The first thing I notice about this campus is the heat. It radiates off the brick path in waves, shimmering over the grass like the air above a summer highway. I've got my backpack slung over one shoulder, a campus map clutched in my other hand, and I'm already lost. The late afternoon sun cuts through the oak leaves, dappling everything in gold and shadow, and I'm trying to figure out which building is the Student Union when I hear her laugh.
It's loud. Unapologetic. The kind of laugh that makes you turn your head without thinking.
She's standing with a group of girls near a low stone wall, her back to me, and for a second all I can see is black hair—waist-length, wild, catching the light like she just stepped out of a music video. Then she turns, and I forget how to breathe.
She's wearing a thin white tank top. No bra. I can see that immediately because her breasts are swaying under the fabric with every movement, heavy and full, their shape unmistakable even twenty feet away. Her nipples press against the cotton, two dark points that my eyes lock onto before I can stop them. She's got on a pair of cut-off shorts that ride high on her hips, hugging a round ass that makes my mouth go dry. And she's walking toward me.
"Hey! You're the new guy, right? Marcus?"
Her voice is warm, a little breathless, like she just ran to catch me. She stops a foot away, close enough that I can smell her—something floral, mixed with the salt of her skin. Her dark eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles, and her hand reaches out to touch my arm before I've even said a word.
"Uh, yeah. That's me." My voice comes out rougher than I meant. I rub the back of my neck, feeling heat crawl up my face.
"I'm Chloe. Chloe Martinez. Welcome to campus." Her fingers squeeze my bicep, and I can feel every single one of them through my t-shirt. She's not letting go. "You look lost. Let me help you."
She steps closer, and now I can see the full outline of her chest through that thin tank top. The fabric stretched tight over her breasts, the way they move when she breathes, the sweat glistening on her collarbone. I force my eyes up to her face, but she catches me looking, and her smile widens.
"Like what you see?" She says it like a joke, but there's something behind her eyes. A challenge. A promise.
"I—I was just—" I stutter, and she laughs again. That loud, infectious laugh.
"Relax, big guy. I'm just messing with you." She finally lets go of my arm, but only so she can turn and start walking. "Come on, I'll show you where your first class is. You're in the Engineering building, right?"
I fall into step beside her, trying not to stare at her ass in those shorts. The denim is tight, stretched taut over each cheek, and the way she walks—hips swaying, shoulders back—makes it impossible not to watch. She knows exactly what she's doing. I'm convinced of that now. But I still can't look away.
"So where're you from?" She glances at me, then reaches up to push her hair behind her ear. The movement makes her breasts lift and press against her shirt, and I nearly trip over my own feet.
"Uh. Ohio. Little town you've never heard of."
"Oh, I bet I have. I'm from California. Moved here two years ago for school." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "You'll love it. Campus gets crazy during football season."
We pass a drinking fountain, and she stops suddenly, bending over to take a drink. Her shorts ride up, exposing the curve of her ass, the tanned skin above her thighs. I stop too, frozen, staring at the way her shirt gapes away from her chest, giving me a full view of her breasts hanging free. No bra. Just her. All that soft, heavy skin.
She straightens up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and catches me looking again. This time, she doesn't joke. She just holds my gaze for a second too long, her lips parting slightly, before she starts walking again.
"You coming?" She tosses the words over her shoulder, and I follow like a dog on a leash.
The path curves around a big oak tree, and she takes a seat on a low wall, patting the space beside her. "Rest for a sec. Your class doesn't start for another twenty minutes."
I sit down, but not too close. She immediately scoots closer, her thigh pressing against mine. Her skin is warm, slightly damp from the heat, and I can feel the muscle beneath it, strong and alive.
"So what do you think so far?" she asks, her head tilted toward me. Her hair falls forward, brushing my arm.
"It's nice. Big. Everyone seems friendly." I'm trying to keep my voice steady, but my heart is hammering in my chest. She's so close I can see the individual beads of sweat on her upper lip, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath.
"Not everyone's friendly." She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You'll learn who to avoid. But I'm friendly." Her hand lands on my knee, her fingers squeezing gently. "Very friendly."
I don't know what to say. My brain has short-circuited. I'm just staring at her hand on my leg, at the way her thumb is drawing slow circles on my knee.
"You're a big guy, Marcus. Those shoulders. Those arms." She squeezes my bicep again, and I feel the heat of her palm through my shirt. "You play sports?"
"Football. In high school."
"I knew it." She smiles, and it reaches her eyes, lighting up her whole face. "I love football players. You guys always know how to handle pressure." She leans forward, and her tank top gapes open. I can see the curve of her breast, the dark areola, the way her nipple is hard and tight. She doesn't adjust it. She just stays there, looking at me, waiting.
I swallow hard. "I should probably head to class."
"In a minute." She shifts, crossing her legs, and the movement makes her shorts ride up even higher. Her thighs are slick with sweat, glistening in the afternoon light. "Tell me something about yourself. Something nobody knows."
I rub the back of my neck again. "I don't know. I'm not that interesting."
"I don't believe that." She touches my chin, turning my face toward her. Her fingers are soft, cool against my heated skin. "You've got good bones. Nice eyes. You look like you keep secrets."
"I don't have secrets."
"Everybody has secrets." She lets her hand drop, but it lands on my thigh this time, resting there like it belongs. "Maybe I'll have to find yours."
The way she says it makes my stomach flip. She's not joking anymore. There's a heat in her voice that wasn't there before, a low, husky edge that makes me think of dark rooms and tangled sheets.
"Chloe, I—"
"Shh." She presses a finger to my lips. "Don't overthink it. I'm just being friendly." But the way she says "friendly" makes it sound like something else entirely. She pulls her hand back and stands up, stretching her arms above her head. Her tank top rides up, exposing the flat plane of her stomach, the waistband of her shorts. And those breasts—God, those breasts—they lift and press against the fabric, and I can see the shadow of her nipples, the weight of them, the way they sway.
She catches me staring, and this time she doesn't say anything. She just holds my gaze, her lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. Then she turns and starts walking again, her hips swaying with every step.
I follow. Because what else can I do?
She leads me past the Student Union, past the library, past a row of old buildings covered in ivy. She points out landmarks, tells me which dining hall has the best food, which professors to avoid. But all I can think about is the way her body moves under her clothes. The way she arches her back when she points at something. The way she leans over a railing to show me the quad, her tank top falling away from her chest, giving me a full view of her breasts swinging free.
She knows what she's doing. I know she knows. But I still can't believe it.
When we finally reach the Engineering building, she stops at the bottom of the steps, turning to face me. The sun is behind her, painting her in silhouette, lighting up the edges of her hair. She looks like something out of a dream.
"This is you." She gestures at the building behind her. "Room 204. Professor Hayes. He's boring but easy. Just show up and you'll pass."
"Thanks. For the tour." I'm fumbling with my backpack, trying to find my phone. "I appreciate it."
