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QUINN

Warren’s place is nice and quiet. An intentional sort of stillness. It’s like he’s built his own little fortress here, tucked away from the constant noise of campus.

If he lived alone, I’m sure the place would be spotless. But it’s obvious he doesn’t. The living room’s cluttered with soccer gear, cleats piled by the door, a couple of half-empty Gatorade bottles sweating on the coffee table.

His cousin, Liam, is sprawled across the couch, one sock on, one sock missing, scrolling through his phone like he’s got nowhere better to be. He’s got that rangy, golden boy look about him. Messy blond hair, broad shoulders, the kind of easy grin that probably works on anyone who isn’t paying close enough attention.

I remember him from the summer before college started. We met briefly, just once, at an event hosted by Warren’s parents. I was freshly eighteen then, and he was a little shorter, a little softer around the edges. Now, he’s sharper, more defined, like life’s started to shape him into who he’s going to be.

But still just as clueless, apparently, because he barely looks up when Warren and I walk in.

His girlfriend’s curled up beside him, legs tucked under her, a sketchbook balanced on her knees. She’s on the taller side and sharp-featured, with a cute, cropped bob and an artsy, mean-looking edge that I respect on sight.

Her eyes flick up from her drawing, landing on me like she’s assessing something. From the slight tilt of her head, I’m pretty sure she knows exactly what I’m doing here.

“Hey, you two,” she says, all curious and friendly. “This is the ex, huh?”

Warren drops his keys on the counter with a clatter. “Yeah, now don’t scare her off.”

She just shrugs. “I don’t know. It looks like she can handle herself.”

“She can,” Warren says, voice low enough that I feel it more than I hear it. “Quinn, you remember Liam. This is his girlfriend, Birdie. They’re . . . a lot when they’re together.”

Birdie’s already closing her sketchbook and shoving it into her bag. “Yeah, we’d love to stick around and get to know you better. But sadly, I was just telling Liam we should head out.”

Liam looks up, confused. “You were?”

“Yeah, we’ve been here for hours,” she says. “And you still haven’t shown me that thing you were talking about.”

“What thing?”

“You know.” She widens her eyes, tilting her head like she’s hoping he’ll catch on. “The thing,” she says more firmly. “The—” She pauses, then blurts out, “The pasta thing.”

Liam frowns. “I don’t know what you’re—”

Birdie grabs his arm, hauling him off the couch. “The pasta thing! Come on!”

“Oh.” Realization finally clicks. “The pasta thing.”

Warren just stares after them. No pasta thing. No exit strategy. Just Birdie being Birdie and Liam trailing after her like he’s meant to.

The door clicks shut behind them, and I laugh. It was sweet, in a weird, chaotic way—her attempt to give us some space. Thoughtful, even if the delivery needed work.

Warren snorts. “She’s real subtle.”

“I think I like her.”

“You would, actually. She’s pretty grumpy, too. A bit of a loner. She’s close with her roommate now, but Liam said she barely had any friends when they met.”

I scoff. “I have friends.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. We both know he’s right, but I’m not about to self-deprecate when we’re finally alone together.

He nudges me gently, then tips his head toward the hallway, guiding me down toward his room. It’s a quiet little corner at the end of the hall. Clean and well organized. He has a few textbooks stacked on his desk, mostly sports physiology and biomechanics.

His Dayton swim cap dangles from the lamp, and a battered paperback with a folded receipt marking the page sits on his nightstand. The walls are bare except for a corkboard cluttered with ticket stubs, old meet schedules, and Polaroids—Warren on the pool deck, arms around his teammates. A few of just him as a kid. One with his mom, grinning wide with a medal around his neck.

And the bed, though clearly well-used, is simple. White sheets, a soft blue duvet, and a worn-in blanket folded neatly at the end. A true picture of Warren in quiet, unshowy form.

I drop onto it without asking, stretching out like I own the place. “You’re very tidy, Mercer.”

