@diorsssss - Tumblr Blog

Jun 17

will takes you home after you get absolutely trashed

IT HAD BEEN A LONG, LONG WEEK. essays due. intense practice. a run of bad games that led to dealing with brad’s grumpy attitude the majority of the week.

to be honest, you didn’t really want to go to the party the begin with. after the week you’d had, you just wanted to spend the weekend recharging in your dorm, chilling in some comfy pjs, tucked up in bed with your laptop, excited to watch that new series tasha had told you to check out, especially after the last time.

but after you dropped your pen after that final assignment, you were choking for a drink - an alcoholic one. so, you sat at your vanity, makeup sprawled across the table, scrolling through your songs for the next tune.

you’re halfway through doing your hair when brad calls.

you already know from the way his name flashes across your screen that it’s going to annoy you.

your room smells like vanilla perfume and hairspray, music playing low from your speaker while your roommate digs through your closet for earrings you ‘stole’ three weeks ago. outside the dorm window, campus glows gold-orange with early evening light, students already moving toward frat row in little clusters.

you answer, ‘cause if you don’t, there’ll be an argument either way. “hey.”

“what’re you doing tonight?”

you glance at yourself in the mirror, smoothing lip gloss over your mouth. “probably that party.”

silence, as expected.

irritated silence.

“why?”

you frown even though he can’t see. “because there’s a party?”

“i don’t want you there.”

you immediately halt. your roommate glances over briefly at your expression before quietly slipping out of the room with the earrings.

smart girl.

“you don’t want me there?” you repeat carefully.

“you heard me.”

you stare at your reflection for a second.

but you look so good right now.

you usually know better than to argue, to stay quiet and do as you’re told to avoid the drama, but there’s an eagerness in wanting to go out tonight that makes you refuse to back down, especially when you’re almost ready, feeling yourself and in the mood to show off your outfit.

it’s also probably because you’re on the phone and he’s not in front of you right now.

“you still there?”

“yeah,” you answer, “i just think it’s weird you talk to me like that.”

brad scoffs immediately. “oh my god.”

“no, seriously,” you continue, surprising yourself now. “you don’t get to tell me where i can and can’t go.”

“you know exactly what those parties are like.”

“and you know exactly what football parties are like and you still go?”

“that’s different.”

“mhm.” you retort, applying more bronzer.

“what?”

“just doing that thing you do where the rules magically don’t apply to you.”

his jaw flexes on the other end of the line. “y/n, don’t start.”

“you started.”

you can practically feel his patience thinning.

“i’m trying to stop you from embarrassing yourself.”

the comment instantly lands wrong, it makes your expression harden. “oh i embarrass you, do i?”

“you know what i mean.”

“no,” you say with faux bewilderment, “actually, i don’t.”

you don’t know where the brattiness was coming from. you suspect you’ve picked it up from someone.

“what are you wearing?”

“does it matter?”

silent again, rustling, and then he lets out a huff like he’s rising to his feet. he’s only mad because you’re going on your own, not with him. “i’ll be there in ten.”

the second the phone hangs up, you drop it on your vanity.

UGH! ten minutes?!

by the time brad shows up outside your dorm, you’re fully dressed and ready to go. you were hoping to be gone for him arriving, but you were too slow - or he was too fast. you check yourself out in the mirror, styling a cute two-piece top and skirt co-ord with your hair pinned up with a few strands out. your makeup looks airbrushed on as always, and you even decided to wear wedges tonight, considering brad wasn’t going to be next to you, growing insecure at the thought that for even a second, you’d look taller than him.

but before you can even turn around to leave your room, the door swings up, and he struts in.

you feel your palms get clammy but keep a straight face. you are going tonight.

he looks you up and down, staring at your legs, the way you’ve clearly added an oil and shimmer to them to stand out, before looking back to your face, just to see you apply another coat of gloss on your lips. “you like?”

“you’re wearing this?”

no compliment. no wolf whistle. no do a twirl for me.

“yup.”

you know he’s not happy. not happy that you look good and he won’t be there to keep you next to him. he has plans tonight he said he had to attend before he could even think about making it to the party. “can you change?”

can you. he’s asking. he’s changing his tactics.