"Anytime." She steps closer, and I brace myself. Her hand lands on my chest, flat against my heart. "I mean it. Anytime." She presses her palm against me, feeling my heartbeat through my shirt. "You've got a good heart, Marcus. I can tell."
She rises on her tiptoes, and for a wild second I think she's going to kiss me. But she just presses her cheek against mine, her lips grazing my ear. "I'm in the sorority house on Maple. Blue door. You should stop by sometime."
She pulls back, her dark eyes searching mine. Then she turns and walks away, her hair swinging behind her, her ass filling those shorts like they were painted on.
I watch her until she's out of sight. Then I force myself to turn around and climb the steps, my heart still hammering, my mind still stuck on the image of her body, the feel of her hand on my chest, the sound of her voice in my ear.
I don't know what just happened. But I know I want it to happen again.
The lecture hall is half-empty when I find it—tiered seats sloping down to a podium where a balding professor is shuffling papers. I slide into a seat near the back, the plastic chair groaning under my weight. My notebook is out, pen in hand, but I'm not seeing any of it. I'm still seeing Chloe. The curve of her breast. The way her shorts rode up. The way she pressed her hand against my chest like she was feeling for something.
The door swings open.
Chloe walks in, and the whole room shifts. Conversations stutter. Heads turn. She's wearing the same tank top, the same cut-off shorts, and she's holding a coffee cup in one hand, her phone in the other, her hair wild around her shoulders. She scans the room, and when her eyes land on me, she smiles—that slow, knowing smile—and heads straight for my row.
The guy two seats down from me actually leans forward, adjusts his cap, sits up straighter. She doesn't look at him. She walks past him, past the empty seats, and drops into the chair right next to mine, her thigh brushing mine as she settles in.
"Hey." She says it like we're picking up a conversation we never stopped. Like she didn't just walk away from me ten minutes ago. Like this is exactly where she was always going to be.
"Hey." My voice cracks. Actually cracks. I clear my throat, but she's already laughing, that low, rough sound that does something to my chest.
"You sound nervous." She sets her coffee on the little fold-out desk and leans back, stretching her arms above her head. The tank top rides up, and I see a strip of her stomach, smooth and tan, and the underside of her breasts lifting against the fabric. She holds the stretch for a beat too long, then lets her arms drop. "Relax. It's just class."
I nod, but I can't relax. Not when she's this close. Not when I can smell her shampoo, something sweet and floral, mixed with the heat of her skin. Not when the guy who was staring at her is now staring at me, his jaw tight, his eyes narrow.
The professor starts talking. Something about syllabi and office hours and the importance of attendance. I'm not listening. I'm watching Chloe pull her hair over one shoulder, the way her neck is exposed, the way her tank top dips low in the front.
She catches me looking. Her smile deepens. She leans over, her mouth close to my ear, and whispers, "Boring, right?"
Her breath is warm. Her lips brush the shell of my ear. I feel it in my stomach, a hot, tight pull.
"Yeah." My voice is barely there. "Boring."
She pulls back, but not far. Her arm rests on the armrest between us, her fingers drumming a lazy rhythm. Her hand is close to mine. Close enough that if I moved my pinky, I'd touch her.
I don't move my pinky. I can't.
The professor hands out a worksheet. Some kind of diagnostic test. Chloe groans dramatically, but she takes it, and I watch her write her name at the top in looping cursive. Her handwriting is messy, almost illegible, like she was in a hurry to get the words down.
"What's your major?" she asks, not looking up from the paper.
"Undecided. Maybe engineering."
"Engineering." She says it like she's tasting it. "Smart guys. Big brains." She looks at me, her eyes traveling down my chest, my arms, my hands. "And you've got the brawn to match."
I rub the back of my neck. The chair creaks under me.
She laughs again. "I'm just kidding. Mostly." She goes back to the worksheet, but her foot nudges mine under the desk. "You're easy to tease, you know that?"
"I know."
"It's cute."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just stare at my worksheet, at the blank lines where I'm supposed to write my answers. But the letters aren't forming. I can't think. Not with her foot against mine, not with the warmth of her leg pressing into my calf.
She shifts in her seat, crossing her legs, and the fabric of her shorts pulls tight across her thighs. I can see the outline of her—the crease where her leg meets her hip, the curve of her ass against the plastic chair. I force myself to look away. At the board. At the window. Anywhere but her.
"Marcus."
I look back. She's holding up her worksheet. "What'd you put for number three?"
I glance at mine. I haven't written anything. "Haven't gotten there yet."
"Oh." She bites her lip, and it's distracting in a whole new way. Her teeth sink into the soft flesh, and I wonder what it would feel like to be that lip. To be bitten by her. "Well, hurry up. I want to compare."
I look at the worksheet. The question is about some math concept I learned sophomore year. I write down an answer. I don't even know if it's right.
She leans over to look at my paper, and her hair falls forward, brushing my hand. She doesn't move it away. She stays there, her shoulder pressed against mine, her head bent close, reading my messy handwriting.
"Huh." She straightens up, and her tank top gapes again. I see the full curve of her breast, the dark nipple, the way it brushes against the inside of the fabric. She catches me staring, and this time she doesn't smile. She just holds my gaze, her eyes dark, her lips parted.
Then she whispers, "You okay?"
"Yeah." My voice is hoarse. "I'm fine."
"You look a little warm." She reaches out, and her fingers brush my forehead, pushing my hair back. Her touch is light, barely there, but it sends a shiver down my spine. "Maybe you need some air."
I shake my head. "I'm fine."
"Okay." She pulls her hand back, but her fingers trail down my cheek, my jaw, before she lets them fall. "Just checking."
I turn back to my worksheet. I write more answers. I don't know what they are. I just know I need to look at something other than her. But everywhere I look, she's there. The edge of her tank top. The curve of her shoulder. The way she crosses and uncrosses her legs, the sound of her shorts shifting against the plastic chair.
The guy two seats down—the one who was staring at her—leans forward and says, "Hey, Chloe. You need a ride home after class?"
She doesn't even look at him. "I've got a ride."
He looks at me. I can feel the weight of his stare. He's waiting for me to say something, to confirm or deny. I don't say anything.
Chloe turns to me, and her voice drops to a whisper. "Ignore him. He's an ass."
I nod. I don't trust my voice.
The lecture drags on. The professor drones about calculus and derivatives and limits. I take notes, but my handwriting is shaky, and I keep having to erase mistakes. Chloe is quiet beside me, working through her worksheet, humming under her breath.
At some point, she drops her pen. It rolls under the seat in front of us. She bends down to get it, and I watch her—the way her back arches, the way her shorts strain against her ass, the way her tank top falls forward, giving me a view of her breasts swinging, full and heavy and completely unrestrained. She stays down there for a long time, fumbling for the pen, her fingers brushing the dirty floor.
