Page 25

The library clock reads 6:45 when my phone buzzes with a text.

Outside with dinner. Take your time.

I glance up from my notes, catching Ethan's questioning look from across the table. "Food break?" he asks.

"Actually," I begin, already gathering my things, "I think I'm done for tonight."

Madison raises an eyebrow. "The Hannah Porter, leaving a study session early? Is the world ending?"

I laugh, feeling my cheeks warm. "I've been here since three. I think I've earned a break."

"Wouldn't have anything to do with that text you just got, would it?" Kelly teases, her voice low enough that only our table can hear.

"No comment," I reply, carefully organizing my notes into color-coded folders.

"The coffee guy?" Madison presses, leaning forward with interest.

I don't answer, but my smile gives me away.

"Get it, girl," Kelly says with an approving nod. "Those shoulders alone would make me skip studying."

"I'm not skipping," I protest, zipping my backpack. "I'm taking a strategic pause for nourishment and rest."

"Oh, she is very reasonable…and cares much about her food and rest regime," Ethan jokes, and I'm relieved to see there's no jealousy in his expression—just friendly teasing.

"You're hysterical," I declare, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow. Same time?"

They chorus their agreement as I make my way out of the study room, my heart quickening with each step toward the exit. It's ridiculous, really—I saw Sanderson this morning, texted with him all day, and yet the prospect of seeing him again sends butterflies swirling through my stomach.

He's leaning against his car in the parking lot, scrolling through his phone with casual concentration. He's changed since morning—dark jeans, a forest green shirt that makes his eyes seem more amber than brown, his hair slightly damp like he's recently showered. He looks up as I approach, his entire expression brightening in a way that makes my breath catch.

"Hannah," he says, pocketing his phone.

"James," I say, stopping in front of him.

For a moment, we just look at each other, the memory of last night and this morning hanging between us. Then he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my lips that feels both familiar and thrillingly new.

"So…what did you bring?" I ask.

He opens the passenger door for me, revealing several take-out containers on the seat. "Italian. Hope that works?"

"Perfect." I slide in, moving the containers to my lap as he closes the door and walks around to the driver's side.

"So," he says once he's settled behind the wheel. "My place or yours?"

The question sounds casual, but I catch the underlying significance. We've only ever been to my dorm—I've never seen where he lives, this private space that might reveal more about him than he typically shows the world.

"Yours," I decide, curiosity winning out over the comfort of familiar territory. "If that's okay?"

"More than okay," he says, starting the engine. "Just don't judge the décor. It's very…bachelor pad minimal."

"I'm shocked," I deadpan, earning a grin from him.

The drive to his apartment is filled with easy conversation—about my study session, his classes, the upcoming conference finals that have his team on an intensified practice schedule. It strikes me how comfortable this has become, this back-and-forth between us. No pretenses, no careful script of getting-to-know-you questions, just the natural flow of two people sharing their days.

His apartment is in a complex about ten minutes from campus, nicer than I expected for a college student. When I comment on this, he shrugs. "Hockey scholarship perks. Plus, I have a few roommates, but they're both at their girlfriends' places tonight."

The revelation that we'll be alone sends a flutter through me—not anxiety but anticipation.

He unlocks the door, stepping aside to let me enter first. The apartment is indeed minimal, but surprisingly neat. The living room contains a large sectional sofa facing a wall-mounted TV, a coffee table stacked with textbooks and what appear to be game films, and not much else. The walls are mostly bare except for a framed hockey jersey and a few team photos.

"See," he says, watching my assessment. "Not much to look at."

"It's nice," I say, and mean it. There's a simplicity to the space that feels authentic, unforced. "Very you."

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" he asks, setting the food on the kitchen counter.

"Definitely a compliment," I assure him, following him into the kitchen. "It's clean, organized, functional. I like it."

He smiles, looking pleased. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll grab plates."

I take a seat at the kitchen island, watching as he moves around the space with easy familiarity. He finds plates, utensils, even cloth napkins that I suspect aren't used often. There's something intimate about witnessing these small domestic motions—Sanderson setting a table, uncorking a bottle of sparkling water, arranging containers of pasta and salad like it matters.

"Everything good?" he asks, catching me watching him.

"Yeah," I say. "Just not what I expected."

"Let me guess," he begins, serving me a portion of fettuccine. "You thought I'd eat straight from the container, standing over the sink?"

"The thought had crossed my mind," I admit with a smile.

"I have some manners," he protests, handing me a fork. "My mom would kill me otherwise."