“nope.”

his features dim at your constant popping p’s while you stand talking in a nonchalant tone. “stop acting a brat.”

you raise your brows, “wow, thanks.” you try to move past him.

he blocks your path. you look up through lashes, temper sparking. “i’m not doing this.”

“neither am i,” he backs you up into the middle of the room.

but you’re seriously not. he grabs your arm when you go to move again - hard, sore, fucking nastily. “oh my god, stop grabbing me! you always do this!” you shake him off you.

“because you don’t know when to chill out!”

“i’m fine! i was literally fine until you came here.”

“yeah, you’re fine now - and then you get drunk, you act single, then i have to hear about it afterward.”

your face falls completely, because that’s not true.

if being friendly and talking to anyone who’s willing to stop and talk to you -male or female- is ‘acting single’ - then you’re flirty by nature. you’re warm, friendly, everybody knows that - but you’ve never, ever cheated on him. never even came close.

“you’re being an asshole.”

“you’re being delusional and i’m being realistic.”

you let out a short breath through your nose, suddenly too irritated to even finish getting ready calmly. “i’m going.”

“y/n—” his hand grabs your wrist this time, sharp and tight, and immediately your other hand comes down to knock it off.

you hate when he grabs you.

“if you don’t stop talking to me like that and grabbing me, i’m telling my dad exactly why you suddenly aren’t invited to the golf club dinner next week,” you smile sweetly. “‘cause at this rate, makeup isn’t going to cover these,” you hold out your wrist demonstrating, showing the faint yellow-y marks from last time.

he looks at them and looks back at you. “you won’t.”

“oh i will,” you promise. “because i don’t know if i want you going at this point. you’re getting on my damn nerves,” you step closer to him, feeling you hold the power after name-dropping your dad.

also, you liked the uncomfortableness he had last week when you went ballistic. you don’t mind doing that again.

he stares at you for a second, your faces both pretty close, then he blinks. “you are a psycho.”

you shrug with a smile. he hasn’t even seen the half of it.

“—go to your stupid party.” he shakes his head, letting you past.

a drink gets offered to you two seconds you step through the door.

someone screams your name as you enter.

many of your peers greet you.

you smile, feeling welcomed, feeling like you made the right decision as you step through the house, acknowledging the many heads that turn to look at you. the house is chaos already: music rattling through the walls, hard enough to shake your ribs; the air is warm and thick with sweat, beer and smoke as bodies spill out onto the lawn; there’s a three-way kiss going on at the top of the stairs and a group of shirtless guys messing around with empty beer boxes on their heads.

it’s a nice escape.

you end up in the kitchen with three girls from cheer within ten minutes, vodka cran in your hand while somebody digs through the freezer for more ice. the topic of the fundraiser comes up after you show some photos on your phone. “—so yeah, around three grand all in. would have been more from the bake sale but they can only bake so many treats, y’know?”

“the car wash looked great.”

“it was fun.”

“—yeah,” tash cuts in, “cause you were too busy flirting and drowning hockey players.”

you shrugged your shoulders. “fun.”

they laugh.

you laugh.

it feels good. light.

you spend twenty minutes talking about practice schedules and upcoming games. you compliment a freshman girl’s top in the bathroom and take a group photo of the frat bros for their wall. you sign someone’s car number plate and get stuck with two baseball guys talking to you near the stairs, although, you barely acknowledge them beyond polite smiles because honestly? you’re more interested in gossiping with the girls.

drinks keep appearing in your hand: vodka, seltzers, something neon blue container that definitely tastes dangerous. you made a promise that shots would be off limits because they seem to do the most damage, but you sure seem to be making up for the lack of it by drinking everything in sight.

by eleven, your limbs feel warm and floaty. you’re walking backward through the living room mid-story, dramatically telling the story of you trying to escape some guy at the yacht club last summer when your heel catches the edge of the rug, your ankle twisting, and you go down—hard.

the room erupts instantly.