When she sits back up, she's holding the pen, and she's smiling at me like she knows exactly what I saw. She doesn't say anything. She just clicks the pen, goes back to her worksheet, and leaves me sitting there, my heart pounding, my palms sweating.
The professor announces we have ten minutes left. Chloe stretches again, her arms above her head, her back arching. The tank top lifts, and I see the waistband of her shorts, and below that, a strip of her stomach, smooth and tan. I see a tiny belly button ring, a silver stud that catches the light.
I didn't notice it before. I can't stop looking at it now.
She catches me staring, and this time she laughs out loud. "What, you've never seen a belly button ring?"
"I—no, I mean—"
"Relax." She touches my arm, her fingers warm. "I'm just messing with you." She lets her hand stay there, her palm resting on my forearm. "You're so tense. You need to loosen up, Marcus."
I try to smile. It comes out as a grimace.
The professor collects the worksheets. Chloe slides hers to the end of the row, then turns to me. "So. Same time tomorrow?"
"I think we have the same schedule. Yeah."
"Good." She smiles, and it's different this time. Softer. Genuine. "I'll save you a seat."
She gathers her things, her coffee cup, her phone, her bag. She stands up, and for a moment, she's towering over me, the light from the windows catching her hair. She looks down at me, and her smile shifts into something else, something hungry.
"See you tomorrow, Marcus."
She walks away, and I watch her go. I watch the way her hips sway, the way her tank top rides up just a little, showing the small of her back. I watch until she's out the door, and then I sit there, alone in the emptying lecture hall, my heart thudding, my body burning with something I can't name.
The next day, I see her before she sees me. She's standing in the quad with two other girls, her back to me, and I recognize her immediately—the fall of black hair, the curve of her hips in a white sundress that barely reaches mid-thigh. No straps. No bra. The fabric drapes over her like it's barely legal, and I can see the shape of her, the weight of her, the way her nipples press against the thin cotton like they're trying to escape.
She's laughing at something, her head thrown back, her hair swinging. The sundress shifts with her movement, riding up just a little, showing the backs of her thighs. I stop walking. I can't help it.
And then she turns. She sees me. Her whole face changes—lights up like someone flipped a switch. She says something to her friends, quick and dismissive, and then she's running. Actually running. Her sandals slap the pavement, her hair flies behind her, and the sundress—God, the sundress—bounces as she runs, her breasts swinging free, unrestrained, her nipples visible through the fabric with every step.
"Marcus!"
She hits me before I can brace. Her arms go around my neck, her body presses against mine, and she hugs me like we've known each other for years, not a day. Her breasts smash into my chest—soft, heavy, her nipples hard against my skin through the thin fabric. I feel them. I feel *her*. Every curve, every warm inch of her pressed against me.
I freeze.
"Hey," she says, her voice muffled against my shoulder. She pulls back just enough to look at me, her hands still on my shoulders, her body still pressed close. "I missed you."
"It's been a day." My voice comes out strangled.
"I know." She grins, and her hands slide down my arms, squeezing my biceps. "A long day. I had to sit through two lectures without you. It was torture."
I don't know what to say to that. I rub the back of my neck. "I—yeah. Me too."
Her grin softens into something warmer. She steps back, and for a second, I can breathe again. Then she turns, falls into step beside me, and I see the back of the sundress. It's cut low. *Really* low. The curve of her spine disappears into the fabric, and below that, the swell of her ass, barely covered, the fabric clinging to her like it's painted on.
She's not wearing underwear. I can see the line of her cheeks, the shadow between them. I look away. I look back. I can't help it.
"You coming?" She glances over her shoulder at me, her eyes bright. "Class doesn't start for ten minutes, but I want to get a good seat."
I follow her. I don't have a choice.
She walks ahead of me, and I watch the sundress sway across her ass. She knows I'm watching. I can tell by the way she swings her hips, just a little more than before, the dress riding up with each step. She doesn't look back. She just lets me watch.
The lecture hall is half-empty when we get there. She picks a row near the middle, drops her bag on a seat, and then turns to me, her hands on her hips. "You want the window?"
"I don't care."
"Window it is." She slides into the seat next to the empty one, leaving room for me to sit on the aisle. As she sits, the sundress rides up, and I see the inside of her thigh, creamy and smooth. I sit down fast, before I can stare too long.
She leans toward me, her voice low. "You like the dress?"
I can't lie. "Yeah."
"I bought it yesterday. Thought you might like it." She runs her hand down the fabric, over her hip, her thigh. "It's comfortable. And it's hot out."
It's not that hot. It's September. The air is warm, but not hot enough for this dress. Not hot enough for what she's wearing—or not wearing.
She pulls her phone out of her bag, checks something, and then sets it on the desk. She leans back in her chair, and her breasts shift under the dress, the nipples visible, dark and hard. She catches me looking, and she smiles. She doesn't cover herself. She just sits there, her body on display, daring me to look away.
I don't.
"So," she says, stretching her arms above her head, the dress lifting, showing a strip of her stomach, her belly button ring catching the light. "What did you do yesterday? After class?"
"Nothing. Went home. Ate dinner."
"That's it?" She drops her arms, turns toward me, her knee brushing mine. "You didn't think about me?"
What am I supposed to say? *I couldn't stop thinking about you. I lay awake last night, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of class, every look, every touch, every time you bent down and showed me your ass.*
"I thought about you," I say. The words come out rough.
Her smile widens. "Good."
More students file in. The professor sets up his laptop, pulls up a presentation. He starts talking about some historical event I should probably care about. I don't. I can't focus on anything except the warmth of her leg against mine, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the way her nipple brushes against the inside of her dress when she moves.
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a water bottle. She drinks. Her throat moves as she swallows. I watch a bead of water trail down her chin, her neck, disappearing into the hollow of her collarbone. She sets the bottle down, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and catches me staring again.
"Thirsty?" she asks. She's laughing at me. I know she is. But her eyes are dark, and her voice is low, and she doesn't look away.
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that." She leans closer, her lips near my ear. "But you don't look fine, Marcus. You look like you're about to explode."
She pulls back, and her hand lands on my thigh. Just a casual touch, like she's steadying herself. But her fingers stay there, warm and light, resting on my jeans. She doesn't move them. She just leaves them there, her thumb tracing a slow circle on my leg, while the professor drones on about the Treaty of Versailles.
I stop breathing.
"Is this okay?" she whispers, her fingers pressing just a little harder.
I nod. I can't speak.
She smiles, and her hand slides an inch higher up my thigh. Then she turns back to her notebook, picks up her pen, and starts taking notes, like she isn't touching me, like her hand isn't burning a hole through my jeans.
The lecture continues. I don't hear a word of it.
At some point, she shifts in her seat, and her bare thigh presses against mine. The dress has ridden up, and I feel her skin, smooth and warm, against my jeans. She doesn't move away. She leans into it, her hip against mine, her shoulder brushing my arm, her hand still on my thigh.
