But neither of us moved. Because some lines, once crossed, can never be uncrossed. And we'd just burned ours to the ground.
He pulled out slowly, and I felt the loss like cold air rushing in. My legs trembled as he lowered me to the floor, his hands steadying me at the hips until I found my balance.
Neither of us spoke.
He bent to retrieve my leggings from where they'd landed in the corner. Handed them to me without meeting my eyes. I pulled them on with shaking hands, hyperaware of the ache between my legs, the dampness on my thighs, the evidence of what we'd just done.
Calder turned away while I fastened my bra, redid the buttons on my shirt. But I caught him watching my reflection in the dark window—his jaw tight, eyes tracking every movement like he was fighting the urge to reach for me again.
I tucked my shirt in. Fixed my hair. My pulse still hadn't slowed.
He ran a hand through his own hair, exhaled hard. When he finally looked at me directly, something shuttered behind his eyes. "This can't keep happening."
The words landed heavy between us. Final.
I grabbed my jacket from the floor, forced myself to meet his gaze head-on. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Then stop coming back."
His expression cracked—just for a second—before the walls slammed back into place. He opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, to explain, to make promises we both knew he couldn't keep.
Instead, he just nodded once. Sharp. Dismissive.
I walked past him to the door, my hand on the handle when his voice stopped me.
"Billie—"
"Don't." I didn't turn around. "Whatever you're about to say, just… don't."
The silence stretched. Then I heard him move, his footsteps heavy behind me.
I left before he could say my name again. Before I could let him pull me back under.
Because he was right.
This couldn't keep happening.
But God help us both—it would.
I pushedthrough the dorm building's main entrance, my legs still unsteady, my skin still humming with the ghost of Calder's hands. The fluorescent hallway lights felt too bright, too exposing. I kept my head down and walked fast.
Then I saw him.
Nate leaned against my door like he had every right to be there, coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other. That easy, practiced smile spread across his face when he spotted me—the one he used for cameras and sponsors and anyone he needed something from.
My stomach dropped.
"Hey." He straightened, casual as Sunday morning. "Thought we could talk."
I stopped three feet away, arms crossed. "I'm not in the mood."
"Make it quick then." He gestured at my door with the coffee cup. "Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Every instinct screamed at me to tell him to leave. But exhaustion won out—emotional, physical, the kind that made arguing feel harder than just getting it over with. I fished my keys from my jacket pocket and unlocked the door.
He followed me inside without waiting for an invitation.
I didn't offer him a seat. Just dropped my bag on the desk chair and faced him, arms still crossed like armor. "What do you want, Nate?"
He set the coffee on my dresser—untouched, clearly a prop—and shoved his hands in his pockets. The smile dimmed just enough to look sincere. "I've been thinking about us."