gasps. laughter. someone yells ‘holy shit!’ and for half a second, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling before bursting into laughter yourself, loud, carefree.

because when have you ever looked bad doing anything?

you get helped up from the floor by one of the frat bros, still laughing as he pulls you up. your hair’s a mess now, your cheeks sore from smiling. drunk you becomes your unapologetic self. softer. brighter. you bounce between conversations effortlessly, talking to everyone — frat boys, freshman girls, random guys from lacrosse. you compliment outfits in bathroom mirrors, steal food off plates, listen seriously to a senior crying about her ex for ten full minutes despite barely knowing her. when your glass is empty, you stumble to the kitchen to get another drink.

that’s when you catch sight of brad.

you’re on top of the counter when he spots you, looking over the crowd, sticking out being taller than most.

your eyes surprisingly soften when they land on him.

at first, you wonder why he didn’t come find you, why he didn’t come say hey - then guilt simmers in you, bubbling in your stomach as you think back to what you said earlier — blackmailing him, telling him you didn’t want him to go to the dinner.

he looks irritated before his eyes even land on you.

you brighten anyway.

because despite everything—

you love him.

or something close enough to it. “bradleyyy!” you beam, stumbling toward him. he immediately moves to catch you from the island, your hands landing on his shoulders to steady yourself as he lifts you down. “jesus christ,” he mutters.

“you came!” you say softly, smiling up at him. “i thought you were mad at me.”

he glances around the room first.

people watch. people always watch. even when they’re acting like they don’t, they’re glancing.

he looks back at you. “how drunk are you?”

“happy drunk!” you answer proudly.

he doesn’t smile. he scans you, seeing your slightly smudged eyeliner, your little frizzy hairs. he notices your blue tongue, the small droplet stains that’ve clearly spilled from your chin - missing your mouth.

you look up at his big, dark eyes, his thick lashes you’ve always been envious of. your hand trails up the back of his neck, sliding into his dark strands, annoyingly dragging your fingers to the front to immaturity scrape his hair back from his forehead. you snicker, leaning up to kiss him, soft and affectionate, touched that he came anyway.

he pulls back.

it’s barely anything, but it’s something.

enough that it feels like cold water dumped straight over your head.

your stomach drops as you pause, going for a kiss again as you take it as teasing - but he pulls away again, removing your hands from his head. “brad,” you laugh awkwardly, brows furrowing. “wha—?”

“—you’re wasted,” he keeps his face a fair distance from yours.

your eyes open properly. “ok and . . ?”

“and look at yourself.”

you blink. “what . . . what does that mean?”

his silence allows the embarrassment to slowly draw in, your drunken state taking time for it to catch up. suddenly you’re aware of every thing occurring right now — the people nearby pretending not to look, the lipstick smeared slightly at the corner of your mouth, the fact he looks more annoyed than happy to see you.

you stand up straight, “oh my god brad, i can never win,” your shoulders slump, the words tumbling out now in your drunken manner. “you don’t want me to stay home, y—you don’t want me to go out. you don’t want me drinking but you don’t want me sober ‘cause i’m boring,” your voice riddled with utter confusion.

you’re genuinely confused as to how you’re supposed to behave for him. confused as to how you’re feeling right now, how you deserve to feel, because despite everything, despite the fight earlier, despite your temper and the alcohol and your bruised pride—

you’d been happy to see him.

that’s the pathetic part. you’d seen him walk through the crowd and immediately felt relieved, like everything was okay again, like he came because he cared - and now you’re standing in the middle of a frat house feeling like you’ve somehow failed another test you didn’t know existed.

“don’t do that brad,” you slowly shake your head, trying not to slur your words.

“do what?”

“that thing where you act like i’m disgusting because i’m drunk.”

“i never said disgusting.”

“you didn’t have to,” your try not to snap, “no, because y—" you hiccup, "–you come in here all mad and then i try to kiss you and then you're mad about that too and i just—"

"—you’re. drunk."

“ok a little,” you stare at him. “what harm am i doing?”

“harm? you’re behaving like this.”

the comment stings more than it should, because ‘this’ is just feels like you normally.

