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She leaves the room, and I’m fucking livid.

The anger hits like a switch being flipped, white-hot and instant.

The dresser needs to still be built. God fucking damn it.

I grab the screwdriver and slam it into the next screw, the metal biting deep into the wood. Another screw. Another violent twist. The dresser shakes under my hands as I force the pieces together with brutal force.

What the hell was that? She was kissing me back, her body pressed against mine, making those sounds that drive me insane. And then what—she just decides she’s done? Like I’m some kind of sick fuck begging for something I don’t deserve?

She can’t even fucking talk to me?

After I’ve been trying so hard to stick to the god damn plan.

I point the screwdriver up at the ceiling, pointing at my dead brother up there, who I thought sent me a fucking sign through the radio. I, sure as hell, have lost my mind.

I drive in the last screw so hard the wood splits slightly around the edges. My hands are shaking from the kind of rage that makes you want to put your fist through a wall.

I leave her bedroom without looking back, deliberately avoiding the living room. I can’t see her right now. Can’t trust the look in my eyes or what words might crawl out of my mouth.

In my room, I pace. Five steps to the window. Turn. Five steps to the door. The walls feel like they’re closing in, like the air is getting thinner. My chest is tight, my breathing shallow.

Is this who I am? The guy who buys furniture and makes lunch and gets nothing in return? Is being the nice guy just another way to be fucking used?

It’s not like she has to fuck me to thank me, but luring me in, and then cutting the line is brutal.

I stop pacing and stare at myself in the mirror above my dresser. Same face. Same body that women throw themselves at. But somehow not good enough for her.

The thought makes something ugly twist in my stomach.

She let me have a taste already, or am I remembering that wrong?

I had my tongue deep in that pretty fucking pussy, made her orgasm not only once.

She fell asleep on my shoulder last night like she belonged there.

This morning, she was laughing, making videos, acting like we were something real.

And now she’s running again the second things get sexual.

I grab my phone and call Henderson before I do something stupid.

“Yo, what’s up?”

I murmur, “What are you doing?”

“Playing Fortnite with Davis. Why?” he asks, and I can hear the commotion in the background.

“I’m coming over.”

I hang up. Grab my keys. I need to get out of this house before I march into that living room and demand she explain what the hell her problem is. And I know she won’t appreciate me demanding anything from her.

When I walk out, she’s on the couch, looking small and lost. She glances up when she hears me, and there’s something in her eyes that might be regret or fear or guilt. I don’t look directly at her.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

Her voice is quiet, uncertain. For a second, I almost stop. Almost explain that I need space to cool down before I do something that burns everything to the ground.

Instead, I don’t answer. Don’t even look at her. I walk out and slam the door hard enough that the sound echoes through the entire house.

The drive to campus is a blur of red lights and sharp turns. My mind won’t shut up. What did I do wrong? Was I too aggressive? Not aggressive enough? Should I have just taken what I wanted instead of asking permission like some kind of rookie?

By the time I park at the dorms, I’ve made a decision. I’m not going back tonight. I can’t face her, can’t pretend this push-and-pull bullshit doesn’t make me want to fucking rip someone’s head off.

Henderson better have alcohol, because I plan on drowning every thought of Sage until morning.

We play Fortnite until the early morning hours, the blue glow of the screen burning into my retinas. Davis passes out first, sprawled across Henderson’s roommate’s empty bed. Henderson follows around 1 AM, his controller slipping from his hands as he curls up on his own mattress.

I lean back in the bean bag Henderson uses as a desk chair, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet except for their snoring and the distant hum of the building’s air conditioning. My mind keeps circling back to Sage, trying to decode what the hell happened.

She wanted me. I know she did. The way she kissed me back, the sounds she made, the way her body responded to mine—none of that was fake. So, what changed? What made her run?

I must fall asleep eventually because the next thing I know, Henderson is tripping over my legs.

“Shit, you’re still here, man?”

I stretch, my hip screaming in protest from sleeping on a bean bag all night. “Yeah, I’ll drive us to practice.”

