The lecture hall hums with the dull buzz of fluorescent lights and the shuffle of notebooks. I sit in the third row, thigh pressed against the cold plastic of the chair, and I can't focus. The professor's voice is white noise. All I see is the back of his head two rows ahead—black hair slicked back, ink curling up his neck where his collar sits.
I made a vow. Last night, alone in my room, staring at the ceiling, I told myself I wouldn't be just another girl who fell into his orbit. I'd make him work. I'd be the one he had to chase. So today I dressed different. A loose white blouse, buttoned to the third button, tucked into high-waisted jeans. No thong peeking out. A bra—a real one, cotton, the kind that flattens instead of lifts. I feel like I'm wearing a costume.
But his eyes found me the moment I walked in. Dark. Slow. They raked over the blouse, lingered where the fabric fell loose over my chest, and then—he smirked. A small, dangerous curve of his mouth. Like he knew. Like he saw through the disguise and straight to the skin underneath.
I hate that he sees through me.
I hate that I love it.
The lecture ends and I gather my things, taking my time. A few guys hover near my row—Sean from history, some senior I don't know. They're all looking at me the way guys look at me. Hungry. Obvious. It used to feel like power. Now it just feels loud.
"Hey, Val, you coming to the quad? We're hanging after fourth."
Sean's hand brushes my elbow. I smile, automatic. "Maybe."
"I'll save you a spot."
I nod and they drift away, and I feel the weight of Mateo's gaze before I even look up. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, leather jacket stretching across his shoulders. His jaw is tight.
"Princesa."
The word curls through me, warm and demanding. I walk toward him, hips swaying less than usual—I have to remind myself not to give him everything.
"Mateo."
"You look different today." His voice drops, low enough that only I hear. "Thought you didn't believe in bras."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I hate that he noticed. I hate that he's the only one who would. "Just needed a change."
"A change." He repeats it slow, tasting the lie. His eyes travel down the blouse, then back up. "You don't like it."
"I do. It's fine." I shrug, too casual. "Getting hot out. Lighter clothes."
"That's not lighter. That's hiding."
The word hits like a slap. I force a laugh. "Why would I hide? I've got nothing to hide."
"Exactly." He pushes off the doorframe, steps closer. I catch the scent of him—leather, motor oil, something clean and sharp. "So why the costume?"
"It's not a costume." My voice comes out sharp. "Maybe I just wanted to try something different. Is that a crime?"
He watches me. The silence stretches. My pulse thuds in my throat.
"No crime," he says finally. "Just interesting. The girl who walks in like she owns the place, wearing nothing but a tank top and a smile—she shows up today buttoned up to her chin. And she can't look me in the eye."
I force my gaze up. Meet his. "I'm looking."
"Yeah." His mouth curls. "But you're not seeing."
He turns and walks out, leaving me standing in the empty doorway, thighs pressed together, wetter than I've been all day.
The quad is crowded. I spot Sean and a cluster of guys near the big oak tree. They wave me over. I go, because it's easier than standing alone. Because maybe I need to remind myself I can still have power over someone.
"Val, you look good today. Really good." Sean grins, eyes dropping to where the blouse gapes at my collarbone. "Different, but good."
"Thanks." I lean against the tree, crossing my arms. "You guys skipping fifth?"
"Nah, just lunch. Hey, you going to the party at Eli's on Friday?"
"Maybe."
He steps closer. His hand lands on my hip, light, testing. I let it stay. Somewhere behind me, I feel that familiar weight—a gaze that burns. I don't turn around. I know who it is.
Sean's thumb strokes the denim at my waist. "You could come with me. We could—"
"She's busy."
The voice cuts through like a blade. Mateo's hand wraps around Sean's wrist and lifts it off my hip, slow and deliberate. Sean stumbles back, eyes wide.
"The fuck, man?"
Mateo doesn't look at him. He looks at me. "You coming to lunch or what, Princesa?"
My heart slams against my ribs. The guys around us have gone silent. Sean is red-faced, caught between anger and the clear knowledge that he's outmatched.
"I—" I swallow. "I was talking to Sean."
"You were done talking." Mateo's voice is flat. Final. "Come on."