"i . . i was just happy to see you . . ” the words come out smaller.

“see me? i’m surprised you even recognized me. look at you - you can’t even fuckin’ stand straight,” he accuses, glancing you up and down. “y’can barely talk. slurring like shit, it’s unattractive.”

you glance down instinctively, feeling the sway in your legs. your cheeks flush as you insecurely pull your skirt down. “i’m okay, brad.”

“no, you’re not.” he reaches to grab your arm. “i’m getting you outta here—”

you pull back slightly, the movements heavy. “bra—”

“no.” the word lands like a slammed door, and your mouth closes.

you know that tone.

for a second, you consider dropping it, then he glances around the room again — checking who's looking, and something about that get to you, even in your tipsy state. ‘why’d you even come?’ you think.

his eyes snap back to yours.

"what?"

“what?” you look at him.

“what did you say?”

you don’t know what you did say.

did you say that out loud?

if you did say it out loud, that’d be pretty funny, ‘cause you’d fuck up prettyyy bad - but because you're drunk, because your emotions are bigger and looser and harder to control - you do laugh. loud.

brad's face changes.

you should stop. you know you should stop.

but you keep going. “i said why did you even come here if you’re annoyed?” you laugh.

“i came here to save you, y get you, so nobody takes ad—”

"PFFFTT— come on, brad." you interrupt him, eyes twinkling with humour.

his jaw flexes. you can practically see the warning signs lighting up.

“y/n.”

"no, seriously,” you giggle, “you didn't come to get me."

his eyes narrow.

you should stop.

you don’t. "you—you came to see who was lookin’ at me like a fuckin’ . . jealous psychopath." you laugh under your breath, halfway out the kitchen already.

he stops . . and it slowly hits you.

wait. did i say that out loud as well? you glance up at him.

even with the music blasting, the people shouting - it suddenly feels deafening with the silence between you.

he looks down at you.

". . what?" you awkwardly laugh.

but it’s not funny anymore, and immediately, your bravery begins to evaporate.

shit.

"what did you just say to me?"

the harsher his grip on you tightens, the quicker the fight instantly leaves your body. it’s pathetic how fast your courage disappears. "i—i didn't mean it like that,” you try to laugh, “i was joking—"

"no." he squeezes your wrist. "say it again."

your mouth feels dry.

you hadn't meant it seriously. at least you don’t think you did. it was supposed to be a throwaway comment - a joke, but now you're looking at his face and realizing you've crossed a line.

reallllyy crossed the line, like - you clearly forgot who you were talking about. “i’m sorry."

"what did you say?"

"i—“

"y/n." he tugs you, the warning in your name making your stomach twist.

god, the room is spinning. “i was drunk . ."

"oh that’s your excuse now?"

"i—no,” you shake your head.

"then say it again,” he tugs your chin. “since you’re feeling so tough, since you feel so invincible tonight.”

"i—," your voice comes out smaller. "i just . . . ” your eyes dart to the floor, the wall, your cup - anywhere but his piercing gaze. your heart hammers in your chest. you hate this conversation, you wish you'd never started it. “i just didn’t mean it like that.”

“like what?”

god, every answer feels wrong.

every answer sounds stupid. “i don’t know.”

“you don’t know?”

the repetition makes your face burn, you hate when he does that; makes you feel ridiculous. “no i do know.”

“so tell me.”

“i shouldn’t’ve said it.”

“what shouldn’t you have said?”

you don’t answer. you just stare at him, tucked into yourself, watching him stare at for you a minute longer. you feel your eyes gloss over and you don’t know why, but your boyfriend notices, and breaks his gaze, shaking his head and starts walking on, pulling you through the house with him. you blink rapidly, brain catching up, “wait brad, i’m sorry. i-i’ll leave you alone, ok?”

he ignores you now, continuing to trail you through the house.

"brad please, i'm sorry," you say again, more sincere. “it just came out. i don’t wanna go yet—”

his fingers dig into your skin like a warning. you reach for his arm instinctively, trying to smooth things over, trying to settle him, your hand running up his bicep. “c’mon baby . . you call me a psycho all the time," you say quickly, forcing a laugh that doesn't sound convincing even to you. "it's okay, you know? like . . we joke around."

nothing.