I look down at her hand. Her fingers are long, her nails painted a soft pink. I want to touch them. I want to take her hand in mine. I want to pull her onto my lap and feel every inch of her against me.
But I don't. I just sit there, frozen, while she touches me, while her breath warms my neck, while the scent of her—something floral, something clean, something *her*—fills my lungs.
Twenty minutes pass. Half an hour. The professor talks and talks, and Chloe's hand moves higher on my thigh, her fingers tracing the seam of my jeans, and I'm dying. I'm actually dying. My cock is hard, pressing against the zipper, and I can't hide it. I'm wearing jeans, so maybe she can't see, but she can *feel* it. Her fingers are inches away. She has to know.
She glances down. Her eyes flick to my lap, then back to my face. She doesn't say anything. But she bites her lip. And her hand moves just a little higher, her pinky brushing against the outline of my cock through the denim.
I gasp.
She looks at me, her eyes wide, innocent. "You okay?"
"I—fine. I'm fine."
She smiles, slow and knowing. "You keep saying that."
Her hand slides over my cock, her palm pressing against the fabric. I'm so hard it hurts. I'm terrified she'll move her hand away. I'm terrified she won't.
She doesn't take her hand away. She leaves it there, palm flat against my erection, and she turns back to the professor, like this is normal, like her hand isn't resting on the hardest part of me, like my cock isn't straining against her fingers.
I grip the edge of my desk. I try to breathe.
Her thumb moves. Just a tiny motion, stroking the length of me through the denim. She's not looking at me. She's writing notes with her other hand, her pen scratching across the page, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along my shaft.
I'm going to come in my jeans like a teenager. I'm going to embarrass myself right here in this lecture hall, and she's going to know, and she's going to laugh, and I'll never recover.
"Chloe." My voice comes out a whisper. A plea.
She looks at me, her eyes dark. "Yes?"
"I—"
Her hand squeezes. Just once. Just enough to make me forget how to speak.
"What, Marcus?" She leans in, her lips brushing my ear. "What do you need?"
I can't say it. I can't.
She pulls back, her eyes searching mine. She's waiting. She wants me to admit it. She wants me to say the words.
The professor wraps up his lecture. "Alright, everyone. That's all for today. Remember, your essays are due Friday. Have a good afternoon."
Chairs scrape. People stand. The noise breaks the moment, and Chloe takes her hand off my thigh, slips it into her lap, and smiles at me like nothing happened.
"That was interesting," she says. Her voice is light. Casual. Like she didn't just have her hand on my cock. "You want to grab lunch?"
I stare at her. "Lunch."
"Yeah. The dining hall's got pizza today. I checked the menu." She stands up, the sundress falling back into place, and I'm left sitting there, hard, confused, desperate. "Come on. I'll buy."
She grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and waits for me. I stand up, adjusting my jeans, hoping the bulge isn't too obvious. She glances down, and her smile widens, like she can see exactly what she did to me.
"Coming?"
I follow her out of the lecture hall. I follow her across the quad. I follow her into the dining hall, and I watch her fill her tray with pizza and fries and a soda, her hips swaying, the sundress stretched across her ass. I grab a tray. I put food on it. I don't remember what I chose.
She picks a table near the window, in the sun, and sits down across from me. She crosses her legs, and the dress rides up, showing the inside of her thigh. A tiny bruise, high up, just below the hem of her dress. I wonder where she got it. I wonder who put it there.
"So." She bites into her pizza, chews, swallows. "I was thinking."
"About what?"
"About you." She takes another bite, watching me. "I was thinking about how you looked at me yesterday. In class. The way you kept staring."
I don't deny it. I can't.
"And I was thinking about how you look at me today." She sets down her pizza, wipes her fingers on a napkin. "You want to know what I think?"
I nod.
"I think you want me," she says. Simple. Direct. Bold. "I think you want to touch me, and kiss me, and do all sorts of things to me. But you're too shy to say it."
My face burns. "Chloe—"
"It's okay." She leans forward, and the sundress gapes, and I see her breasts, full and heavy, hanging free. "I like it. I like that you're shy. I like that I can make you squirm."
She reaches for a fry, dips it in ketchup, and eats it slowly, her eyes on mine. "And I like that you can't stop staring at my tits."
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. Nothing comes out.
She laughs, and it's genuine, warm, unguarded. "God, you're cute. You know that?" She shakes her head, picks up her pizza again. "Relax, Marcus. I'm not going to bite. Not yet, anyway."
She winks. I almost choke on my water.
The dining hall buzzes around us, conversations and laughter and the clatter of trays. But I only hear her. I only see her. She's sitting in the sun, her sundress glowing, her skin golden, and she's looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.
I don't know what I did to deserve this. I don't know why she chose me. But I'm terrified and grateful and so hard I can barely sit still.
She finishes her pizza, wipes her hands, and leans back in her chair. She stretches again, her arms above her head, the sundress lifting, showing the curve of her stomach, the dip of her navel, the silver stud winking in the light. She holds the stretch for a long moment, and I watch her, and she watches me watching
The next day, I'm walking across the quad, my backpack heavy on one shoulder, when I see her. She's standing by the fountain, talking to some guy from our English class. Jeremy. He's tall, blonde, the kind of guy who wears pastel shorts and boat shoes like he's auditioning for a catalog. Chloe's laughing at something he said, tossing her hair, her hand on his arm.
I stop. I don't know why. I should keep walking. Go to my next class. But I can't move.
She's wearing a tight white tank top, so thin I can see the dark outline of her nipples through the fabric. No bra. Her breasts move freely when she shifts her weight, and they're full, heavy, the kind of weight that makes the fabric strain. Below that, a micro skirt—black, denim, so short it barely covers her ass. Her legs are bare, smooth, golden in the afternoon light. I wonder if she's wearing anything under that skirt. I wonder if she's wearing anything at all.
She glances over Jeremy's shoulder, catches my eye. Her smile widens. She says something to Jeremy, touches his arm one last time, and then she's walking toward me, hips swaying, the skirt riding up with every step.
"Marcus." She says my name like it's a secret. "I was hoping I'd run into you."
I swallow. "Hey."
She stops in front of me, close. Too close. I can smell her perfume—something floral, sweet, mixed with the warmth of her skin. She looks up at me, her dark eyes bright, and she reaches out, places her hand flat on my chest.
"You look good today," she says. Her fingers press lightly, feeling the fabric of my shirt. "What is this, flannel?"
"Uh." I look down at my own shirt. It's just a plaid button-up, sleeves rolled to my elbows. "Yeah. I guess."
"I like it." Her hand slides down my chest, slow, tracing the line of my sternum. "You've got a nice build, you know that? Broad shoulders. Strong."
I feel my face heat. "Chloe—"
"What?" She looks innocent, her eyes wide. "I'm just complimenting you."