Henderson doesn’t question it, just starts getting ready. Davis joins us twenty minutes later, looking like death warmed over. I drive us to the arena in silence, grateful they’re too tired to ask why I spent the night on their floor.

Once inside, I know I won’t run into Sage until later. We hit the locker room to gear up, and that’s when I see her round the corner with her new boss. The woman looks normal enough—mid-forties, professional, everything Sage probably wishes to be later in life.

Sage’s eyes find mine across the hallway, but I look away and head for the ice.

The first drill, I slam into Mitchell so hard he goes down and doesn’t get back up for ten seconds. Coach blows his whistle, but I’m already skating to the next position.

During scrimmage, I check Thompson into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass. The sound echoes through the arena like a gunshot. He bounces off and falls to his knees, gasping.

“Castellano! What the hell was that?” Coach yells.

I ignore him. Line up for the next play. When Davis tries to steal the puck, I drive my shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling across the ice. My stick work is vicious—slashing at ankles, cross-checking anyone who gets too close.

“Jesus, Slater, chill out,” Belinsky pants during a water break.

I don’t respond. Just grab my stick and head back out.

The next shot I take flies past the goalie’s head and slams into the glass behind him so hard it spider-webs. Coach’s whistle is screaming now, but the sound just makes me skate harder. My hip is on fire, but I push through the pain, using it to fuel every brutal hit, every reckless play.

When practice ends, I strip off my gear, my mind already tracking Sage’s movements through the arena. She’s with the new PT. They’re making their rounds, checking on players, pretending everything’s normal.

I know Sage’s routine. Equipment room is always last.

The hallway stretches empty before me, fluorescent lights humming overhead like trapped insects. I position myself where the corridor narrows, where she’ll have to pass me. Where she can’t run.

My shoulders ache from the brutal practice, but it’s nothing compared to the weight sitting on my chest. The image of her pulling away last night plays on loop—the way she couldn’t get away fast enough.

Footsteps echo off the concrete walls. She rounds the corner with her eyes glued to those damn clipboards. Her head down, focused on whatever meaningless paperwork she’s carrying. When she looks up and sees me, she stops dead.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. I can see her calculating—looking for escape routes, ways around me. But there aren’t any.

“It’s a bad time, Slater.” Her voice is steady, professional. Like we’re strangers. “I need to get these reports to—”

“Your new boss can wait.” I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

“I can’t do this with you.” She tries to slip past me, but I shift my weight, blocking her path without touching her. “I’m at work.”

“Since when do I give a shit about work protocol?” The words come out harsh, but I can’t stop them.

Something flickers across her face. “I guess you don’t.”

The fluorescent light above us flickers, casting shifting shadows across her face. I can see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, hear the catch in her breathing. She’s scared, but not of me. Of this. Of whatever’s happening between us.

“Am I not good enough for you?” The question tears out of me like a confession. “Is that what this is?”

Her eyes widen. “What? No, that’s not—”

“Then what?” I slam my palm against the wall beside her head, the sound sharp and final. “Because I’m trying to figure out what I did wrong. Was it the dresser? The lunch? Trying to be the kind of man you deserve?”

“Slater, stop.”

“I can’t.” The words taste like blood in my mouth. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About that night you came on my tongue. About last night when you were fucking straddling me.”

Her clipboard trembles in her hands. “We can talk about this later.”

“No.” I lean closer, close enough to feel her breath. “I’m not waiting. I’m done pretending I don’t want you so bad it’s killing me.”

“Don’t,” she whispers, but her eyes drop to my mouth.

“Tell me you don’t feel this.” My voice is raw, desperate. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away right now.”

She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come. Instead, her breath hitches, and I see something break in her expression—some wall she’s been holding up crumbling to dust.

“I can’t,” she breathes.

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

The confession hangs between us like a live wire. She reaches up, her free hand fisting in my shirt, and pulls me down to her mouth.

The kiss is desperate, angry, and filled with need. She tastes like coffee and something sweeter, something that makes me want to devour her whole. When I press her harder against the wall, she makes a sound that goes straight to my dick.

“Slater. Not here,” she gasps against my mouth, but her body says something different, arching into me.