“o-ok i’ll go. let me say goodbye real quick, ok? i’ll—i’ll go home.” you circle him to get him to stop, but he still doesn’t answer. “okay?” you blink up at him.

the word comes out almost hopeful, like you’re asking permission, it’s kind of pathetic. you try to meet his eyes, but stumble onto your tip toes, dropping the cup in your hand, splashing the remains onto the floor, across his shoes and pants.

you look back up at him, eyes wide, mouth open. “i didn’t—“

“you have two sec—”

“hey!” a smooth voice cuts in, “leave the pretty lady alone, alright? ‘was an accident, she’s just having a little fun.”

brad’s face falls instantly with that unamused, unimpressed coldness that is never a good sign.

he turns away from you, his brow twitching, like he’s locked his eyes on his target. “i’m ‘bout to kill this fucking—”

“—you’ll not touch him,” you pull him back to you, fingers wrapped around his arm, “leave ‘im alone.”

brad’s attention snaps back to you, his mouth open. the look on his face makes your stomach tighten slightly, and you realize how firm you’d came across. “come on,” you say, giving his arm a small pull. “just leave it.” you try steering him back toward the conversation, back toward you. “i don’t have time for this.”

his eyes narrow at you. “what?”

“what? why are you so concerned about other people when i’m talking to you.”

“‘cause he seems awful concerned about us.”

“he’s a freshman.”

“so?”

“so? so he’s a fucking freshman and you’re letting him get to you,” you move when he tries to move again.

his eyes narrow, and you can see them bouncing around in thought, like he’s trying to calculate something. “you seem real concerned about him.”

now your eyebrows pull together. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“him.”

you both glance briefly over your shoulder. will stands exactly where he was, holding his stupid red cup, looking far too comfortable.

“brad.”

his jaw ticks. “why do you care so much?!”

“because we were in the middle of something and you’re talking about—killing somebody.” you pinch your fingers together, the whole patronising to him because you’re drunk.

“somebody?”

the repetition immediately irritates you.

“yes. somebody.”

“interesting.”

“what is?”

“the way you’re talking about him.”

you stare, completely confused, because what is he even saying right now? you shake your head and step forward, stroking your hand up his arm again, inching closer to him, “forget him.”

“forget him?”

“yes. he’s an annoying freshman who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.” you mutter, looking up through your lashes.

will opens his mouth.

you point at him. “see?”

he closes it again.

brad doesn’t even look. his attention is locked on you, still stuck on this. “you seem awfully invested in whether i touch him or not.”

“because i don’t want you fighting some kid at a party.” you can’t believe you’re the drunk one here and making more sense.

“kid?” he echos.

“kid?” will deadpans also, brows raised.

“he’s a freshman.”

“and?” his features frown, “it’s ‘cause it’s him, isn’t it?”

you don’t even respond now, you’re so done with arguing. you’re too gone to go round in circles.

“yeah, exactly.”

“no not exactly, you—so you what? you want me to stand there and watch you punch people?” you place a hand on your hip, tone heightening an octave. your eye sight is so hazy right now, you’re trying so hard to be serious.

his expression darkens. “that’s not what i said.”

“then what are you saying?”

“why do you care so much?”

“i don’t!”

“you think i’m stupid?”

“no?!”

is that the right answer?

who’s stupid?

you or him?

what are arguing about right now?

“you have a soft spot for him, don’t you? he took you home that night. probably—”

“oh my go— SERIOUSLY?!” you laugh, disbelieving now. “don’t even go there, after everything, you,” -hiccup- “think i’d do that?”

he stares at you. you stare back, so utterly confused. you can’t believe you’re having another argument - like the 100th one this same day.

you tilt your head, hair falling still in your face as you place a hand on his chest, trying to ease him, to diffuse this whole situation and get you both home.