Her hand drops to my stomach, presses against the softness there. I tense, suddenly self-conscious. But she doesn't seem to mind. Her fingers trail across my abdomen, light, teasing, and then she steps closer, her body pressing against my side.
"You want to walk with me?" she asks. "I've got twenty minutes before my next class."
I nod. I can't form words.
She loops her arm through mine, pulls me close. Her breast presses against my bicep, soft and warm. I can feel the shape of her through the thin fabric, the weight of her. She starts walking, and I go with her, my legs moving automatically.
We head toward the library, past the old oak trees. Students pass us, but Chloe doesn't seem to care. She's pressed against my side, her body warm, her hand resting on my forearm. Every few steps, she squeezes, just a little, just enough to remind me she's there.
"I missed you," she says. "After lunch yesterday, I mean. You left kind of fast."
"I had a class."
"Mm-hmm." She doesn't sound convinced. "You sure you weren't just running away from me?"
I don't answer. Because yeah. Maybe I was. She makes me feel like I'm standing on the edge of something, and I don't know if I want to jump or fall back.
She stops walking, turns to face me. We're near the side of the library, where the ivy crawls up the brick wall. It's quieter here. Fewer people. She lets go of my arm and steps closer, her chest brushing against mine.
"You're nervous," she says. It's not a question.
"I'm not."
"Liar." She smiles, soft, teasing. She reaches up, her fingers brushing the collar of my shirt. Her touch is light, barely there. She traces the edge of the fabric, then lets her hand drift down, over my shoulder, across my chest.
Her palm settles over my heart. "It's racing," she says. "I can feel it."
I don't know what to say. She's right. It is.
She steps closer, her body flush against mine. Her breasts press into my chest, soft and yielding. She tilts her head up, her lips inches from mine. She holds my gaze, her dark eyes searching, and then she leans in, her mouth brushing my ear.
"I like making you nervous," she whispers. Her breath is warm, her lips almost touching my skin. "I like knowing I can do this to you."
Her hand slides down my chest, over my stomach, and I think—I think she's going to keep going. I think she's going to touch me where I'm hard, where I've been hard since she pressed against me. But she stops. Her hand rests on my hip, just above the waistband of my jeans.
She pulls back, looks at me, and smiles. Coy. Innocent. "You're so tense," she says. "You need to relax."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "I'm fine."
"You're not." She steps back, just enough to give me space, but her hand stays on my hip. "Come on. Let's sit for a bit."
She leads me to a low wall near the library steps, covered in ivy. She sits down first, her skirt riding up, and I see the inside of her thighs. Smooth. Golden. I look away, but the image is already burned into my brain.
I sit next to her, leaving a foot of space between us. She scoots closer, closing the gap. Her thigh presses against mine. She's warm. She's always warm.
She reaches over, takes my hand, places it on her knee. "You can touch me," she says. "I don't bite."
I don't move. My hand is on her bare skin, and I can feel the heat of her, the smoothness. I shouldn't be doing this. I should pull away. But I don't.
She covers my hand with hers, guides it up her thigh, just an inch. "See? That's not so hard."
My fingers brush the hem of her skirt. I can feel the edge of fabric, and below it, more skin. Her hand keeps mine there, warm and steady.
"Chloe," I say, my voice rough. "What are you doing?"
"What do you think I'm doing?" She turns to face me, her knee pressing into my thigh. "I'm showing you that it's okay to want me."
I shake my head. "I don't—"
"You do." She leans in, her lips brushing my jaw. "You want me, Marcus. And I want you. I want you to touch me. I want you to kiss me. I want you to do all the things I know you've been thinking about."
Her hand leaves mine, slides up my chest, hooks behind my neck. She pulls me closer, and I can smell her, taste her in the air. She's so close. So close.
Her lips hover over mine. "But I'm not going to let you rush it," she whispers. "I want to make you wait. I want to make you want it so bad you can't think straight."
She kisses me. Just a brush. Soft. Barely anything. Then she pulls back, stands up, smooths her skirt down.
"I'll see you in class," she says. And she walks away, her hips swaying, her skirt barely covering her ass.
I sit there, my heart pounding, my hand still warm from her skin. I watch her walk across the quad, until she disappears around a corner. And I'm still hard. I'm still wanting. And I have no idea how I'm going to survive the rest of this day.
The next morning, I tell myself I'm not looking for her.
I'm walking to biology, the same path I walked yesterday, and I'm not scanning the quad for long black hair and a sway I can't forget. I'm not remembering the way her lips barely touched mine. I'm not still feeling her hand on my chest, her thigh against mine. I'm not.
I am. I'm a liar.
The biology building is old, all fluorescent lights and the faint chemical smell of preserved specimens. I find a seat in the middle row, near the window, where I can see the door. Not because I'm waiting for her. Just—it's a good seat.
She walks in three minutes late.
The class goes quiet. Not because she's late—because of what she's wearing. A micro skirt. I mean, it's barely a belt. Black, stretchy, riding high on her hips, ending so far up her thighs I can see the curve of her ass when she moves. And on top, a white lace tank top. Thin, see-through. I can see everything. The dark circles of her nipples. The heavy swell of her breasts, bouncing free, no bra—she doesn't believe in bras, I've learned that. But this is the first time I've seen it this clearly. She might as well be naked from the waist up.
She's wearing a thong. I know because when she turns to scan the room, the fabric of her skirt shifts, and I catch a glimpse of a thin line of fabric cutting between the cheeks of her ass. I look away. Too late. The image is seared into my brain.
Her eyes land on me. She smiles. That coy, knowing smile that says she's already won something I haven't figured out how to lose.
"Marcus!" She weaves through the desks, her hips working overtime, her breasts jostling under the lace. Every guy in the room is watching her. A few girls too. She doesn't seem to notice. Or she does, and she doesn't care. She slides into the seat next to me, her bare thigh brushing mine as she sits.
"Hi." Her voice is soft, intimate, like we're sharing a secret.
"Hey." My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "You're—"
"Late. I know." She leans in, and I catch her scent—something floral and warm, mixed with the faint salt of her skin. "I had to find the right outfit."
She gestures at herself. The lace. The skirt. "Do you like it?"
I don't trust my voice. I just nod.
She laughs, that low, rough sound that does something to my chest. "Good."
The professor starts talking. A middle-aged man with glasses and a monotone voice, explaining that we'll be covering human anatomy for the next few weeks. Today: surface anatomy. Palpation. We'll be paired up, touching each other to learn bony landmarks and muscle groups. He says it like it's the most boring thing in the world.
Chloe's hand lands on my forearm. "Partners?"
I swallow. "You already claimed a seat next to me."
"I'm claiming more than that." Her fingers trail up my arm, light, teasing. "You don't mind, do you?"
I shake my head. I can't speak.
The professor explains the exercise. We'll start with the back, then move to the anterior chest and abdomen. The female breast. The gluteal region. He uses clinical terms, but all I can hear is that I'm going to have to touch her. On purpose. In front of everyone.
