Me: Doesn’t matter. Just answer the question.
There was a longer pause this time. I gripped the steering wheel with my free hand, glaring at the phone as if I could will him to reply. Finally, his text came through.
QB10: I’m fine, Sav. Don’t worry.
That was it. No explanation, no details — just that infuriating calm. I stared at the screen, my chest tight.Don’t worry?Frustration burned as my fingers raced across the keyboard.
Me: Don’t worry?! Too late.
I hit send before I could overthink it, dropped the phone onto the passenger seat, and started the car. The engine hummed, but I didn’t shift into gear. My phone sat face down, daring me to pick it back up.
Too late.
What was wrong with me? I didn’t talk like that. I didn’t... care that much. At least not abouthimof all people.
I pressed my forehead against the steering wheel, groaning, telling myself not to think about it anymore.
But that wasn’t what I did.
My hand inched toward the phone. I flipped it over, half dreading, half hoping he’d replied.
Nothing.
I checked again. Still nothing.
The longer the silence went on, the more it gnawed at me inside. Was he ignoring me? Was he in deeper trouble than he was letting on? Or was he sitting there, smirking, taking pleasure in the fact that I’d broken first? Because I was pretty sureeverythingwas a game to him.
I buckled my seatbelt and muttered to myself, “You’re pathetic, Savvy. Absolutely pathetic.”
Still, as I drove away, every streetlight seemed to count down to a message that never arrived. When I finally pulled around the back of my dorm, my chest was tight with questions I shouldn’t have been asking.
I got out of the car, listening to my inner monologue scolding me for being reckless. As I walked through the back door and slipped off my shoes, I jogged up the stairs to my dorm and came to an abrupt halt at the top of the staircase.
He was sitting on the floor outside my door, hoodie pulled up, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted back against the door, sunglasses on, and I wasn’t sure if he was asleep. He looked like he’d been there for a while.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Dante turned his head and looked right at me, his lips twitching when my hand flew to my mouth at seeing his bruises. His lip was split, the side of his face blooming purple, visible even behind his shades, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.
“Hey, Sav,” he greeted me, taking his shades off. His voice was hoarse and low enough to send a ripple of unease down my spine.
My steps faltered. “How—”
He rose slowly, looking pained, and I resisted the urge to help him. When his eyes met mine, the usual cocky sparkle was gone. No grin. No smug retort. Just Dante, bruised and waiting.
I tightened my grip on my shoes. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” He pushed his hand through his hair and winced at the movement. “Needed a change of scenery.”
For a moment, maybe two, I didn’t know what to say. Because this wasn’t the quarterback who ran the field like he was born to do it. This was Dante, injured, on the floor, having apparently decided that my door was the right door. I swallowedhard as I walked toward the door and unlocked it. “Should you be here?”
“Yeah,” he said softly, leaning against the wall. “Probably not.” But he didn’t move.
My keys shook as I pulled them out of the lock. Every rational part of me screamed that this was a bad idea, that if my father ever found out Dante had stepped into my dorm room, he’d have an aneurysm right then and there.
But then he shifted against the wall, letting out a low groan as if even breathing hurt, and my heart betrayed me.
The door clicked open. I stepped inside, then looked back over my shoulder. “Well? Are you coming in, or are you planning to pass out on the floor out here?”