“don’t touch me,” he throws you barely by your wrist, but enough that you lose your balance and trip from the surprise, stumble, and land on the floor with a squeak, “b—oop!”

it takes a second, for it to register. your ankle throbbing, hand burning on the carpet, and will sets his cup down, brows furrowed like he’s about to give brad the fight he wants — until you break out into a ruckus of giggles.

brad looks at you like you’re insane.

you laugh harder. “WOWWW! now that!— that’s hilarious!” you chuckle, wobbling to your feet in your wedges, legs like skyscrapers. “oh my god!” you clap. “don’t touch me!”

everyone around watches, almost laughing just because you’re laughing, and brad can feel his temper break, fists clenched as he forces himself to leave, pushing past the crowd.

you throw your head back, letting out an amused groan amongst giggles. “WOW! funny or what?” you stumble back to your usual place, bumping into some peers. everyone watches, but not in a judgemental way - more like they’re entertained and intrigued to see what you do next. “i’mmm goin’ to the beer-pong table,” you announce, snapping your fingers and pointing to it, legs carrying you over. you’re done feeling tense this night. now that brads gone, you loosen automatically, slumped after your adrenaline has faded.

you down another drink. for a while you’re still laughing about the argument, retelling pieces of it to anybody willing to listen, each version becoming less accurate than the last. “and then he says—” you point dramatically at nobody, “don’t touch me.”

the group around you bursts out laughing, more so at your demonstration. you nearly spill your drink trying to copy the way he’d said it. “which is insane because he literally—” you grab the nearest person’s arm, “—does that all the time.”

nobody knows the full story, of course. even in your drunk state you know to downplay it. you just enjoy the reaction - the validation. the fact people agree he’s being ridiculous. you hope they don’t tell him tomorrow.

as the night wears on, the cracks begin to show more and more: every word starts slurring together more noticeably, the fairy lights strung across the backyard blur softly every time you move your head. you laugh too hard, too long, at jokes that aren’t particularly funny. in the span of an hour you’ve won beer pong, took a hit off a blunt, somewhere along the way acquired a cap from somebody named tyler - or trevor? maybe travis? you’re not sure.

you can be found back on the dance floor (the living room) when the ultimate 2000s girls playlist thud through the speakers, where you dance to brittany, beyoncé and riri. please don’t stop the music rips through the speakers next and you take the floor like it’s your anthem. you clap in tune, hips moving as you take the centre, showing off your astonishing rhythm the way your body moves loose.

with your arms raised above your head and your eyes squeezed shut for half a second as you laugh at something, a hand catches yours - long fingers curling briefly around your own. one gentle pull and you’re spinning beneath your own raised arm, your body naturally following the lead as you move neatly out of the way for somebody else, your dance partner mirroring your two-step.

he’s still behind you when you blink, disoriented, your hand is still suspended above your head.

blue eyes meet yours.

“was trying to get past,” the familiar accent says casually, nodding towards the kitchen.

your fingers still tingle slightly as your hand falls back to your side, and a playful laugh escapes you. “use your manners, smitty.”

he glances over his shoulder, grin already pulling at one corner of his mouth. “trust me, i did.” and he’s gone, disappearing towards the kitchen, leaving you standing there with the strange lingering sensation of his fingers against yours.

you take two shots after that.

by one in the morning, you’ve lost your phone. again. the crisis consumes your life immediately as you try to fight sleep. “my phone is gone.”

nobody reacts.

you’ve apparently announced this six times already. “no seriously.”

you check your purse - nothing.

the bathroom - nothing.

the kitchen - nothing.

for twenty minutes you search everywhere. you accuse people of stealing it, then apologise for accusing people of stealing it, check the bathroom a second time, then end up back in the kitchen with it in your hand. “sorry everyone! ss-orry!” you hold your hands up, stumbling out of the room when your arms drop and catch the bowl on the edge of a table, flipping a mountain of pretzels all over the door floor.

you tuck your hair behind your ear, apologising. kneeling down to pick them up, your skirt lifts and you jump to cover your ass, only to bang into the table and knock over the two massive bottles of drink over; two frat bros rushing to pick them up. you take it upon yourself to go outside, holding your hands up defensively with your brain spinning. “sss—orry.”

sitting on the back steps staring at the lawn with your cheek resting against your knee, you blink slowly, trying to ignore the absurd swishing around in your stomach.

what have you done?

crickets chirp in the night, the air cool and calming, but your head remains between your legs.

the slide door opens, and footsteps softly patter out onto the deck, down the steps in front of you. you try not to focus on the washing machine-like movement in your gut.