Chloe leans over, her breath warm against my ear. "Looks like this class is going to be very hands-on."
I shift in my seat. I'm already hard. It's painfully obvious through my jeans. I try to angle my hips away, but she's too close, her thigh still pressing against mine.
The professor says to begin with our partners. We need to stand for the palpation. Chloe stands first, and I have no choice but to follow. She turns her back to me, her hands on her hips, looking over her shoulder. "Palpate my spine first. Find the spinous processes."
My hands are shaking. I reach out, my fingers brushing the lace of her shirt. Through the thin fabric, I can feel the warmth of her skin, the ridges of her vertebrae. I press gently, counting down from her neck.
"C7," I say. My voice sounds distant.
"Good." She leans back slightly, her ass brushing against the front of my jeans. I freeze. She doesn't move away. "Now the scapula."
I trace the edge of her shoulder blade with my fingertips. She shivers. A small, barely-there reaction, but I feel it. Her skin goosebumps under my touch.
"You're gentle," she says, softer now. "I like that."
The professor calls the next section: anterior chest. Chloe turns around. She's facing me now, close enough that I can see the pattern of the lace over her breasts, the way her nipples are hard, pressing against the fabric. She takes my hands and places them on her ribs, just below her collarbones.
"Palpate my clavicle." Her voice is steady, but her eyes are dark, watching me.
I run my fingers along the bone. She's warm. So warm. My thumbs brush the upper curve of her breasts, and I pull back like I've been burned.
"You're supposed to find the infraclavicular area," she says, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Feel my pectorals."
I know what she's doing. I know this isn't just a class exercise. But I can't think of a way to say no that doesn't make me look like an idiot. So I place my hands on her chest, just below the collarbones, my palms flat against the lace. I can feel the weight of her breasts, the curve where they start. My thumbs rest on the fabric near her nipples.
I hate myself for how much I want to move them lower.
Chloe guides my hands down, just an inch. "The female breast is composed of glandular tissue and fat. Go ahead—palpate it. It's for science." Her voice is pure silk, and there's a smile playing at the corner of her lips.
I shake my head. "Chloe—"
"Professor said to." She takes my hands and presses them against her breasts. Full. Heavy. The lace is rough against my palms, but underneath, her flesh yields. Her nipples are hard beads, pressing into my skin. I can't breathe.
"This is what you're supposed to feel for," she whispers. "Tissue density. Lumps." She moves my hands in a circle, over each breast. I'm not palpating anything. I'm just feeling her. The heat, the shape, the way her breath catches when my thumbs brush her nipples.
"Are you finding any abnormalities?" she asks, her voice husky.
"No." My voice is a croak.
"Good." She doesn't let go of my hands. She holds them there, pressed against her, for a long moment. Then she releases me. "Your turn."
She steps closer, her hands reaching for my chest. She pushes the fabric of my t-shirt aside, her fingers tracing the lines of my pectorals. "Relax," she says. "You're so tense."
I try to breathe. Her hands move lower, over my abs, and I clench. She laughs softly. "Ticklish?"
"No."
"Liar." Her fingers find the waistband of my jeans, and for a terrifying second I think she's going to touch me there, in front of the whole class. But she just hovers, her fingertips resting on my hip bones. "Gluteal region next," she says, stepping back. She turns around, bending slightly forward, presenting her ass to me. The skirt rides up, revealing the lower curve of her cheeks. The thong is doing almost nothing—just a tiny strip of black fabric disappearing between them.
The professor is walking around, checking on the pairs. He doesn't seem to notice what's happening at our table. Or maybe he doesn't care.
"Palpate the gluteals," Chloe says, looking over her shoulder. Her voice is playful, daring.
I can't do this. I can't touch her ass in front of everyone. But if I don't, I'll look like a coward. And she'll know she won.
I place my hands on her hips. Stead. Then slide them down, over the curve of her ass. The fabric of her skirt is thin, and I can feel every shape, every muscle fiber. She's firm, round, perfect. My fingers dip into the cleft between her cheeks, and I yank them back, startled by how close I came to touching her through the thong.
She laughs, a low, husky sound. "You're terrible at this." She straightens, turns back to face me. Her face is flushed, her eyes bright. "But I'll give you an A for effort."
She steps closer, pressing her body against mine. Her breasts flatten against my chest, and I can feel her nipples through the lace, through my t-shirt. Her hips align with mine, and I know she can feel how hard I am. I know she knows.
"You're really bad at pretending you don't want me," she whispers.
"I'm not pretending."
"Good." She reaches up, cups my face, her thumb tracing my jaw. "Because I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want me. I want you to think about me all the time. I want you to be so distracted that you can't focus on anything else."
She kisses me. Harder than yesterday. Her tongue traces my lower lip, and I open for her without thinking. She tastes like mint and something darker. Her hand slides down my chest, my stomach, and then stops, resting on my belt buckle.
The professor calls for us to return to our seats. Chloe breaks the kiss, slowly, her lips lingering on mine for a second longer than necessary. She sits down, crossing her legs, adjusting her skirt. She looks cool, composed. Like she didn't just ruin my ability to think.
I sit. I'm still hard. I put my bag on my lap, hoping no one notices.
The rest of the class is a blur. I hear the professor talking about muscles, bones, insertions, but I can't focus. I can still feel her body under my hands. I can still taste her.
When the bell rings, she stands, collects her things. She turns to me, smiles. "Same time tomorrow?"
I don't answer. I can't. She laughs, walks away, her hips swaying, her skirt barely covering her. I watch her go, and I have no idea how I'm going to survive the rest of this semester.
The bass hits me before I even get through the gate. Some DJ remix of a song I sort of recognize, thumping through speakers someone propped on a balcony. The backyard is packed—jocks in backward caps, girls in tiny tops, red Solo cups everywhere. A keg stands on a plastic table near the fence, and someone's already spilled beer on the grass.
I wasn't gonna come. Spent two hours telling myself I wouldn't. But here I am, clutching a cup of something I didn't pour, scanning the crowd like an idiot.
I see her before she sees me.
I see her before she sees me.
She's standing near the keg, surrounded by a semicircle of guys from the lacrosse team—all of them in swim trunks, all of them trying way too hard to look casual. They're leaning on the fence, flexing, laughing at everything she says like she's the funniest person on the planet. One of them, some dude with a jawline that could cut glass, keeps touching her arm. Another's eyes are locked on her chest, and I don't blame him because I can't look away either.
She's wearing a swim top that's barely a suggestion of fabric—two tiny triangles of something white, connected by a string that disappears around her neck. It covers her nipples. That's it. The rest of her breasts spill out, round and full, and every time she moves, they swing. The motion is hypnotic. Unavoidable.
The guys notice. They're all noticing. One of them says something, and she throws her head back and laughs, and her whole body shakes with it, and I watch three guys adjust their trunks at the same time.
