And always in the background, Jackson. Gone for training, unreachable except for the rare text that hit my phone like a lightning strike. Our moment on the porch had changed everything. Our moment in his room had changedme.
I’d never admit it out loud, as that involved witnesses and feeling, but I missed him. Missed the calm in his voice, the way his gray eyes saw right through me, the way he made silence feel safe.
I ached for another kiss. Not the fairytale kind. The real one. The inconvenient, ruin-your-dignity kind. Which was entirely his fault. At night, when things got too quiet and my brain tried to drag me back into old patterns. Clenched hands. Tight breaths. That rush of heat behind the eyes that I refused to let fall. And then something new happened—something I pretended wasn’t happening. My brain went looking for the memory of Jackson’s arm around me. Not the kiss. Not the heat. Theweight. That slow, steady rise and fall of his chest under my cheek. The grounding of his heartbeat. The way he didn’t rush or expect anything. Just…existed.
It was ridiculous. Silly. EMDR-without-the-beeping levels of nonsense. But the tightness eased. My hands steadied, my lungsdidn’t fight the air I filled them with. Damn. Should’ve sent myself a copay.
By the time classes started in earnest, life was chaos in the usual way. Lecture halls crammed with bodies, professors droning about syllabi, endless lines at the coffee shop. I sat in the back with my notebook open, hood pulled low, trying to disappear into the noise. Some days I managed. Others, I couldn’t stop my hands from trembling, couldn’t block the memories when a stranger’s laugh hit too sharp, too close. But I kept showing up. One day at a time, one class at a time.
There were moments that surprised me. Like the day my history professor fired off a question about the Reconstruction Amendments. The room went dead silent, two hundred students ducking their heads. Against my better judgment, my hand went up. My voice shook, but the answer came out clean, and the professor gave me a quick nod of approval before moving on. I sat there grinning like an idiot, heat crawling up my neck, and fully aware I was acting like a toddler given a dollar in a candy store. It was the tiniest thing, but for once, I didn’t feel invisible.?
Other days, doubt hit harder. I’d leave class with a headache, staring at the flood of students around me, wondering if I belonged here at all. If I was only fooling myself into thinking I could be normal. If I’d made a mistake choosing this path.?
At two in the morning, the questions got worse. I’d sit hunched over my desk, notes scattered everywhere, some math problem staring back at me like Satan and a bored Greek philosopher had personally designed it. I was convinced the teacher had beef with me specifically. Or maybe it was just my sanity he wanted to see ruined. My chest would tighten until I caved and grabbed my phone.?
Hannah answered once, her voice thick with sleep but gentle. “Breathe, Holly. Walk me through the problem.”
I contemplated faking a bad connection. I eyed the discarded chocolate bar wrapper that would make a very convincing static sound. Then I closed my eyes and forced myself to breathe like a semi-functioning, self-respecting adult.
Another time it was Maria, who didn’t even bother pretending to know what a unilateral equation was. “Hell if I know,chica. But I’ll stay on the line while you figure it out. Maybe Jewel will wake up and give us both the answer.” We laughed until my shoulders finally unclenched. And then I finished the damn equation.
They were small things, maybe insignificant to anyone else. But to me, they were proof I wasn’t drowning. Proof I could keep going.
And then life threw in Dalton.
It was a Thursday morning, already too hot for March, the Georgia sun pretending it was July as I hustled toward the science building. My backpack strap cut into my shoulder, my sneakers slapped against the pavement, and my heart was pounding—not because of exercise but because I was late. Again.
And then the sun vanished. I nearly smacked into him.
Dalton Mills. Six foot of smug jock, leather jacket slung over his shoulder like we weren’t all sweating through our clothes. He stood square in my path, grinning like he’d been waiting for this exact moment just to derail me.
“Morning, Malibu.”
I blinked. “What—”
Before I could finish, he shoved a cup into my hands. Not coffee. No. This thing was a monstrosity, the Starbucks version of a sugar-loaded middle finger. Whipped cream piled a mile high, caramel dripping down the sides, condensation already soaking the cardboard sleeve.
“What’s this?”
“Your breakfast.” He looked far too pleased with himself. “Courtesy of yours truly.”
Suspicion flared so fast I almost dropped the cup. “Did Jackson put you up to this?”
Dalton cocked his head, feigning confusion so badly I wanted to slap him. “Who?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Never heard of him.” His grin sharpened. “Tall guy, buzzcut, likes to boss people around? Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
My stomach did an irritating little flip I refused to acknowledge. I clutched the cup tighter. “How did you even know what I drink?”
Dalton leaned in just close enough for me to smell leather and aftershave, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial drawl. “Maria.”
“She wouldn’t,” I frowned, though deep down I knew she absolutely would.
“Oh, she would. Turns out your girl’s easy. Promised her I’d babysit Jewel this weekend, and suddenly she’s singing like a canary.” He smirked. “You should be thanking me, really. Now you get your coffee,andMaria gets a night off. Everybody wins.”
I stared at him, speechless, and briefly contemplated dumping it over his head and slapping the shit out of him. But that was probably the exhaustion talking.
