Morning light crept through the blinds, painting gold stripes across Liam's ceiling. Chloe stirred first, her cheek pressed to his chest, his arm heavy across her waist. She blinked, slow and warm, letting the shape of him sink in—the rise and fall of his ribs, the faint scratch of his stubble against her forehead.
Then the thought hit her, sharp and sudden.
She sat up. The sheet pooled around her hips. They'd had sex. Multiple times. In a shower. In his bed. She'd stayed the night. And she'd never once asked if he wanted to be her boyfriend.
"Liam." She shook his shoulder. "Liam, wake up."
He made a sound—something between a grunt and a question—and rolled over. His arm flopped off the edge of the mattress.
"Liam, I need to ask you something important."
His eyes cracked open. Gray-blue, unfocused. He blinked at her, then at the room, then back at her face. Something flickered across his expression—confusion, then recognition, then dawning panic.
He scrambled backward. The sheets tangled around his legs. He tipped over the edge of the bed and hit the floor with a thud.
"Ow. Fuck."
Chloe leaned over the side. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, one hand pressed to his chest. "Yesterday was real," he said, half to himself. "I thought— I woke up and I thought it was a dream."
She laughed. Bright and real. "You fell out of bed because you thought I was a dream?"
"I fell out of bed because you woke me up and I panicked." He sat up, rubbing the back of his head. "Same thing."
"It's really not."
He looked at her—naked, grinning, haloed in morning light—and his ears went pink. "Okay. What did you need to ask me?"
She bit her lip. The laughter faded, replaced by something softer. "I never asked if you wanted to be my boyfriend. Or if you wanted to have sex. I just kind of... assumed. And I'm sorry."
He blinked at her from the floor. "Chloe."
"What?"
"I literally fell out of bed because I thought you weren't real." He climbed to his knees, then stood, offering her a crooked smile. "Yes, I want to be your boyfriend. Yes, I wanted to have sex. I still want to have sex." He paused. "Actually, I really want to have sex again."
Her grin returned. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. But my body needs a minute. Or an hour. Or maybe a day." He winced. "I'm sore."
She flopped back onto the pillow, stretching like a cat. "Same. But I still want more."
He reached for the windowsill, where a small spray bottle sat beside a potted succulent. He picked it up, aimed, and spritzed her square in the face.
She yelped, spluttering. "What the hell?!"
"Horny deterrent." He shrugged, grinning. "Works on the plants."
She wiped water from her eyes, staring at him. Then she laughed—a real laugh, surprised and delighted—and grabbed the pillow from under her head, swinging it at him. He dodged, but the edge caught his shoulder, and he stumbled back, laughing too.
"I can't believe you just sprayed me."
"I can't believe you're still horny."
"I'm always horny."
"Good to know." He set the bottle down. "Breakfast first. Then we'll see."
She pouted, but there was no heat in it. "Fine. But I'm showering first. Alone. To cool off."
"There's a spray bottle in my room if you need it."
She threw the pillow at him. He caught it.
She padded naked to her own room, closing the door behind her. The air smelled like her—laundry detergent and something floral. She leaned against the door, her skin still warm from his sheets, and pressed her thighs together.
She was supposed to be getting dressed.
She wasn't getting dressed.
Her hand slid down her stomach, past her hip, finding the heat between her legs. She was already slick, already aching, the memory of his hands and his mouth and his voice flooding back. She bit her knuckle, sliding two fingers inside herself, quick and desperate.
It took less than a minute. She came with a sharp, bitten-off gasp, her forehead pressed to the wood, her knees trembling.
She pulled her hand away, breathing hard. Okay. Once more. Just to be sure.
She did it again. Slower this time. Drawing it out. When she finished, she sagged against the door, laughing at herself. She was hopeless. Completely, utterly hopeless.
She found a sundress in her closet—yellow, with little white daisies—and pulled it on. No bra. No underwear. She was still damp, and she liked the feeling.