He holds out his hand. I stare at it. Tattoos winding down his fingers. Calluses. The hand that warned me he's not a good guy.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine, warm and sure, and he pulls me away from the tree, past Sean, past the stares. He doesn't let go. He walks me across the quad, past the benches, past the stares, until we're behind the science building, in the narrow alley where no one goes.
He stops. Releases my hand. Turns.
"What are you doing?" His voice is rough, not angry—something else. "Making me watch that?"
"I wasn't making you watch anything."
"Bullshit." He steps closer. I step back, hit the brick wall. His hands land on either side of my head, caging me in. "You knew I was there. You let him touch you."
"He's just a friend."
"He wants to fuck you."
"And you don't?"
The words rip out of me. I didn't mean to say them. His eyes darken, and the air between us thickens.
"I told you. I'm not a good guy."
"Then why do you care?"
He doesn't answer. His jaw works. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I feel the heat of him, the wall hard against my back, his body an inch from mine.
"Why the change, Princesa?" His voice is a whisper now. "Why the bra? The buttons? The lies?"
I can't breathe. "I told you. I wanted a change."
"You're a terrible liar."
His thumb brushes the collar of my blouse. The fabric shifts. I shiver.
"You made a vow," he says softly. "Didn't you?"
I freeze. He knows. He fucking knows.
"What vow?"
"That you wouldn't be easy. That you'd make me work for it." He leans closer, lips inches from my ear. "Am I working for it, Princesa?"
I can't speak. My entire body is burning, wet, aching.
"Because I'll work," he murmurs. "But I don't share."
His hand drops to my hip, presses once, then pulls away. He steps back, leaving me pressed against the wall, trembling.
"Go to class, Valentina." He says my full name like a sentence. "And tell your 'friends' I'll break their hands if they touch you again."
He turns and walks away, boots echoing on the concrete. I slide down the wall, knees weak, cunt throbbing, and I realize—I don't want to be friends with anyone else. I want him. And that terrifies me more than any vow.
The next day, I tell myself I don't care. I repeat it like a prayer, like a shield. Mateo's words from yesterday echo—*I don't share*—but I shove them down, bury them under the image of his lips on another girl's neck, her fingers in his hair, her tongue tracing his tattoo. That's what he does. That's who he is. I was just another challenge, another *Princesa* he wanted to conquer. He doesn't want me. He wants the chase.
My phone buzzes. A text from Diego, the guy from third period who invited me to the party tonight. *You still coming? Pool's heated. Bring your bikini.* I type back: *Wouldn't miss it. Is Mateo going?* I hold my breath. The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. *Nah, he's out with some girl tonight. Said he has plans. Why?* I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. *Just curious. See you there.*
I stand in front of my closet, the air thick with the scent of my own defiance. I pull on the shortest shorts I own—denim cutoffs that barely cover the curve of my ass, frayed edges brushing my thighs. Underneath, a black bikini that leaves nothing to the imagination: triangle top that barely holds my breasts, straps thin and ready to snap, bottoms so low they might as well be dental floss. I throw on a tight white crop top, the fabric clinging to every inch of me. No bra. Because I don't need one. Because I want them to see.
I stare at myself in the mirror. My reflection stares back, all curves and confidence, but my eyes betray me. Dark. Searching. Looking for him in every corner of my own face. I turn away. Good enough.
Diego's house is a sprawling two-story with a backyard that opens into a glowing turquoise pool, surrounded by bodies and speakers that thump bass into the humid night. I step out of the Uber, barefoot now, my flip-flops in my hand, and I feel the weight of a dozen eyes slide over me. Boys I don't know. Boys I might let touch me. The air smells like chlorine, cheap beer, and desperation.
Diego meets me at the gate, his grin wide and hungry. He's tall, dark-haired, with arms that look like he hits the gym every day. He's not Mateo. He never will be. "You made it," he says, his hand landing on my lower back, guiding me inside. "Damn, Val. You look…" He trails off, eyes on my chest. "Yeah. You look good."
"Thanks." I smile, bright and fake. "Drink?"
He leads me to a cooler, hands me a can of something that tastes like sugar and vodka. I sip it, let the burn settle. Around us, bodies grind in the pool, laughter and splashes mixing with the beat. I find a spot near the edge, away from the chaos, and I let my eyes scan the crowd. I hate that I'm looking for him. I hate that I'm disappointed every time my gaze lands on a stranger.
