Page 32

Past

T he first month at college is a careful game of hide-and-seek.

While Truman goes to class, I slip through the cracks of the world only he belongs to. I wander the campus, sticking to the edges, watching from the safety of shadows. No ID. Not a student. Just a ghost in stolen places.

The town is bigger than Moffitt—buildings stacked high, streets humming with people, shops overflowing with things I’ve never had.

I step into a bookstore just to breathe in the pages.

I watch students in coffee shops, scribbling in notebooks, laughing with friends.

I wonder what it would feel like to sit among a group of people and fell like you belong.

But I don’t.

So I wait for Truman.

He finds me every afternoon, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s making sure I’m still in one piece.

Sometimes, he brings me snacks from the dining hall, sneaking them into his backpack like a criminal.

Other times, he takes my hand and tugs me toward the off-campus diner where we split fries and I steal his milkshake.

He often picks me wildflowers for no reason and always, always has his hands on me somehow.

But nighttime—that’s when I feel real.

Every night, he pulls me into his bed.

I don’t know if he thinks I need it, or if he does. Maybe both.

At first, I thought it would be awkward—two bodies crammed together in a twin bed. But it isn’t. It’s warmth. Safety. A place to land.

The first night, I stiffened when he wrapped an arm around me.

The second night, I melted into it.

Now, it’s instinct.

I crawl under the covers, and Truman follows, tangling us together like he needs to hold me as much as I need to be held. His chest is solid against my back, his arm heavy over my waist, and I revel in every second of it.

I’ve never had this before.

His breath is warm against my neck when he murmurs, “You okay?”

I close my eyes. I don’t know.

But I say, “Yeah.”

Because when we’re like this, it almost feels true.

The days pass, turning into weeks, and I help him study when he’s too tired to focus. We sit on the floor, papers and books scattered between us, and I read the same passages over and over until he groans and pulls me into his lap, pressing his forehead to mine in defeat.

“This is a nightmare,” he mutters.

I smirk, running my fingers through his hair. “No, this is college.”

He exhales sharply, and I feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. The space between us disappears. But he doesn’t kiss me—he just breathes me in, like I’m the only thing keeping him sane.

And maybe I am.

But in the quiet moments, when I’m alone, I miss home.

I miss the trees, the sound of the wind through the leaves. I miss the way the forest smelled in the morning, how the earth felt solid beneath my feet. I miss the goats and the chickens and training.

I miss Papa. Sometimes, I wake up expecting to hear his voice, to smell the wood smoke from our cabin. But all I get is the distant hum of campus life outside the window, a world moving on without him. A world moving on without me.

And then Truman shifts beside me, his grip tightening like he knows.

Like he feels it too.

So I press closer, let his heartbeat drown out the ache, and tell myself this is enough.

I stretch my arms over my head, arching my back until I hear a satisfying pop. Truman is at his desk, flipping through his textbook, but I don’t miss the way his eyes flick toward me, sharp and distracted.

“You good?” he asks, setting his pen down.

I roll my shoulders. “Yeah, just stiff. I need to move more.”

His gaze drags over me like he’s taking inventory. “You walk all over town.” I wonder how much more kissing we can do when my body has begun screaming for more.

“It’s not the same.” I shake my head. “At home, I chopped wood, hauled water, climbed trees, ran through the forest—” My voice catches. Back home. Papa. I push past it. “Papa and I trained. I kept myself strong. Here, I feel…” I exhale through my nose, searching for the right word.

“Weak?” Truman offers.

I nod. I drop onto his bed, folding my legs under me.

“Think you could get me a gym membership in town? I Googled one. Open all hours and just has a fob to get in and out. So I don’t think they’d know if wasn’t you going?”

“You Googled?”

“Hey…” I swat at him playfully.

Truman grins and leans back in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You wanna lift weights? Run on a treadmill?”

I shrug. “I want to feel like me again.”

His lips press together like he’s already turning over the logistics in his head. “I can get a membership.”

“I’ll pay.” His brows lift, amused. I fold my arms. “It’s my membership.”

He nods his head, leaning toward me until his elbows rest on his knees, his face inches from mine. His voice drops low.

“You miss being strong?”

I swallow. “Yeah.”

His fingers graze my knee. Heat floods my chest, climbing up my throat. I look away, but he catches my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. His thumb brushes my jaw. I bite my lip, and his eyes darken.

For a second, I forget about the gym.

Forget about everything but the way his touch makes me feel.

I shift forward until our noses brush. His hand lingers on my face for a second longer before he finally kisses me. A hand dips low, to my thigh. Truman gives it a gentle squeeze, then his fingers move higher.

“Are we… doing this?” My voice is shaky but eager.

Truman smirks, his lips close enough to graze mine with each word.

“Doing what?” he asks, sliding his hand just under the hem of my pajama shorts.

A shiver races through me. I want—more than I’ve ever wanted anything—for him to keep touching me like this.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to find words that don’t trip over each other.

His fingers move higher, teasing the edge of my underwear where my hip meets my thigh.

He pushes me gently onto my back on the bed.

Kisses the sliver of exposed skin between my tank and bottoms. His fingers, under my pajama shorts, flutter between my legs over my underwear.

Truman’s mouth travels lower, drawing more heat from me. He pauses, looks up, and it’s like he’s seeing every part of me at once.

“Well?” His voice is low, the question hanging between us and pulling tight.

My breath catches. “Doing exactly this,” I whisper, half-laughing with a nervous gasp at how much I want him.

He takes my words like permission. Or maybe he doesn’t need them—maybe he knows already—but either way his hands are quick, confident. He peels back my shorts just enough to bring a rush of air against bare skin, then his lips follow.

I arch into him, every inch of me alive and reaching for where he’ll go next.

He slides my underwear down and kisses me there , between my legs.

His tongue teases out the most desperate part of me, and I’m filling up with heat, sweet and unbearable.

My thighs tremble as he holds me open, his mouth impossibly soft and relentless.

He has me gasping, fingers locked tight in the blankets, pulling me nearer and nearer to some perfect, shattering edge.

“Truman…”

The tension builds until it’s all I can feel; more pressure than I know how to hold, everywhere and all at once. His movements slow for an instant and then grow firm again, sending me plunging over and through it.

I’m shaking—still soaring—when he lets go of my hips and crawls up beside me. His grin is wicked. Satisfied.

He settles his hand on my stomach, tugs my tank top higher with one finger to plant a kiss on my breast. When my heartbeat calms enough for words, I look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

“Wow.”

“First time?” he asks.

I pull his face to mine. “You know it was.”

His grin is so big his dimples appear. “I like that.”

I raise an eyebrow. “What else can we do?” I ask.

Truman laughs, deep and rumbly.

“Lots, but let’s go slow. One thing at a time.”