When she opened the door, Liam was waiting in the hallway, wearing a clean hoodie and jeans. His hair was still wet. He smelled like soap.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready."
They walked to a café near campus, the morning cool and bright. They ordered sandwiches and coffee, then crossed the street to a small park where a pond glittered in the sunlight. Ducks paddled in lazy circles, trailing ripples behind them.
They sat on a bench, the paper bag between them. Chloe unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite, watching a duck dive under the surface.
"I like pickles," she said, mouth half-full. "But not on burgers. Just on the side."
Liam laughed. "That's very specific."
"I have a lot of specific opinions." She swallowed. "I also think pineapple belongs on pizza, but only if it's fresh, not canned."
"I agree."
She stared at him. "You're not just saying that?"
"I'm not just saying that. Fresh pineapple, ham, jalapeños. Best pizza."
She pointed her sandwich at him. "You're perfect."
He blushed. "I'm really not."
"You are. You're perfect. You like balloons, you like pineapple on pizza, you fell out of bed because you thought I was a dream." She grinned. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me."
"I hit my head on the nightstand."
"Even better."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. A duck waddled up to their bench, hopeful, and Chloe broke off a piece of bread, tossing it. The duck snatched it and waddled away.
"I used to be scared of the dark," she said, quiet. "When I was little. I'd leave my closet light on until my mom came in and turned it off."
"When did you stop?"
"I didn't, really. I just got better at hiding it." She shrugged. "I still sleep with a nightlight sometimes. A little star-shaped one."
He didn't laugh. He just nodded. "I still check under my bed."
She snorted. "Liar."
"I'm serious. Every night. I don't know what I'm expecting to find, but I check anyway."
She leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his. "We're both weird."
"Yeah." He smiled. "But we're weird together now."
She finished her sandwich and crumpled the wrapper. "I need to pee. Don't go anywhere."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She walked to the public restroom near the playground, the gravel crunching under her sandals. Inside, she stood at the sink, looking at her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed. Her hair was a mess. She looked happy.
She was happy.
She pressed her hands to the cool porcelain, grinning at herself. She'd found him. The boy next door who loved balloons as much as she did. The boy who blushed when she looked at him too long. The boy who fell out of bed because he thought she was a dream.
She was so lucky.
She took a deep breath, then another. When she walked out, she'd be composed. Normal. Not a crying mess.
She stepped outside.
Liam was standing by the bench, but he wasn't alone. Two helium balloons bobbed above his head—one deep purple, one soft pink. Her favorite colors. He held the strings loosely, watching her with a nervous smile.
She stopped.
Her hands flew to her mouth.
The tears came before she could stop them—hot and sudden, spilling down her cheeks. She tried to blink them away, but they kept coming, blurring the balloons into smears of color.
She ran.
She crossed the grass in seconds, throwing herself at him. He caught her, the balloons bouncing above them, and she buried her face in his chest, sobbing.
"I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying—"
"It's okay." His hand found the back of her head, gentle. "It's okay."
"I'm being so silly."
"You are." He laughed, soft and warm. "You're really silly. And really cute."
She pulled back, her face a mess of tears and smeared mascara, her cheeks bright red. She pouted at him, trying to look offended. "That's not fair. I'm supposed to be the one making you flustered."
He grinned. "Payback."
He grabbed her chin, tilting her face up. She was still crying, still blushing, still holding the balloon strings in one trembling hand. He leaned in and kissed her—soft and slow, tasting salt and coffee.
She melted into him, the balloons bumping against their heads, and she thought: This is it. This is the best moment of my life.
When he pulled back, she was still crying. But she was smiling too.
"I love them," she whispered. "I love you."
His ears went pink. "You don't have to say that yet."
"I know." She sniffled, laughing. "But I do anyway."
He kissed her forehead. "I love you too."
She hugged him again, the balloons floating above them like a crown, and she didn't let go for a long, long time.
