’s a knock at the door.
I freeze mid-step. My pulse goes sideways.
“Come in,” I call, and the door creaks open.
Ollie stands there, tall and composed, except for the way his hand flexes once at his side like he doesn’t know what else to do with it. He’s in jeans and a sweatshirt that looks like it belongs in a Nike ad. His hair’s damp, like he showered before coming over. And his eyes—dark, steady, locked on me—have my stomach in sailor’s knots.
“You made it,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
“Yeah.” He steps in, glances around, and shuts the door.
This was probably not the smartest idea. My bandmates and I share this apartment, and while they’re gone now—jobs, library, somewhere—I know they’ll trickle back in. And instead of taking him to some neutral practice room, I’ve brought Ollie Marshall, captain of the Panthers, golden boy of campus, intomyroom. The one place I can’t fake anything.
The room with the lumpy secondhand sofa that sinks like quicksand, the milk crate full of records I can’t afford a proper shelf for, and the chipped desk littered with half-scribbled lyrics and coffee mugs.
He takes it all in. His gaze lingers on the posters taped unevenly to the wall, the battered amp in the corner, the beat-up acoustic leaning by the bed. And for a split second, I’m tempted to feel embarrassed.
But no. Fuck that. I promised myself a long time ago that I’d be proud of the life I’ve built. Proud of making it work, proud of not needing some gleaming condo or family money to validate me.
So instead, I watch him. Watch how his mouth ticks like he wants to say something but isn’t sure what. Watch how his shoulders are looser than they are in the gym, his eyes softer without the weight of teammates orbiting him.
This—this feels closer to the real Ollie.
“You want the couch?” I ask, nodding at the sofa.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Doesn’t look like it wants me.”
“Fair,” I admit. “It’s been threatening to collapse for months. Don’t lean left too hard.”
He cracks a grin, quick but genuine, and it does something to me I’m not ready to admit.
“Here,” I say, dragging the acoustic forward. “Let’s just play.”