A guy with blond curls swims up to me, resting his arms on the pool deck, water dripping from his chest. "You new around here?" he asks, voice too smooth.
"New to the school. Not new to parties."
"I can tell." He grins. "I'm Kyle. You want to come in? Water's perfect."
I look at the pool, at the bodies tangled together, at the way girls' bodies press against boys under the surface. It's not what I want. But it's what I came for. "Maybe later."
He doesn't leave. He stays, talking, his eyes on my body, his hand brushing my arm. I let him. I let him believe there's a chance. I even laugh at his jokes. But my mind is a thousand miles away, stuck in an alley behind the science building, a silver cross swinging above me, a voice saying *Am I working for it, Princesa?*
Diego reappears, two more cans in hand. He hands me one, then wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close. "You okay? You seem… off."
"I'm fine." I take a long gulp. "Just hot."
"You want to go inside? I have a room. Air conditioning." His hand drifts lower, thumb pressing into my hip.
I think about it. I think about letting him take me inside, letting his hands touch me, letting the heat of someone else erase the memory of Mateo's voice. But my body doesn't move. It stays rooted to the concrete, waiting for something that isn't coming.
"Not yet." I pull away gently. "I want to swim first."
I strip off my crop top, toss it onto a nearby chair. The bikini top barely holds me, my breasts spilling out, the thin straps digging into my shoulders. I feel the shift in the air around me—more eyes, more whispers. I walk to the edge of the pool, feel the rough concrete under my toes, and I dive.
The water is cool, a shock against my skin. I surface, slicking my hair back, and I float on my back, staring up at the stars barely visible through the hazy sky. For a moment, there's nothing. No Mateo. No vow. No ache between my thighs that only he can reach. Just water and silence and the distant thrum of the party.
And then I hear it. A motorcycle. The rumble cuts through the music, low and familiar, a sound I've memorized in a single day. My heart stops. My body goes still in the water.
I hear Diego's voice, strained: "Mateo. Hey, man. Didn't think you were coming."
A voice that sends fire through my veins: "Change of plans."
I turn in the water, paddling toward the edge, my eyes finding him. He's standing at the gate, black leather jacket, jeans, boots. His jaw is tight, his eyes scanning the crowd until they land on me. On my body floating in the pool, barely covered. His expression doesn't change. But I see his fists clench.
I climb out of the pool, water streaming down my body, the bikini clinging to every curve. I grab my crop top but I don't put it on. I hold it, watching him walk toward me, the crowd parting like he's a god descending.
He stops a foot away. His gaze drops to my chest, to the wet fabric that leaves nothing to the imagination, to the curve of my hips, the triangle of fabric barely covering me. When his eyes meet mine again, they're darker than I've ever seen them.
"Princesa." The word is a warning. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same. You were supposed to be out with some girl."
"I was." His jaw tightens. "But I found out you were here. In that." He gestures at my body. "And I couldn't stay away."
The words hit me like a wave. I should be angry. I should tell him to leave, that he has no claim on me. But my body doesn't obey. My thighs press together under the water's caress, and I feel the heat pooling, wet and hungry, between my legs.
"It's a pool party," I manage. "People wear bikinis."
"Not my people." He steps closer, one hand reaching out, his fingers brushing the wet strap on my shoulder. "Not my Princesa."
My heart stutters in my chest, a wild, trapped thing. His finger is still on my shoulder, a single point of heat against my wet, chilled skin. Friend. He's here as a friend. He's worried. I repeat it like a prayer, a vow I whisper over and over in the hollow of my skull. Friend. Vow. Friend. Vow.
"I'm fine," I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Diego invited me. It's just a party."
His eyes don't leave mine. They're dark, unreadable, but I see the muscle in his jaw jump. "A party. In that." His gaze drops again, dragging down my body like a physical weight, lingering on the wet fabric plastered to my breasts, the way my nipples peak hard against the thin triangles of my bikini. "This isn't exactly 'covering up,' Princesa. What happened to the girl in the sweater? The one who looked like she was hiding from the whole world?"
