Page 19

The past three days have been a blur of textbooks, highlighters, and coffee. My dorm room, once just a place to sleep between classes and social activities, has become my fortress of solitude. I've only left for essential trips—classes, the bathroom, occasional food runs when I can no longer ignore my growling stomach. Luckily my roommate is never here. Truthfully, I’ve only seen her a handful of times, but it’s nice during times like these because my room is my sanctuary.

This routine is safer this way. Within these four walls, there are no curious stares, no whispered conversations that halt when I walk by, no chance encounters with either Sanderson or Cade. Just me, my studies, and the fortress of pillows I've constructed on my bed like some academic nest.

"You can't hide forever," Lennox said when she stopped by yesterday, taking in the empty coffee cups and scattered papers that have overtaken my normally tidy space.

"I'm not hiding," I insisted. "I'm studying. Finals are coming up."

She didn't believe me, but she also didn't push. Instead, she helped clear some of the clutter, made me eat a proper meal, and promised to check in again today.

I'm midway through a practice exam for Bio Ethics when my phone buzzes with a new message in the group chat with Lennox, Greta, and Finley.

Greta: Does anyone have notes from Johnson's lecture on Tuesday? I was at that track meet and he said something about that being on the final?

Finley: I've got them! I can scan them after my shift at the library tonight.

Greta: You're a lifesaver

Lennox: Speaking of lifesavers, who's coming to the end-of-semester bonfire next weekend? Tau Delt is hosting and I need moral support if I'm going to face Jake after what happened at the last party.

I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The last thing I want to do is go to a party where I might run into Cade or Sanderson. But I also miss my friends, miss feeling normal instead of like the main character in some campus drama.

Finley: I'm in! Need to blow off steam after finals.

Greta: Same, though I might be late. Coach added an extra practice.

Lennox: Hannah? You coming or still embracing your new hermit lifestyle?

I roll my eyes at the screen.

Hannah: Maybe. Let's see how finals go.

Lennox: 'Maybe' is better than 'no way in hell' from the prude so I'll take it.

Greta: Oh! Did anyone watch that new Netflix show? The one with the guy from that movie?

Finley: So specific, Greta

Greta: You know the one! With the murder and the small town and the hot detective!

Lennox: OMG yes! I binged it last weekend. When he found out his partner was the killer all along? I died.

Finley: Thanks for the spoiler! I was going to start it tonight.

Lennox: Oh please, that's like the most basic plot twist ever. The real shocker is when you find out the detective is actually the victim's long-lost son.

Finley: LENNOX! Stop!

I find myself smiling at their back-and-forth.

Hannah: For what it's worth, I watched it too and the son reveal was kind of obvious from episode 3. The chemistry with the medical examiner was the real plot twist.

Lennox: THANK YOU! Fin, she gets it.

Finley: You're all so annoying.

Greta: You're just jealous we got to watch it first.

Finley: True. Anyway, I gotta run to class. Later, losers!

Greta: Same, gym time. Those abs won't define themselves.

Lennox: Hannah, I'm stopping by with dinner later. No arguments.

I type a quick protest that I know will be ignored, then set my phone aside. The brief conversation has left me feeling lighter, more connected to the world outside my dorm room. It's a reminder that life goes on, that not everyone on campus is fixated on the Connolly brothers' fight or my role in it.

With renewed focus, I turn back to my practice exam. The Bio Ethics questions are challenging in exactly the way I like—requiring critical thinking, not just memorization. I lose myself in the intellectual exercise, the familiar rhythm of reading, analyzing, answering.

Hours pass. The light outside my window shifts from afternoon to evening. I stretch, my back complaining after too long in one position. I should eat something, maybe take a shower before Lennox arrives with dinner and inevitable questions about my self-imposed exile.

As I gather my shower caddy and towel, my phone buzzes again. Expecting Lennox with an ETA, I glance at the screen.

It's not Lennox.

Sanderson: Hope you're doing okay. I've been respecting your space but wanted to check in.

My heart does a stupid little flip at the sight of his name.

I set the phone down without responding, not trusting myself to find the right words. What can I say?

The shower helps clear my head, hot water washing away some of the tension I've been carrying. By the time I return to my room, I feel more centered.

I pick up my phone again, considering a response to Sanderson. But what's the point? Whatever was building between us, whatever connection we were exploring, it's too fraught now. Too many complications, too much potential for more pain.

