The thought made my stomach twist. Matty would think I was insane.
He couldn’t find out.
I pressed a shaking hand to my mouth, trying to breathe past the panic clawing at my throat.
“You’re an idiot,” I whispered again, this time softer, almost like a prayer.
Because all I’d ever wanted was for him to see me. And now that he finally did…I was the one who couldn’t face it.
I let my forehead rest against the door a second longer, then pushed off, a tiny, secret smile tugging at my mouth. My legs felt like jelly, thighs brushing together with every step, and the soreness hit sweet and insistent between them. I stopped mid-room, breath catching.
I may have run…but it didn’t change that…
It had happened.
He’d kissed me. His fingers, his tongue…they’d been inside my body. He’d growled my name like it belonged to him. I shifted again, wincing at the tender ache, and the smile widened. Proof. Real, undeniable proof etched into my body.
My hand drifted to my lips, still swollen, still tasting him. I could feel the ghost of his teeth, the heat of his breath, the way he’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the universe. My knees buckled a little; I sank onto the edge of the bed, pressing my thighs together to chase the throb.
He gave me orgasms.Plural. Loud, shaking,his. And he’d come in his jeans just from tasting me. I bit my lip hard enough to sting, a giddy laugh bubbling up.
I dropped onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, then closing as my heart thrashed in my chest, refusing to calm. I was back in that bathroom again, hearing his wrecked voice, touching the wet spot, savoring the grin he’d given me, like I’d handed him the world. My fingers curled into the sheets, and I let myself feel it all: the soreness, the ache,himstill clinging to my skin.
I’d spent so long imagining this moment—what it would feel like if he looked at me, really looked—and now that he had, the room seemed to sway under the weight of it.
My eyes fluttered open, catching on the floor. My shoes I’d kicked off yesterday after class were there, one of them lying on its side. The sight of something so ordinary after a night like this felt unreal, like the world should look different now, because I did.
Then I saw the mess.
The torn pages, ripped photographs, scraps of tape curled like wilted petals. The pieces of everything I’d sworn I was done with.
Sliding off the bed, I crouched down, my fingertips grazing the pile. Bits of glossy paper stuck to my skin. There he was—half a smile, a flash of dark hair, his number scrawled on a jersey sleeve. My throat tightened.
I’d destroyed it all when I’d promised myself I’d stop. I’d told myself I wasn’t that girl anymore—the one who waited outside practice, who memorized the shape of his shadow against the field lights.
But tonight had changed everything. Hadn’t it?
The thought was soft, coaxing. I smoothed a torn corner of his face, tracing the outline of his grin. It didn’t feel like madness now. It felt like hope.
I gathered the fragments carefully, laying them on the desk in a trembling mosaic. My fingers moved before I could think. Strip after strip, I pressed the pieces together, fitting them like a puzzle until his image began to reappear.
Eachclickof the tape made my heart jump.
His smile returned first, that lopsided curve that had wrecked me the moment I saw it on the computer screen. Then his eyes, that impossible blue that never looked the same in pictures. I kept going—his hands, the edge of his uniform, the faint smudge of dirt across his jaw.
By the time I finished, the wall looked almost whole again. Imperfect, patched, some tear stains visible in the right light…but he was back where he belonged. Watching me.
I stepped back after I hung up the ball cap I’d taken from him, my breath trembling out of me. “You’re mine,” I whispered before I could stop myself. Not loud, not certain, just a tiny promise that seemed to fill the room anyway.
My desk chair bumped against my knees. I sank into it, heart still racing, and pulled the new journal from the drawer. I’d bought it yesterday to replace the one I’d torn apart. The cover still smelled like fresh paper and glue, the corners crisp, unbent by restless hands. Opening it to the first blank page, I picked up a pen and hovered it over for a second before my hand started moving.
Mrs. Adler.
The ink bled slightly where I pressed too hard.
Mrs. Ophelia Adler.
The name looked beautiful—too beautiful to be real. I wrote it again, slower this time, tracing each letter like a prayer. The words blurred as my eyes stung, but I didn’t stop. The page filled with the shape of his name next to mine, the curl of theMlooping into myO, over and over until it felt like breathing.