She was still crying when a duck waddled up to them and quacked, loud and indignant.
Chloe laughed, startled, the sound wet and bubbly. "Oh my god."
The duck tilted its head, eyeing the balloons. It quacked again, more insistent this time.
"I think it wants my balloons." She sniffled, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
"I think it wants your sandwich." Liam pointed at the crumpled wrapper on the bench.
The duck waddled toward it, beak already extended.
"Hey!" Chloe lunged, grabbing the wrapper just before the duck could snatch it. "That's mine, you freeloader."
The duck quacked at her, offended, then turned and waddled back toward the pond with an air of dignity.
Chloe stared after it, then burst into laughter—real, full, chest-shaking laughter. "Did you see that? It literally judged me."
"It definitely judged you." Liam was grinning, his eyes soft. "You got told off by a duck."
"I got told off by a duck while crying over balloons." She laughed harder, tears mixing with fresh ones. "I'm a mess."
"You're my mess."
She stopped laughing. Looked at him. The balloons bobbed above them, purple and pink, catching the morning light.
"That was really smooth," she said.
"Was it?" His ears went pink.
"Really, really smooth." She stepped closer, still holding the balloons, and kissed him again—quick, warm, tasting of salt and coffee. "You're full of surprises, Liam Porter."
"I try."
She tucked herself against his side, and they stood there for a long moment, watching the ducks paddle across the pond. The balloons tugged at her hand, eager to float higher.
"We should probably go back," she said. "I need to wash my face. I look like a raccoon."
"You look beautiful."
She looked up at him. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Being sweet. It's unfair."
He laughed, soft and warm. "You started it."
She poked his ribs. "I did not."
"You told me you loved me."
Her cheeks flushed. "That was—that was different."
"Was it?"
She buried her face in his chest. "Shut up."
He wrapped his arms around her, the balloons pressing against the back of her head, and she felt his laugh rumble through his ribs. "Okay. I'm shutting up."
They walked back to the dorm, hand in hand, the balloons floating above them like a promise. The morning was warm, the grass still wet with dew, and Chloe felt lighter than she had in years.
When they reached her door, she stopped. "I need to change. And shower. And probably eat something that isn't a sandwich."
"Same." He squeezed her hand. "Knock when you're ready?"
"Yeah." She smiled, soft and shy. "I'll knock."
He let go of her hand, and she watched him walk to his door, the balloons still bobbing in her grip. He turned back, caught her staring, and grinned.
"Stop staring," she called.
"Can't help it."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling as she unlocked her door and slipped inside.
Her room smelled like stale air and latex. The deflated balloons from yesterday lay scattered across the floor, limp and forgotten. She set the helium balloons on her desk, watching them drift against the ceiling, and stood there for a moment, breathing.
She had a boyfriend.
She had a boyfriend who bought her balloons.
She had a boyfriend who bought her balloons and knew exactly what they meant and didn't think she was weird for crying over them.
She pressed her hands to her face, still damp from tears, and laughed at herself in the mirror. Her mascara was a disaster. Her hair was a nest. She looked like she'd been through a war.
A good war.
The best war.
She peeled off her sundress and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the salt and the mess. She thought about his hands, his mouth, the way he'd kissed her in the park like she was something precious.
She thought about the balloons bobbing above them, purple and pink, bright against the blue sky.
She thought about his voice, soft and warm, saying I love you too.
She dried off, changed into fresh shorts and a tank top, and stood at her door, hand on the knob.
She knocked.
His door opened almost immediately, like he'd been waiting. He was wearing a different hoodie, gray this time, his hair still damp from his own shower.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
They stood there, grinning at each other like idiots.
"So," she said. "Breakfast? For real this time?"
"Yeah." He stepped out, closing his door behind him. "I know a place. They have pancakes the size of your head."
"That sounds perfect."
They walked down the hallway together, shoulders brushing, and Chloe thought: This is it. This is the start of something.