My face burns. The heat crawls up my neck, floods my cheeks, and I hate it. I hate that he can see through me, that he knows I was playing a game, that my plan is so transparent he can read it like a road map. But underneath the shame, a thrill unfurls, hot and low in my belly. It's working. He noticed. He came.
"It's a pool party," I repeat, forcing a shrug. "People wear bikinis. It's not—this isn't how I dress every day. You know that."
"I know what I've seen." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell him—leather, gasoline, and something clean and sharp underneath. His voice drops, low and rough, meant only for me. "The last two weeks, you've been covered from neck to knee. Sweaters. Jeans. Cardigans, for fuck's sake. I thought maybe you'd changed. Maybe the girl who walked up to me in the parking lot, all that confidence and no bra, had decided to hide." He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. "And now you're here. In a bikini that barely covers your tits, dripping wet, and every guy at this party is staring at you like you're a meal."
I swallow. My throat is dry. "Maybe I just wanted a break from being hidden."
"Bullshit." The word is soft, almost a whisper, but it cuts through me. "You're not hiding, Princesa. You're baiting."
I can't breathe. He sees me. He sees everything—the game I'm playing, the mask I put on, the way I've been dressing down to make him look harder, to make him wonder. And he's calling me out on it, standing here in the middle of a party, his eyes burning into mine, and I should be embarrassed. I should deny it, deflect, laugh it off. But instead, I feel something break open in my chest, a raw and hungry thing that wants to be seen, truly seen, by him.
"Maybe I am," I say, my voice barely audible. "Maybe I wanted to see if you'd come."
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or hunger. His hand moves from my shoulder, trailing down my arm, his callused fingers leaving a trail of fire on my wet skin. He catches my wrist, his grip firm but not painful, and he pulls me closer, until there's no space between us, until I can feel the heat of his body through the damp fabric of my bikini.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Princesa." His voice is a growl, low and rough against my ear. "Dressing like a nun for two weeks, then showing up to a pool party looking like this. You knew I'd hear about it. You knew I'd come."
"Did I?" I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze. "You're the one who said we could only be friends. You're the one who said I couldn't get close. So maybe I'm just trying to get your attention the only way you'll look at me."
His jaw tightens. His grip on my wrist tightens. "I look at you, Princesa. I look at you every goddamn day, and it's killing me."
The confession hits me like a wave, and I feel the heat pool between my thighs, slick and desperate. I press my thighs together, trying to hide it, but I know he sees. He sees everything. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, and I watch him struggle, watch him fight the same war I've been fighting since the moment I saw him.
"Then stop fighting it," I whisper. "Stop pretending you don't want me."
He exhales, a rough sound that's almost a laugh. "You have no idea what you're asking for."
"Try me."
Behind us, I hear Diego call my name, his voice tight and annoyed. "Val? You okay?"
Mateo's eyes don't leave mine. "Tell him you're leaving."
"I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me what this is."
"This is me trying to keep you safe from myself." He releases my wrist, steps back, and the loss of his heat is physical, a withdrawal I feel in my bones. "Put on your shirt, Princesa. Cover up. And stay away from me tonight, because if I touch you again, I'm not going to stop."
He turns and walks away, weaving through the crowd, his silhouette sharp and dark against the party lights. I watch him go, my body trembling, my skin still burning where he touched me. And I know, with a certainty that settles deep in my bones, that I'm not done with him. I'm not even close.
I ignore him. Those are just words. They have to be just words.
I watch him disappear through the crowd, his broad shoulders cutting through the sea of bodies like a knife, and I force myself to breathe. He kissed someone else. Probably right now, probably some modest girl who covers up and doesn't make him feel like he's losing control. I see it in my head, sharp and cruel — his mouth on hers, his hands in her hair, her legs wrapped around him on that bike.
"Val!" Diego's hand lands on my shoulder, warm and clammy, his grip squeezing as he pulls me back toward the party. "Who the fuck was that? You looked like you were about to kill each other."
"No one." My voice comes out flat. I shake him off and grab a red Solo cup from a nearby table, filling it with something clear and burning. I don't ask what it is. I don't care. "Just an asshole."
I drink. The liquid burns down my throat, searing a path into my chest, and I welcome it. I want to feel something other than this hollow ache, this stupid, desperate wanting for a boy who won't let me close. Who said we could only be friends. Who touched me like I was something precious and then walked away.