Something twists in my chest. I don't have a name for it, but it tastes like copper and bitterness.
I almost turn around. Almost walk back through the gate and find a quiet corner of campus where I can pretend I never came. But then she spots me, and her face lights up like someone flipped a switch.
"Marcus!"
She jumps, actually jumps, and bounces on her heels, and her breasts do this thing—this whole-body jiggle that makes every guy in a ten-foot radius lose their train of thought. She waves both arms over her head like I'm standing a hundred yards away instead of ten feet. "Marcus! Get over here!"
The jocks turn to look at me. I feel their eyes, their assessment. Who the fuck is this guy?
I walk over. My legs feel heavy. My jaw is tight. I try to make my face look like I'm fine, like I didn't just watch her laugh with five guys who want to fuck her, like I don't care at all.
"Hey." My voice comes out flat.
She grabs my arm, pulls me into the circle. Her hand is warm on my skin, and her body presses against my side. She smells like coconut and sweat and something floral. "Everyone, this is Marcus. He's my new BFF."
She says it with so much happiness, so much genuine excitement, that I almost believe her. But one of the lacrosse guys snorts. "BFF? What are we, twelve?"
"Shut up, Kevin." She smacks his arm. "Marcus is in my anatomy class. He's—" She looks at me, and her eyes go soft for a second. "He's cool."
The name Kevin. I file it away. He's the one with the jawline, the one who keeps touching her. He's looking at me now, and his eyes are cold.
"Cool," he repeats. "Right."
Another guy—shorter, stockier, with a neck that's as wide as his head—sticks out his hand. "I'm Derek. You play?"
I shake his hand. It's a test. Squeeze harder, show you're a man. I squeeze back. Not hard enough to start shit, but enough that he doesn't feel like he won. "Football. High school."
"Yeah? Position?"
"Lineman."
Derek nods, like that means something to him. "Figured. You got the build."
Chloe squeezes my arm. "See? I told you he was cool." She's beaming at me like I just won an award. "You want a drink? I can get you a drink."
"I have one." I hold up the cup I've been clutching since I walked in.
"Oh." She looks at it. "That's probably warm. Let me get you a fresh one."
She's already moving before I can stop her, weaving through the crowd toward the keg. I watch her go. The swim top doesn't cover anything from the back, either. Just a thin string across her spine, and the curve of her ass in the smallest bottoms I've ever seen—white triangles connected by string, barely covering her. Every step, her cheeks bounce. Every guy she passes turns to watch.
Kevin steps closer to me. "So. You and Chloe. How do you know each other?"
"Anatomy class." I keep my voice even. "Partner project."
"Partner project." He says it slow, like he's tasting the words. "That must be nice."
There's something under his tone. A threat. A claim. I don't know if he's fucking her or just wants to, but either way, he's marking territory.
"It's a class." I shrug. "She's easy to work with."
Kevin's eyes narrow. Derek shifts his weight, watching the exchange. The other guys have gone quiet.
Chloe comes back with a red Solo cup full of beer. She presses it into my hands, and her fingers linger against mine. "Here. Fresh." She takes the warm cup from me, sets it on the fence. "Drink up."
I take a sip. It's cold and bitter, and I don't want it, but I drink anyway because she's watching me expectantly.
"Good?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"Good." She smiles. Then she turns to Kevin. "So, what were you saying before? About the party next weekend?"
Kevin's face relaxes. He's back in his element. "Yeah, my parents' lake house. Bigger place than this. Real speakers. Hot tub." He looks at her. "You should come."
"Obviously I'm coming." She laughs. "Who's gonna keep you from being boring?"
Kevin grins. "You're the only one who can."
The exchange is easy. Familiar. They've done this before. The flirting, the banter. I stand there with my cup of beer, feeling like the third wheel on a date I wasn't invited to.
Chloe's hand finds my arm again. "Marcus should come too."
Kevin's grin falters, just for a second. "Yeah, sure. The more the merrier."
He doesn't mean it. I can tell. But Chloe doesn't seem to notice, or she doesn't care. She's already planning. "It'll be fun. We can swim, hang out. You'll come, right?"
She looks at me, and her eyes are so wide, so hopeful, that I can't say no. Even though I want to. Even though every instinct tells me to stay as far away from Kevin and his lake house as possible.
"Yeah," I say. "Sure."
She claps her hands together. "Yes! This is going to be so fun."
Kevin grabs Chloe's wrist gently, pulling her attention back. "Hey, I need to talk to you about something. Real quick."
She looks at him, then at me. "One sec." She squeezes my arm. "Don't go anywhere."
She steps closer to Kevin, and he leans down to murmur something in her ear. His hand rests on her lower back, fingers splayed over the curve of her ass. She doesn't pull away. She nods, says something back, laughs.
I stand there, holding my cup, watching them. Derek and the other guys have gone back to their own conversation, ignoring me. I'm invisible. I'm a prop she brought to show off.
The bitterness in my chest spreads. I finish my beer in one long swallow, set the empty cup on the fence, and take a step back.
I should leave. I should just walk out the gate and go back to my dorm and pretend this night never happened. But my feet don't move. I can't stop watching her—the way she leans into Kevin, the way she laughs at something he says, the way her body presses against his.
She's not mine. I know that. I have no claim on her. But watching her with him feels like a knife sliding between my ribs.
She finishes her conversation, pats Kevin's chest, and turns back to me. Her smile fades when she sees my face. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I rub the back of my neck. "I'm gonna head out."
"What? No. You just got here." She steps closer, her hand finding my chest. "Come on, stay. I'll introduce you to more people. We can dance—"
"I'm tired." The words come out sharper than I meant. "It's been a long day."
She searches my face, her dark eyes trying to read something I don't want her to see. "Marcus—"
"I'll see you in class tomorrow." I step back, out of her reach. "Thanks for the drink."
She opens her mouth to say something, but I'm already turning away. I walk through the crowded yard, past people laughing and drinking and hooking up in dark corners. I don't look back.
Behind me, I hear her voice. "Marcus!"
I keep walking.
I make it to the gate before I feel her hand on my wrist. She's out of breath. She must have run through the crowd to catch me.
"Wait." She's panting. "Wait, please."
I stop. I don't turn around.
"What did I do?" Her voice is small. Different. Not the confident, loud Chloe from a minute ago. "Did I say something wrong?"
I turn. She's standing there, in that ridiculous outfit, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and confused. She looks genuinely hurt.
"Nothing." I shake my head. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then why are you leaving?"
Because I can't watch you with him. Because I can't stand here pretending I don't feel what I feel. Because I'm a coward and I don't know how to tell you.
"I told you. I'm tired."
She stares at me. Her jaw tightens. "You're lying."
"Chloe—"
"You're lying," she repeats, and there's heat in her voice now. "I can tell. You've been weird ever since you got here. You barely looked at me. You barely talked to Kevin and the guys. And now you're running away."