"Tell me about her," I say, genuinely curious. "Your mom."

Something softens in his expression. "She's amazing. Strongest person I know. Raised me and Cade alone after our dad left, worked two jobs so we could play hockey, never missed a game." He pauses, a wry smile crossing his face. "Probably the only person on the planet who can still make me feel like I'm ten years old with just a look."

"She sounds wonderful," I say, touched by the clear affection in his voice.

"She is," he agrees. "You'd like her. She'd like you too."

The casual implication that I might someday meet his mother sends a warm glow through me. It's such a normal thing—meeting parents—but in the context of our unconventional beginning, it feels significant, a sign that he's thinking beyond the immediate, beyond the physical. I wonder how that would make Cade feel given that we barely spoke about our families to each other.

We eat at the kitchen island, the conversation flowing easily from family to childhood memories to future plans. I learn that he wants to coach hockey someday, that he speaks passable French because of French Canadian teammates, that he's terrified of spiders despite his tough exterior. Each new revelation feels like a gift, another piece of the puzzle that is him.

When we finish eating, he clears the plates with the same care he set them out, refusing my offers to help. "You've been studying all day," he says. "Relax."

I wander into the living room while he cleans up, drawn to the photos on the wall. There's one of a much younger Sanderson with his arm around Cade, both in hockey gear, grinning widely despite missing teeth. Another shows him with his team after what appears to be a championship win, covered in sweat and triumph. A third captures him with a petite woman who shares his eyes—his mother, I assume.

"Baby pictures," he says from behind me, an edge of embarrassment in his voice. "Mom insisted I display at least a few in here. The roommates don’t mind."

"I like them," I say, turning to face him. "Does Cade play too?"

He glances at the photo. "He did but it didn’t stick. He got injured and quit."

I look at Cade who’s smiling for the photo. "I had no idea." The realization that I truly have no idea who Cade is dawns on me.

Sanderson steps closer, his expression turning serious. "Do you want a house tour? It's not much, but…"

"I’m all yours," I joke softly.

He shows me the rest of the apartment—the small bathroom with its single towel rack ("roommates each have their own bathroom, thank god"), the kitchen with its surprisingly well-stocked refrigerator ("protein is important for recovery"), and finally, his bedroom.

I pause in the doorway, struck by the contrast to the rest of the apartment. Where the living room was sparse, almost impersonal, his bedroom feels lived-in, distinctive. A queen-sized bed dominates the space, neatly made with dark blue bedding. Bookshelves line one wall, filled with more volumes than I expected—sports biographies, leadership manuals, a surprising amount of historical fiction. A desk in the corner holds a laptop and stacks of notes that appear color-coded in a system that reminds me of my own.

"What?" he asks, noticing my surprise.

"You have books," I say. "Actual, physical books."

He laughs. "Don't sound so shocked. I do know how to read."

"I didn't mean—"

"I know," he assures me, amused rather than offended. "I'm not what people expect. Story of my life."

The statement hangs between us, weighted with meaning. He's right—he isn't what I expected when I first heard about Sanderson Connolly, hockey puck boy. The man standing before me now, with his carefully organized notes and well-worn novels, his thoughtful dinner preparations and genuine interest in my thoughts, is so much more complex, more interesting, more real.

"I like your surprises," I tell him honestly.

Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability I'm still getting used to seeing. He steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I like that you see them," he says quietly.

The kiss that follows is gentle at first, a question more than a demand. I answer by stepping closer, my hands finding his waist, the solid warmth of him anchoring me as the kiss deepens.

Unlike our previous encounters, there's no rush, no desperate urgency. We have time, privacy, the certainty that no roommates or friends will interrupt. He kisses me like we have all night, like the journey matters as much as the destination.

When his hands slip under the hem of my sweater, I raise my arms to help him remove it. His own shirt follows, and then we're skin to skin, the sensation still new enough to make my breath catch. He walks me backward toward the bed, our lips barely separating as we navigate the short distance.

The mattress meets the backs of my knees, and I sit, looking up at him standing between my legs. The position should make me feel vulnerable, but there's only trust as I reach for the button of his jeans, maintaining eye contact as I slowly lower the zipper.

"You are so beautiful, Han," he says, his voice rough.

I can’t wait to do what we did last night, so I pull at his pants, and it drops to his ankles. I pull his boxers down to remove his thick erection and a fire rumbles in my pelvis.

Our eyes meet, and he helps me remove the rest of our clothing.