He'll never want me. The thought settles in my bones, cold and heavy. He wants modest girls. Girls who cover up, who don't walk into a room like they own it, who don't wear thongs and tight tops and make every man in sight look twice. He wants someone soft and demure, someone who doesn't challenge him, who doesn't make him feel like he's losing control.
I was trying to be that. For two weeks, I was that. Sweaters and jeans and cardigans, hiding everything he said he couldn't resist. And it worked. He noticed. He watched. But it didn't change anything. He still kept his distance. He still called me Princesa like a warning instead of a promise.
Another drink. The party blurs around me, music pounding through the floor, bass vibrating up through my bare feet. The tile is cold under my soles. The lights are too bright and then too dim, strobing in colors that smear together.
Diego's hand finds my waist. I let him pull me into the crowd.
The music swallows me. Bodies press against mine, hot and sweaty, grinding in the dark. I close my eyes and move, hips rolling, hands reaching out to grip shoulders that aren't his, chests that aren't his, mouths that don't say Princesa like it means something. I imagine they're him. Every hand on my hip is his. Every breath against my neck is his. Every guy who pulls me closer, grinding against me, is Mateo, and I drown in the fantasy.
I can tell them no. I don't care enough to ask.
More drinks appear in my hand. I take them. I drink them. The world goes fuzzy at the edges, soft and forgiving, and I let it. I let the alcohol blur the sharp edges of his rejection, the way his eyes looked at me before he walked away — hungry and afraid, like I was something dangerous he couldn't afford to touch.
But I want him to touch me. I want him to stop fighting.
I'm dancing with someone now — some guy with dark hair and kind eyes, not as tall as Mateo, not as broad, not as dark. He's saying something, but I can't hear it over the music. He's smiling, and I smile back, and I press my body against his, letting my hips move in a rhythm that isn't his, pretending it is.
His hands slide down to my ass, cupping the thin fabric of my bikini bottoms. I let him. I don't push him away. I lean into the warmth of his body, the solid press of him against me, and I feel nothing. Not arousal. Not disgust. Just a hollow buzzing, a static that fills my chest.
I don't even know who he is.
Time slips. The music changes. Someone hands me another drink. The guy is gone, replaced by another, or maybe he's the same one. I don't know. I don't care. I keep dancing, grinding, moving, my body a puppet on strings I've stopped holding.
The night bleeds together. Faces blur. Laughter erupts around me, sharp and tinny, and I laugh too, but I don't know what's funny. My head is swimming, the room tilting, and I'm not sure if I'm going to throw up or pass out.
I need to sit down.
I stumble away from the crowd, my bare feet finding a hallway, a wall, a couch that smells like beer and sweat. I collapse onto it, the fabric rough against my wet skin, and I realize I'm shivering. My bikini is still damp from the pool, and the night air is cold against my bare arms and legs. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking, but it won't stop.
I dig my phone out of the tiny clutch I left on a table somewhere. My fingers are clumsy, the screen blurring in front of me. I barely see the number as I press it. It rings once. Twice.
"Hello?"
His voice, rough and surprised, cuts through the static in my head.
"Mateo." My voice is slurred. I know it is. I can hear it, thick and heavy, and I can't fix it. "I don't—I need—"
"Where are you?" His voice sharpens, edges like a blade. "Val, where the fuck are you?"
"I don't know." I look around the room. It's someone's house. Someone's living room. A pool in the backyard. Music still thumping. "The party. Diego's friend's house. I don't—I don't have a ride."
Silence. Then, low and dangerous, "Stay there. Don't move. Don't talk to anyone. I'm coming."
The line clicks dead.
I curl into myself on the couch, my knees tucked to my chest, my arms wrapped tight around my legs. The shivering won't stop. I feel sick. I feel stupid. I feel everything and nothing at once, and I hate it.
I don't know how long it takes. Minutes. Hours. Time is thick and slow, each second stretching into a minute, each minute an hour.
Then the front door bangs open.
I see him before he sees me. His silhouette is unmistakable — broad shoulders, the leather jacket, the silver cross catching the dim light as he moves through the room like a storm. He scans the crowd, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He looks furious. He looks terrified.