"I'm not running."
"Then what are you doing?"
I run a hand through my hair. I feel trapped. Caught. She's too sharp, and she's not letting this go.
"I don't know," I say. "I don't know what I'm doing."
She steps closer. The space between us shrinks. She's so close I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. "Then stay. Figure it out with me."
I look at her. Her dark eyes, her full lips, the way her chest rises and falls with each breath. I want to kiss her. I want to push her against the fence and kiss her until I forget about Kevin and the lake house and everything else.
But I don't.
"I can't," I say.
She flinches, like I slapped her.
"I can't," I repeat, softer. "I'm sorry."
I turn and walk through the gate. This time, she doesn't follow.
The walk back to my dorm is long and dark. The bass from the party fades behind me, replaced by the sound of my own footsteps and the distant hum of traffic. The air smells like cut grass and exhaust.
I think about her face when I said I can't. The hurt in her eyes. The way she flinched.
I think about Kevin's hand on her back, his mouth against her ear.
I think about the way she squeezed my arm, the way she smiled at me, the way she ran after me when I left.
I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what she wants from me. I don't know anything.
But I know I'm in trouble.
Deep, deep trouble.
I stand there, frozen, watching him walk away.
The gate clangs shut behind him. The sound echoes through me like a gunshot.
My hand is still outstretched. The one I grabbed him with. The one he pulled away from.
I let it drop.
The tears come before I can stop them. Hot and fast, streaming down my cheeks, blurring the shape of his back as he disappears into the dark. I wipe at them furiously, but they keep coming. I can't breathe. I can't think. I can only feel the hollow ache spreading through my chest like poison.
What did I do?
I run through every moment of the night. Every touch. Every laugh. Every time I leaned in too close, held his gaze too long, squeezed his arm like I had a right to. I was so sure he felt it too. I was so sure he wanted me the way I wanted him.
But he said I can't.
He said it twice.
I hug myself, arms wrapped tight around my stomach, and I rock on my heels. The party continues behind me. Music thumps. Someone laughs. The world keeps spinning, and I'm standing here falling apart, and nobody even notices.
A sob escapes me. Ugly and raw. I press my hand over my mouth to stifle the next one.
I don't know how long I stand there. A minute. Five. Ten. Long enough for the tears to slow, for the shock to settle into something heavier. Something that sits in my gut like stone.
I scared him away.
That's what happened. I was too much. Too fast. Too aggressive. I threw myself at him like some desperate, hungry thing, and he ran. He actually ran.
I turn back toward the house. The lights are still blazing. Music still pounding. Kevin is probably inside wondering where I went. The guys are probably drunk and stupid and looking for me to entertain them.
I can't go back in there. But my stuff is inside. My purse. My phone.
I take a breath. Then another. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, smearing mascara across my skin. I probably look insane. I don't care.
I push through the gate and walk back toward the house. My legs feel heavy. My chest feels hollow. Every step is mechanical, like I'm watching myself from somewhere far away.
Inside, the party is still going. Bodies pressed together. Red cups everywhere. Someone's spilled beer on the hardwood and nobody's cleaned it up. The air is thick with sweat and cheap perfume.
I keep my head down. I don't want anyone to see me like this.
I find my purse on the kitchen counter, right where I left it. I grab it. My phone's inside. Keys. I'm good. I can leave.
"Chloe?"
Kevin's voice. I freeze.
He appears beside me, a beer in one hand, his face flushed and happy. He doesn't notice my red eyes. He doesn't notice the mascara tracks. He's too drunk and too self-absorbed to see anything past his own good time.
"Where'd you go? I was looking for you." He grins. "Come dance with me."
"I can't." My voice comes out hoarse. "I have to go."
"What? No, come on, it's early." He reaches for my arm.
I pull away. "Don't."
He blinks, finally noticing something is off. "You okay?"
"Fine." I'm already moving toward the door. "I'll text you."
"Chloe—"
But I'm already gone.
The night air hits me like a slap. Cool and clean after the stale heat inside. I walk fast, heels clicking on the pavement, arms wrapped around myself. I don't look back.
My car is parked three blocks away. It takes me forever to get there. Every step feels like I'm wading through mud. By the time I reach it, I'm shaking.
I get in. I close the door. I sit in the dark silence and I stare at the steering wheel.
And then I let myself cry.
Properly. Ugly. The kind of crying that hurts your throat and leaves you gasping. I press my forehead against the steering wheel and I sob until I can't breathe, until there's nothing left.
I wanted him so badly. I wanted him to see me. To want me back. I put myself out there, again and again, wearing next to nothing, touching him every chance I got, practically begging him to notice. And he did notice. I saw it in his eyes. I saw the way he looked at me.
But he still walked away.
I can't.
Those two words play on a loop in my head. I can't. I can't. I can't.
I don't know what they mean. I don't know if it's me, or if it's him, or if it's something else entirely. All I know is the way they made me feel. Rejected. Stupid. Small.
I won't let myself feel that again.
I sit up. I wipe my face with the back of my hand. I look at myself in the rearview mirror — red eyes, smeared makeup, swollen lips. I look pathetic.
I hate it.
I start the car. The engine rumbles to life. I pull away from the curb and drive.
The roads are empty. Late enough that most people are home, or still at parties. I drive on autopilot, turning without thinking, stopping at red lights I don't remember seeing. My apartment comes into view before I'm ready for it.
I park. I get out. I walk up the stairs to my second-floor unit.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I'm alone.
My apartment is dark and quiet. I don't turn on the lights. I kick off my heels and let them clatter somewhere in the dark. I pull off my shorts. My tank top. I stand in the middle of my living room in nothing but my thong, and I feel the cool air against my skin.
I think about all the ways I threw myself at him tonight. The way I leaned into him. The way I touched him. The way I practically pressed my tits in his face and hoped he'd get the hint.
I think about the look in his eyes when he said I can't.
I think about how he walked away and didn't look back.
Something hard settles in my chest. Resolve. Or maybe just self-preservation.
I'm done.
No more chasing. No more leaning in. No more finding excuses to touch him. No more wearing next to nothing and hoping he'll finally notice what's right in front of him.
I gave him everything I had. I put myself out there, vulnerable and exposed, and he turned away.
Fine.
I won't make that mistake again.
From now on, I keep my distance. I treat him like I treat everyone else. Polite. Distant. Safe.
I won't let myself want him anymore.
I walk to my bedroom. I fall onto my bed, face-first, still in just my thong. The sheets are cool against my heated skin. I press my face into the pillow and breathe.
And I let myself feel it. The ache. The rejection. The hollow emptiness where hope used to be.
I let myself feel it all.
But this is the last time.
Tomorrow, I wake up different. Tomorrow, I put the walls back up. Tomorrow, I stop being the girl who throws herself at boys who don't want her.
Tomorrow.
Tonight, I let myself cry.