“Yeah,” she says, biting her lower lip, indecision clear in her expression. She turns toward the building, only to make it one step away before she turns back around, coming to a stop right in front of me.
Leaning up, she presses a quick kiss to my cheek, and I think I might pass out.
“Thanks for the walk, Gray. It made my day pretty great.”
With that, she turns back to the building, heading into class, leaving me absolutely stunned speechless on the sidewalk.
When I finally turn and head to the parking lot, I can’t stop smiling even if I tried.
23
HARLOW
If there’s a circle of hell reserved for “mandatory events,” it looks exactly like this.
A room dressed up on a Saturday night to pretend it isn’t what it is: rink-adjacent concrete and folding chairs and a lingering scent of popcorn that no amount of string lights can erase. The tables are covered in black cloth, banners are hung all over, and someone has put out little placards with player photos like they’re collectibles instead of real people.
And the donors, boosters, and alumni are smiling with that polished, fake warmth and pleasantry that makes my skin feel too thin. Whether it’s true or not, it feels like their eyes see everything, and the dress I’m wearing doesn’t let me hide.
On FaceTime as I was getting ready, Wren gave me the world’s best pep talk, according to her at least, noting that my dress hugged every inch of me perfectly while giving just enough away to be a tease. And instead of it making me feel self-conscious, it gave me a boost of confidence.
When I ordered the dress, I honestly just scrolled until I found something I hoped would work, and tried it on once it came in yesterday afternoon. The last thing I needed wastoo many options or to spend too much time in fitting rooms, looking into the mirror and starting to pick apart every place on my body that I thought I looked too soft or not perfect enough.
Wren had started sending over hairstyle ideas as soon as I had told her that Grayson asked me to come with him, but I ended up pulling most of it into a messy bun at the base of my neck and curling a few of the loose strands framing my face. I kept my makeup simple to minimize the chances of feeling claustrophobic.
I hover near the edge with a cup of water as my eyes do their inventory without asking permission: exits, bathrooms, quiet corners, the shortest path to the door if my brain decides it’s had enough.
Three months ago, I didn’t have to do this.
Three months ago, my world was a laptop screen and an online lecture and a bathroom that always smelled like my own soap. A month ago, if something was too much, I could shut the door and pretend I didn’t exist.
NowI exist, constantly.
Kai is across the room, talking to a man in a blazer, posture squared, voice calm. The version of him that belongs in rooms like this. He looks comfortable on the surface, but his eyes keep flicking in my direction like he can’t stop himself.
Asher is nearby, polite and steady, making small talk like it costs him nothing.
Weston is…Weston, already laughing too loud and gesturing with his whole body as if the room were a stage and he was born under the spotlight.
And Grayson is wearing a dark button-up instead of a hoodie, which should not be that fascinating, but my eyes latched onto it right away when he showed up at my dorm to pick me up. It makes him look older, sharper, but mostly even more handsome than normal. The material stretches perfectlyacross his muscular arms, making him look even fitter and causing my brain to really start to wonder what he’d look like without it on.
He seemed to like my dress, too, judging by the smile that graced his lips as he took me in from head to toe. I was shocked when he opened my door in his truck, but even more stunned when he threaded his fingers through mine as we walked in.
Right now, he is a few feet away, listening to an older guy with a too-bright smile talk at him like Grayson is an investment. Grayson nods at the right times, says “Yes, sir,” and smiles politely. But his eyes keep flicking away. Not scanning like mine. Not searching for threats. Searching for the door.
My stomach tightens. Because I know what it looks like when someone is counting the minutes until they can breathe again. It’s the same way I look when I’m trapped in the dining hall line and the menu feels like a threat.
The older guy laughs and claps Grayson on the back—hard, familiar. Grayson’s whole body goes rigid for a split second. Not dramatic. Not obvious to the people who aren’t looking for it.
Obvious to me.
Something inside my chest twists.
I don’t think.
I move.
I weave between bodies with measured steps, sliding around shoulders and handbags, keeping my pace calm so I don’t draw attention. Every part of me wants to shrink, but my feet keep going anyway because my brain has decided Grayson’s stiffness matters more than my own comfort.