His eyes find me.
He crosses the room in five long strides, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. He crouches in front of me, his knees on the ground, and his hands find my face, cupping my cheeks, tilting my head up to meet his gaze.
His dark eyes search mine, wide and intense, cataloging every detail — my flushed cheeks, my glassy eyes, the way I'm shaking.
"Princesa." His voice cracks. "What the fuck did you do?"
I try to smile. It doesn't work. "Got drunk."
"I can see that." His jaw tightens. He looks at me, really looks, and I see something break behind his eyes. "You're soaked. You're shaking. You're alone, in a stranger's house, drunk out of your goddamn mind—"
"I called you." The words spill out before I can stop them. "I knew you'd come."
He closes his eyes for a second, a long blink, and when he opens them, the fury is still there, but it's buried under something softer. Something raw.
"Of course I came. I'll always come." He reaches down, his hands sliding under my knees and behind my back, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I cling to his neck, my face pressing into the warmth of his shoulder, and I breathe him in. Leather. Gasoline. Him.
He carries me out of the house, through the yard, past the pool where the night started, through the gate to where his bike is parked at the curb. He sets me down gently, one hand on my waist to steady me, and he shrugs off his jacket, wrapping it around my shoulders.
It swallows me. It's warm from his body. I pull it tighter, burying my nose in the collar.
"Put this on." He pulls a helmet off the bike and holds it out to me. I take it, my fingers clumsy, and he watches me fumble with it for a moment before he sighs, stepping closer. His hands cover mine, gentle, adjusting the strap, buckling it under my chin. His eyes meet mine through the visor.
"Hold on to me," he says. "Don't let go."
I climb onto the bike behind him. My arms wrap around his waist, my chest pressing against his back, and I feel the heat of him through his shirt, the steady beat of his heart under my hands.
The bike roars to life. He pulls away from the curb, and I lean into him, my cheek pressing against his spine, my eyes closing as the wind whips around us.
I don't know where he's taking me. I don't care.
He's here. He came. He's holding on to me.
And for the first time all night, I feel safe.
The ride doesn't take long. Too soon, the bike slows, and I feel him pull into a driveway. The engine cuts, and the sudden silence is heavy, pressing against my ears. I don't want to let go. My arms are locked around his waist, my cheek pressed against the warm leather of his jacket. But he's already moving, his hand coming down to cover mine, squeezing once before peeling my fingers away.
"Come on, Princesa." His voice is low, almost gentle. He swings off the bike, and I feel the absence of his heat like a physical loss. I sit there, swaying, the helmet heavy on my head.
He unbuckles the strap under my chin, his fingers brushing my jaw. The helmet comes off, and the night air hits my face, cool and sharp. I blink up at him. He's standing in front of me, holding out his hand.
I take it. His fingers close around mine, callused and warm, and he helps me off the bike. My legs are rubber. I stumble, and his arm wraps around my waist, catching me, pulling me against his side.
"Easy," he murmurs. "I got you."
I lean into him, let him take my weight. We're in a parking lot behind a building — an apartment complex, I think. Brick and concrete, a staircase leading up. He guides me toward it, one hand on my waist, the other holding his jacket closed around my shoulders.
My mind is starting to clear. Not all the way — the world still tilts, edges soft and blurry — but enough. Enough to notice the way his fingers press into my hip. Enough to notice that he hasn't let go.
We climb the stairs. Two flights. He stops at a door, 2B, and fumbles with keys. I lean against the wall, watching him. The silver cross at his throat catches the dim hallway light. His jaw is tight, his shoulders set. He looks like he's holding himself together by a thread.
The door swings open. He steps aside, gesturing for me to go in first.
I walk inside.
His apartment is small. A living room with a worn couch, a TV on a low stand, a few empty beer bottles on the coffee table. The kitchen is a narrow galley to the left, dishes in the sink. It smells like him — leather and something clean, like soap and metal. It smells like home, and I hate that I think that.
He closes the door behind us, locks it. The click is final.
"You need water," he says, moving past me toward the kitchen. "And food. When did you last eat?"
I don't answer. I'm staring at the hallway to my right. Two doors. One open — a bathroom, I think. The other closed.
"Val." His voice is sharper now. "When did you last eat?"
