The beta scores count towards his final grade.
If his average drops below a B, if his GPA tanks...
Oh god. My review could literally be the thing that sends him home. That destroys his game design dreams. That proves his father right about this being a waste of time.
The room spins slightly, and not from the wine. I feel sick. Actually, physically sick.
“You're tensing up,” Ethan murmurs, his hand rubbing gentle circles on my arm. “You okay?”
“Just... processing the plot,” I manage, gesturing vaguely at his laptop screen where the YouTube video continues playing.
He chuckles. “It's a compilation of epic game wins, Pip. There's no plot.”
Right.
I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my drunk ears.
I should tell him. Right now. Just rip off the band-aid.
Hey, so funny story, I accidentally destroyed your future because I thought your game was made by someone more talented than you.
No. That's horrible. And I'm drunk. And he's so warm and happy right now, laughing at the video, his whole body relaxed. Tomorrow. When I'm sober, when I can find the right words, when I can maybe fix my review score first, bump it up to at least a 3 to help his average...
“You're going to like this one...” Ethan murmurs against my hair, switching to funny cat fails, pulling me from my spiral.
Tomorrow. I'll deal with this tomorrow when my brain is working properly and I can form sentences that don't start with “So I may have accidentally ruined your life...”
For tonight, I'll pretend everything is fine. I’m just a girl watching YouTube with a boy.
Even though I know I'm holding a secret that can destroy everything we're building.
A rhythmic thumping starts from the room next door, followed by a very distinctive moan.
We both freeze.
“Is that?—”
“Troy and Delilah,” Ethan confirms, slowly closing the laptop. “They’re, uh, enthusiastic.”
Another moan, louder this time, and then Troy’s voice carrying clearly through the wall. “Fuck, Del, just like that?—”
I press my face into Ethan’s shoulder, torn between mortification and hysterical laughter. “Oh my god.”
“Welcome to my world,” he says, but I can feel him shaking with suppressed laughter. “Wait for it...”
There’s a crash, definitely furniture moving, and then Delilah’s voice. “If you break another bed frame, I swear to god?—”
I lose it, giggling helplessly into his skin. He’s laughing too, and we’re both trying to be quiet but failing spectacularly. His hand comes up to muffle my laughter, fingers gentle against my mouth, and suddenly I’m aware of how intimate this is. How close we are.
“Another?” I manage against his palm. “How many have they?—”
“Three this semester.” His voice is low, amused. “Freddie started a betting pool.”
The sounds next door intensify—rhythmic, primal, impossible to ignore. I'm still pressed against Ethan's side, my face hidden in the crook of his neck, and I'm suddenly very aware of his skin against my cheek. Of how long it's been since I've been this close to anyone.
“God,” I breathe without thinking, “I haven't been touched in so long.”
The words slip out, wine-honest and raw. I feel Ethan's whole body go still.