Better to let it go. Focus on finals, on finishing the semester strong. Then summer will come, bringing distance and perspective. By fall, this will all be a strange memory—the time I accidentally slept with one brother, dated the other, and somehow ended up in the middle of their fight.

I'm still in my towel, startled from my thoughts by a knock on the door—Lennox with dinner, presumably. I open it without checking, a mistake I realize immediately.

It's not Lennox.

Sanderson stands in my doorway, a bruise still visible around his eye, though less dramatic than it must have been right after the fight. He looks tired, uncertain, so different from the confident hockey boy I first met. My heart stutters at the sight of him, a reaction I can't control and don't want to lean into.

"Hi," he says, the single syllable carrying a weight of questions. His eyes glance down at my towel, and I freeze.

"Um. What are you doing here?" I manage.

"I don’t know," he says, as if that explains everything. "I guess I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm fine," I say automatically while tightening my towel, then add, "But you shouldn't be here."

"Can I come in?" he asks, ignoring my attempted dismissal. "Just for a minute. Please."

I should say no. I should close the door, get dressed, go back to my studying, my isolation, my safe little bubble. But even as I think it, I'm stepping aside, letting him into my space. I silently sigh because I cannot say no to him for some reason.

He enters cautiously, like he's afraid I might change my mind. The room feels smaller with him in it, his broad shoulders and tall frame making my dorm seem suddenly claustrophobic.

"How are you?" I ask, for lack of anything better to say. "Your eye looks better."

"It is," he says, hunching slightly as he sits on the edge of my desk chair. "Still sore, but healing. Coach was surprisingly understanding."

"That's good."

Now it’s an awkward silence, the air between us heavy with unspoken words. I head to my closet to grab clothes.

"Shit," he turns around. "Go ahead and get dressed. I’m sorry."

"A gentleman would wait outside," I snark, looking at the back of his head, but he doesn’t move.

I quickly throw on my clothes and then say, "Okay."

He turns around, glancing at my matching lounge set. It’s silent again, and this time it feels heavy between us.

"Hannah," he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not good at this."

"At what?"

"At…feelings. Talking about them. Having them." He looks so uncomfortable that I almost feel sorry for him. "I've been thinking about you non-stop for the past three days."

"Sanderson—"

"Let me finish," he interrupts gently. "Please. Then if you want me to leave, I will."

I nod, bracing myself.

"I know this is complicated," he continues. "I know the timing is awful and the circumstances are bizarre and my brother is…well, Cade is Cade. But none of that changes how I feel. And the guy who took you out on all those thoughtful dates before the fight isn’t who I truly am. I don’t do any of this shit, and I guess what I’m trying to say is…" He trails off, looks up, meeting my eyes, and the intensity there nearly takes my breath away.

"What’re you trying to say?" I ask quietly.

"I've never had this before," he says simply. "With anyone, so please tell me I’m not the only one who feels it too."

The raw honesty in his voice catches me off guard. This isn't a line, not some practiced speech to get what he wants. This is real vulnerability from someone who claims he doesn't show it often.

"I don't know what to say," I admit.

"Shit," he says, running a hand through his hair like this was a mistake. He stands, and I realize he's actually going to leave, just like that. He said his piece and now he's respecting my boundaries, not pushing for more than I'm ready to give.

It's that realization—that he cares enough to leave—that breaks something open inside me.

"Wait," I say, stepping in front of him.

He pauses, hope and wariness battling in his expression.

I take a step toward him, then another, until we're close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. His eyes never leave mine, waiting, patient.

"I've been thinking about you too," I confess, the words barely audible. "I've been trying not to, but…"

"But?" he prompts when I trail off.

I shake my head, unable to articulate the storm of emotions swirling inside me—fear, desire, guilt, hope. All I know is that right now, in this moment, I'm tired of fighting what I feel. I stare into his eyes, reading his expression, and not liking that I’m the reason he feels defeated.

I watch his expression harden like he’s gearing himself to protect him from what he thinks I’m about to say. For once, he’s reading me wrong. I’m not about to tell him the rational side of this entire situation. My heart’s racing, pounding against my ribs. And I’m tired of rational fear clouding what I want.

"Fuck it," I whisper. I pull his neck down and rise on my tiptoes to press my lips against his.