“I’m averagely tidy,” he mutters, tugging his hoodie off and tossing it toward his desk chair. “But I do like my own space.”

I reach for the chain on the nightstand, letting it dangle between my fingers.

“Why aren’t you wearing it?”

He shrugs. “Took it off for practice. Haven’t been back to the house yet.”

“You should put it on.”

He hovers at the edge of the bed, just out of reach. “Now?”

“Yeah.” I sit up, looping the chain over his head and letting it fall against his chest. My fingers linger on the links, brushing his collarbone. “I like it on you. I want you to be wearing it when we have sex.”

“Oh,” he says, like he wasn’t expecting that. “Is that what we’re doing tonight?”

“If you’re lucky.”

He laughs under his breath. “Maybe I should make you wait. Punish you a little.”

I lean back against his pillows. “Mmm. Afraid my little trainer friend’s got something you don’t?”

His smile falters. “Don’t start with me.”

I grin, tipping my head back. “Huh? Didn’t realize you were so needy and insecure. That’s a new feature.”

His eyes narrow. “You trying to push me, Rose?”

“What?” I drag my fingers up my thigh, letting my shirt ride higher. “You don’t want me to?”

“Depends. Is me being possessive a turn-off?”

“Undecided.” I lick my lips. Really take my time, watching his jaw tense. “Maybe you should ask me if I fucked him to help me figure it out.”

He blinks down at me. “Sorry?”

I wave a flippant hand. “Go on.”

His gaze sharpens. “Did you fuck your trainer, Quinn?”

“What’s it matter to you?”

“It matters,” he says darkly, “because if you did, I’m gonna have to go back and break the fucking hands he put on you.” He pauses, voice dropping to something low and lethal. “And then I’m gonna have to spend the rest of the night showing you what he could never do to you—what only I can give you.”

The heat hits me like a punch to the ribs—sharp and sudden, curling low in my stomach. I want him more than air, more than reason.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, grabbing his chain again and tugging him closer. “Yeah. I think that works for me.”

I barely get the words out before he’s on me. His hands are in my hair, mouth rough against my throat. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing hesitant.

His teeth scrape my bottom lip, his fingers digging into my waist, and I meet every kiss with one of my own. I’m just as hungry for it, just as demanding, and just as desperate to feel something that isn’t doubt.

I hook my leg over his hip, dragging him closer. His hand slips beneath my shirt, rough palm skating over my ribs. That cold chain brushes my throat, a chill against heated skin, and I shiver beneath him, wanting more, wanting everything.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispers against my mouth.

I grab his face, fingers curling hard against his jaw. “I’m yours.”

His breath stutters, and then he kisses me again, deeper and rougher. I don’t stop him. I wouldn’t even know how. I want to drown in it, to let it wash away whatever resentment might still be tangled up between us.

When his lips trail down my neck, dragging heat across my skin, I roll over and reach for his nightstand, fingers fumbling with the drawer until I find the box of condoms. It’s half-crushed in the corner, with only one or two left inside.

My stomach twists. A sharp, ugly pang that I know I have no right to feel.

What did I expect? That he’d been waiting around for me? Celibate for two years, frozen in time?

I wasn’t. I know I wasn’t.

But still, the sight of it sticks, wedging itself beneath my ribs. A jealous, possessive knot that winds tighter with every breath. I made fun of him for being insecure, yet here I am, seething over something I can’t even blame him for.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I say sharply, flicking a condom at him.

He winces. It’s a fractured sort of look, like he’s almost ashamed of it. Like it unsettles him, too.

And maybe I should back off. Maybe I should give myself a second to breathe and let the bitterness pass. But all I can do is kiss him harder.

I don’t know if it’s because I want to stake my claim or because I’m trying to erase everyone else from his skin. But whatever came before this, whatever happened in the space between then and now, all I know for certain is that he’s mine again.