"Lunch." I think. Maybe. "I don't remember."
He curses under his breath, opens the fridge. I hear him moving around, the clink of glass, the rush of tap water. I should focus. I should drink the water. But my feet are carrying me down the hallway, toward the closed door.
I push it open.
His bedroom.
It's dark, but the light from the living room spills in, illuminating the edges. A queen bed, unmade, the sheets tangled. A dresser with a few things on top — keys, a wallet, a silver chain. The closet door is open, clothes spilling out. It's messy. It's lived in.
It's where he brings them.
I see the bed, and I see her. Not a specific her — a blur of faceless girls, girls with their legs wrapped around his waist, their nails digging into his back, their mouths on his. I see him above them, his hips driving, his breath ragged, his voice saying their names. Not mine. Someone else's name.
The thought hits me like a fist to the chest.
I can't breathe.
"Princesa." His voice is behind me, soft and careful. "That's my room. You don't have to—"
"Is this where they sleep?" The words come out before I can stop them. My voice is thin, shaking. "The other girls. Is this where you fuck them?"
Silence.
I turn around. He's standing in the doorway, a glass of water in his hand, his face unreadable. The light from the hall catches his eyes, and I see something flicker there — guilt? Pain? I can't tell.
"That's not—" He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "Val, you're drunk. You don't know what you're saying."
"I know exactly what I'm saying." My voice cracks. "I know you have girls. I saw them at school. I saw them looking at you. I saw the way you looked at them."
He doesn't deny it. He just stands there, holding the water, his jaw tight.
"I'm not a good guy," he says quietly. "I told you that."
"I know." I feel tears burning behind my eyes. I blink them back. "I know you're not."
He steps into the room, sets the glass on the dresser. He's close now. Close enough that I can smell him — leather and sweat and something darker. Close enough that I can see the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his shoulders.
"Drink the water," he says. "You'll feel better."
I don't move. I can't. My body is locked, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
He sighs, turns to the closet. He pulls out a shirt — black, soft, worn. He holds it out to me.
"You can sleep in this. Bathroom's across the hall. Towels are in the cabinet." His eyes find mine. "I'll sleep on the couch."
I take the shirt. My fingers brush his, and I feel the spark — that same electric jolt I felt the first time I saw him. I pull the shirt to my chest, and I smell it. Him. The fabric is soft, worn from a hundred washes. It smells like his cologne, like his skin.
And suddenly, I can't stop myself.
"How many girls have worn this?"
His eyes narrow. "What?"
"This shirt." I hold it up. "How many other girls have you given this to? How many have slept in your bed, worn your clothes, called your name?"
He stares at me. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then he steps closer, so close I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"None," he says, his voice low and rough. "No one has ever worn this shirt but me. No one has ever slept in this bed but me. You're the first person I've ever brought here."
I blink. The words don't make sense. "But—"
"I don't bring girls home, Val." He says it like it's a confession. "I don't do sleepovers. I don't do—this." He gestures between us. "I don't know why I came when you called. I don't know why I'm standing here, trying to take care of you when I should be leaving you the fuck alone."
His voice breaks on the last word. He looks away, his jaw working.
"Drink the water," he says again. "Get some sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
He turns and walks out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. The click of the latch is soft, but it echoes in the silence.
I stand there, his shirt clutched to my chest, the glass of water on the dresser untouched. My mind is spinning, drunk and raw and full of him.
I don't know what to believe. I don't know what to feel.
But I know one thing.
I'm wearing his shirt tonight. I'm sleeping in his bed. And even though he's on the other side of that door, even though he's a bad boy with a reputation and a past and a thousand girls who want him — he came for me.
He came for me.
I change out of my damp clothes, pulling his shirt over my head. It falls to mid-thigh, soft and warm, and it smells like him. I climb into his bed, the sheets tangled and cool, and I press my face into his pillow.
I don't cry. But I want to.
I want him. I want him more than I've ever wanted anything. But I made a vow — to myself, to my pride, to the girl who walked into that school with her head high and her heart locked away. I can't let him in. I can't be just another girl in a long line of girls.
I close my eyes, and I let the darkness take me.
Tomorrow, I'll figure out what to do.
Tonight, I'll let myself pretend.