Comments. Emojis. Football players laughing. Soccer girls shrieking. Girls I knew from class posting eyes. Some random account had already reposted it with a zoomed-in circle around his thumb on my wrist like they were conducting a federal investigation.
I stared at the photo for way too long.
It was strategic.
A required post.
Rule compliance.
Nothing more.
Except my stomach was doing something weird and soft because he had chosen that picture. Not one where I looked pretty. Not one where he looked like the overgrown, broad-shouldered menace half the campus wanted to climb. Our hands. Dinner. His thumb on my pulse.
Like that was the part worth showing.
I threw my phone face down on the bed.
Absolutely not.
Across the room, Lana rolled over with one eye open, hair smashed against her cheek, face puffy with sleep. “Are you famous yet?”
“I hate everyone.”
“So yes.”
I got out of bed too fast and immediately regretted it when my hamstring gave one sharp, ugly tug.
“Careful,” Lana said, more awake now.
“I am careful.”
“You look like you’re about to fight your own leg.”
“It started it.”
She sat up slowly, phone already in her hand. “Oh my God. He posted you.”
“He posted our hands.”
“That is worse.”
“How is that worse?”
“Because face posts can be casual. Hand posts are intimate.” She turned her phone toward me. “Also, he pinned the comment from Jace that says,‘Finally, someone mean enough for him.’”
I closed my eyes.
“Delete my life.”
“No. Your life is finally interesting.”
“My life was interesting before.”
“Your life was tragic before. This is different.”
I pointed at her. “You are enjoying this too much.”
“Of course I am. You went from sad- basketball- prince almost-girlfriend to secret- football- villain-girlfriend in twenty-four hours. This is premium campus television.”