I pull him down to me, unwilling to be separated any longer. The feel of his weight above me, his skin against mine, sends electricity coursing through my veins. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, trailing lower. I arch beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair as he discovers places that make me gasp, that make coherent thought impossible.

"James," I breathe, the name still new and special on my tongue.

He looks up at the sound, his eyes dark with desire but soft with something deeper. "Tell me what you want," he says.

"You," I answer simply. "Just you."

He kisses his way back up my body until we're face to face again, his weight supported on his forearms.

"You have me," he promises, and the words feel like more than just a response to my request—they feel like a vow.

His dick fills my hand as I swear under him. I need him. He pulls out a condom from the nightstand and passes it to me, I roll it on him, and aim him straight for me. His eyes meet mine, glazing over with intensity.

"You have me too," I admit, bringing my hips closer to him.

He presses into me, and I grab onto his shoulders, taking every inch of him until I’m completely filled. Watching his hard body thrusting into me is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I reach for him and then let go, my body building a high peak that suddenly he drinks in. Now his tongue is licking mine, and his dick is moving in and out of me.

I pull back, the sensation far too difficult to feel while being kissed. I think I’m about to explode, my toes are going numb, and I’m starting to shake.

"You’re so sexy, Hannah," he moans, and when I glance down at his body, I think he might be the sexiest man alive. He makes me cling onto the bedsheets tighter, bite my lip further, and then I can’t hold back my orgasm anymore.

When I start singing, he kisses me, using his own melody now. I can feel his warmth fill me. When we're climbing back down from that high, it's with his name on my lips and mine on his, a perfect synchronicity that leaves us both trembling. Then he pulls out and slips the condom off. He grabs my towel and cleans up what mess there is. He ties the condom and throws it in the trash. Then he hops into the bed beside me. He holds me close, pressing gentle kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.

"Stay the night here," he murmurs against my skin.

The invitation sends warmth blooming through my chest, but reality intrudes—early classes tomorrow, a quiz I haven't fully prepared for, the complication of explaining to an entire floor of girls where I spent the night.

"I can't," I say reluctantly. "Not tonight."

He nods, understanding without resentment. "Another time?"

"Another time," I promise, and mean it.

We stay tangled together for a while longer, talking softly about nothing and everything. His fingers trace patterns on my bare shoulder, mine map the contours of his chest, these casual touches cementing our connection beyond the physical.

Eventually, reluctantly, I gather my scattered clothing, each piece a step back toward the outside world. He watches from the bed, propped up on one elbow, making no effort to hide his appreciation of the view.

"Like what you see, Sanderson?" I tease, pulling on my jeans.

"Very much," he confirms with a lazy smile. "Though I prefer the version without clothes."

I throw his shirt at him, laughing. "Get dressed. You promised to take me home, remember?"

"Worst promise I ever made," he grumbles, but he obeys, sliding from the bed with graceful economy of movement.

Once dressed, he pulls me close for one more lingering kiss. "Sure I can't convince you to stay?" he asks against my lips. "We can wake up early."

"Tempting," I say. "But not tonight. Rain check?"

"I'm holding you to that," he warns, then takes my hand as we leave his room.

The drive back to my dorm is quiet, comfortable. His hand finds mine across the center console, our fingers intertwined in a gesture that feels as intimate as anything we shared in his bed. At my building, he puts the car in park but leaves the engine running, a silent acknowledgment that the night is ending.

"Thank you for dinner," I say, suddenly shy. "And for…everything."

His smile is soft in the dim light of the parking lot. "My pleasure. Literally."

I laugh, the momentary awkwardness broken. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." He leans across to kiss me goodbye, a gentle press of lips that carries promise rather than demand. "Sweet dreams, Hannah."

"Sweet dreams, James," I reply, liking the way his real name feels in my mouth, the intimacy of this small privilege.

I watch him drive away before heading inside, my body pleasantly tired, my mind surprisingly clear. In my room, I go through my nightly routine on autopilot, replaying moments from the evening as I brush my teeth, wash my face, change into pajamas that feel strangely inadequate after the warmth of his arms.

As I slide beneath my own sheets, I realize what's different—I'm happy. Not the fleeting happiness of a good grade or a perfect cup of coffee, but something deeper, more substantial. A contentment that settles in my bones, that makes my solitary twin bed feel less empty because I know exactly whose arms I want around me, even if they're not here tonight.

I'm falling for him.

The realization should terrify me. It's too soon, too complicated, too contrary to everything I thought I wanted. Instead, it feels like discovering a truth that was waiting for me all along—once seen, impossible to unsee.