“I just did,”
He snorts then shifts slightly, careful as he withdraws, then flops beside me. “You know,” he says after catching his breath, “statistically speaking, simultaneous orgasms are pretty rare.” He turns his head to look at me. “Do you know the actual numbers on that?”
I laugh, rolling to face him. “Are you seriously asking me for sexual statistics right now?”
“Just curious if your brilliant brain has filed away that particular data point.”
“Hmm…” I pretend to consider.
“Around fifteen percent of heterosexual couples report simultaneous orgasm,” I say, not entirely making it up. “But the data’s self-reported, so probably inflated.”
“Well, we just contributed to that statistic.” He pulls me closer, his arm a warm weight across my waist. “I’d call that empirical evidence of compatibility.”
“One data point isn’t statistically significant,” I argue, but I’m smiling against his chest.
“Then I guess we’ll need to collect more data.” His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare back
28
ETHAN
Iwake to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and Piper’s hair tickling my nose. She’s pressed against me, soft and warm, one leg tangled between mine. Last night comes flooding back—the movies, the laughter, the way she came apart in my hands whispering my name.
I should feel content. Happy. Instead, there’s this restless energy humming under my skin.
Carefully, trying not to wake her, I reach for my phone on the nightstand. 7:42 AM. My movement must have jostled her because she makes this little sound, burrowing deeper into my chest.
“Morning,” I murmur, kissing the top of her head.
“Mmm. Too early.”
“Want coffee?”
“Want sleep.” But she's smiling against my skin.
I stretch, noticing her notebook beside my phone. It's open, covered in her neat handwriting. Game design notes? I lean over to look closer, curious what she's working on.
The words hit me like ice water.
“Violet particle effects.” “Tower destruction sequence.” “Six hours to heartbreak.”
My chest tightens.
No.
No way.
But I'm already reading more. There—“shock doesn't equal catharsis” and “earn your devastation.” The exact fucking words from ButterBoi69's critique. The one that's been eating at me for days.
“This is about Fault Line.”
She sits up abruptly, sheet clutched to her chest. “Ethan?—”
“You're ButterBoi69.” The words taste bitter. “You reviewed my game. You tore it apart.”
My mind is racing, calculating. Twenty percent of my grade. That review—that fucking 2 out of 5—brought my average down to a B-minus. In my best class. The one that's supposed to prove I'm not wasting my life.
“I can explain?—”