His hand tightens at my waist, fingers pressing bruises into my skin. I pull him closer, teeth catching on his bottom lip, dragging him in until there’s no room left for anything else.

We strip down fast, clothes hitting the floor in messy piles. The condom gets tucked aside for now as I push him back against the pillows and climb on top, sliding down his body and settling between his legs.

His cock is thick and flushed, the skin stretched tight, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. My mouth hovers just above him, practically salivating, tongue flicking over my bottom lip as I concentrate.

“I want you to look at me,” he says. “When your lips are around my cock, I need you to keep your pretty eyes on mine.”

He brushes my hair back and holds it out of my face, fingers curling at the nape of my neck. Our eyes stay locked, dark and heated, as I take him in. Just the head, then a slow, deliberate glide down the full length of him.

His stomach flexes tight, abs clenching with restraint. A sharp inhale breaks between his teeth. Then a ragged sound escapes him, breath hitching when I take him deeper, dragging my tongue so deliberately it borders on cruel.

I remember exactly what he likes—the way he gets tight and still, muscles locking up like he’s bracing for impact when I hollow my cheeks, how his fingers tighten when I trace my tongue along the ridge beneath the head.

Now, I pitch forward, swallowing around him, letting my hand follow where my mouth can’t reach.

I’ve thought about this so many times over the years. The way he’d groan, unraveling one breath at a time. The way his hand would tighten in my hair, not to push, but to keep himself from pulling me closer.

And now? He’s everything I remembered. His hips stutter, and then he’s gone in an instant. He comes hard down my throat in a broken, helpless release.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, breathless. “You were always so fucking good at that.”

“I know,” I say, voice smug as I wipe my lips and grab the condom, tearing it open and rolling it on for him.

He’s still breathing hard, but I know him. I know what he can take. He’s stubborn like that, all muscle and stamina, like his body’s built to outlast anything.

“You’re not done,” I tell him softly.

His smile is lazy and crooked. “You really think I’d tap out now?”

I move to climb on top, but Warren catches my wrist and pulls me down beside him.

“Not yet,” he says, slipping his hand between my legs. “Give me a minute to recover.”

“Warren, baby,” I murmur, twisting toward him. “I want you inside me.”

His fingers stroke me first, teasing and slow, like he’s deliberately dragging it out. He watches my face the whole time—every shaky breath, every sharp hitch of my chest. Every flutter of my lashes when I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.

“This is my pussy, isn’t it?” he asks, thumb brushing just right until my legs go weak.

I barely manage a nod. Normally, I’d argue. Tell him not to get cocky, make him work for it. But now, with his fingers on my clit, his mouth hot against the shell of my ear, I can’t bother to think of a comeback.

“Then I’ll do what I want with it.”

His fingers slip lower, sliding through the slick heat of me, moving slowly like he’s savoring it. He presses a middle finger in, stretching me open before adding an index, twisting just enough to make my hips jerk.

“You’re dripping,” he murmurs, voice rough with satisfaction.

His fingers press deeper, curling until heat sparks sharp and fast behind my ribs. My hips lift to meet him, breath tumbling out in short, uneven gasps. My toes are curling, body tensing, but his fingers just keep working me through it, rough and perfect.

He knows exactly how to pull me under, and I let him. Every time.

When he flips me over and pushes his cock inside me, I’m already wrecked, clinging to him, breathless as he fucks me slow and deep, like he’s determined to make me feel it everywhere. And I do.

My legs shake with it, heat simmering beneath my skin, the ache lingering in places only he’s ever known how to reach. He was right when he said only he could do this to me. Only he could touch me like this, leave me unraveling from the inside out.

The feeling settles low and deep, a throb that pulses with every shaky breath. Like he’s left something behind, something I can’t shake.

And I know I’ll still feel him tomorrow. Not just physically but in the way he’s worked his way under my skin. Threaded in deep, right where I’ve always kept him. He’s made sure of it.