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His phone sits on the nightstand, screen down. Taunting me.
Should I look? I know his passcode—six digits. My birthday and his. Wait. What if it’s not the same? We broke up. He probably changed it.
Now I’m curious. Should I try it just to see?
No, don’t. That’s not cool. That’s straight-up psycho behavior. But... I could just peek at the screen to check the time, right? It’s not an invasion of privacy if I touch the screen for the time and just happen to see the messages?
The internal debate rages while I watch his chest rise and fall. I’m just checking the time. People do that. It’s normal. Nothing suspicious.
I shift toward the nightstand, where his phone is wedged between his bed and Jameson’s.
Shhh. I’m going to hell.
With trembling fingers, I stretch—so careful—and tap the screen to... check the time. Obviously. That’s when his notifications pop up. Two texts from King, one from his dad, and one from Inez. Her message came through at 11:34 p.m., and when I scroll up—a tiny bit—I see another from her at 9:29 p.m., right when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He ignored her twice. Ha. Because he was with me, bitch.
Relieved, I look up, suddenly feeling like someone’s staring at me.
Remember what I said about watching Jameson play and Callie hooking up with him? Guess who’s staring at me.
Told ya, bitch. Predictable.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, clutching the blanket higher against my chest.
Her eyes are so wide I can barely see the blue, just her pupils. “What areyoudoing here?”
Between the two beds, Mookie lets out the loudest meow I’ve ever heard from something so tiny and stares up like we’re supposed to solve all his problems immediately.
We both ease out of bed, grabbing clothes and phones, when Mookie—the little shit—decides this is the perfect moment for an adventure. He bolts for the door as I crack it open.
“No, no, no,” I whisper-yell, diving after him. The black furball shoots down the hallway like he’s training for the feline Olympics.
“Holy cow, he’s fast,” Callie laughs.
“No shit.”
Callie and I chase him, barefoot and half-dressed, trying not to wake up the whole floor. He zigzags between our legs, clearly loving this new game.
“Corner him!” Callie hisses, hiking up her borrowed shorts as she runs.
Finally, I scoop him up, his little heart pounding against my palm. Back in the room, I shove his cute ass inside and hold a finger up to him like, Shut the fuck up.
Outside the building, Callie doubles over laughing, clutching her side, and I can’t help but join her. We probably look insane—hair wild, half dressed, giggling like maniacs escaping the scene.
The early morning air hits my face, crisp with that signature Seattle chill, even though it's nearly May. Pink cherry blossoms drift around us like confetti, dotting Callie’s messy dark hair. Behind her, Thompson Hall looms red brick against the pearl-gray sky, its ivy-covered walls holding a century of stories like ours.
I glance down at my outfit as the cool pavement hits my bare feet. I’m in Jaxon’s hoodie, no fucking pants, and Callie’s in Jameson’s shorts that barely fit.
Our walk-of-shame looks are next level.
My mind drifts to last night—the way Jax’s fingers traced circles on my arm while we watched that dumb zombie movie, how his breath slowed and deepened as he fell asleep.
Oh my lord. Stop thinking about him for one damn second.
Callie halts and eyes me suspiciously. “When did they get a freaking cat?”
“Uh, yesterday?” I tie my hair in a messy bun. “I came over to see it and... yeah.” I motion to my lack of pants.