“you done?”

you don’t even need to look up to know who it it.

“done what?”

“being a disaster?”

“i’m not a disaster,” you wince, keeping your head low.

will snorts.

he’s just playing.

“will?”

“yeah?”

“i feel sick.”

the confession comes out embarrassingly small. whiny. almost childlike. you hate it the second it leaves your mouth.

will looks at you for a second. his expression has completely changed, the teasing disappears instantly, his whole demeanour softens. “yeah,” he says quietly. “i guessed.”

and honestly? he did. not that he’d been watching you all night, he’d spent most of the night with his own friends, but every now and then he’d realize he hadn’t seen you for a while and find himself casually checking the kitchen, the hallways, upstairs, the backyard - just checking. making sure you hadn’t fallen down a staircase, started an argument or wandered into the wrong room and fallen asleep.

purely for public safety reasons. obviously.

then he’d find you laughing with strangers in the kitchen or standing on furniture somewhere with a cup always in your hand - and carry on with his night until the next 20-30 minutes.

“will?”

“mhm?”

“i don’t feel good.” you sound close to crying as you place your hand to your head.

the blond smiles to himself and takes his hands out of his pockets, and holds them out to you. “alright.” you look up, lost. “let’s get you home.”

you stare at them, then at him, then take them without further comment.

the second he pulls you up, your balance goes and you stumble straight into him, chin hitting his chest.

“i think you should take those shoes off.”

you look down, hair falling, and pathetically lift your leg like you’re an 80-year-old retired racehorse getting its hoof cleaned. by the time you get one off, will has already kneeled to unbuckle the other with his fingers, one hand keeping your ankle to the ground while the other fiddles with the buckle. it makes your stomach flutter, like tiny butterflies.

you lean on his shoulder, scanning the outdoors for any bears that might come out.

when will stands, you wobble, but he just takes your other wedge, both shoes dangling from two fingers while you shuffle beside him in bare feet. his other hand stays at your back as he starts guiding you toward the gate - not pushing - just there, making sure you don’t wander into a bush.

your head stays pressed to his chest, difficult enough to keep up on its own as you continue walking. “will?”

“yeah?”

“i think i’m gonna throw up.”

he sighs. “okay.”

the response is soft.

calm.

no annoyance. no teasing. just problem solving.

you blink up at him. “okay?”

“yeah.”

you seem comforted by that.

it’s ok if you’re sick . . he’s not going to crash out over it.

you do once, in a bush, but you’re good after that.

the campus is mostly quiet now, the cool night air helping a little, but not enough. you don’t know what time it is.

you rest more weight against him. will doesn’t complain.

“will?”

“hm?”

“my stomach hurts.”

“i know.”

you continue walking, catching a glimpse of your shoes in his hand. “aw man . . i really liked those.”

“you still own them?”

“oh cool.”

back at your dorm, you come to a standstill.

the stairs to your dorm sit right next to the lift that’s been out of order since 1993.

you stare at them.

then at him.

then back at the stairs.

your expression falls, “no.”

will laughs. “come on.”

“no.”

“there’s like six.”

“that’s too many.”

you look genuinely upset about it, like it’s your final straw.

for a second he thinks you’re joking . . . then realizes you’re not. he watches you look around like you’re choosing where to lay down for the night.

so before you can do so, he simply bends down and scoops you up. your arms instinctively wrap around his neck as your eyes widen.

the movement is unconscious. trusting. light.

you still gasp anyway. “OH MY GOD! WILL!”

“what?” he chuckles, carrying you both up.

“you’re like . . stronger than i thought,” you grimace, wrapping your arms around his neck, scared he might drop you. he doesn’t though, he doesn’t even have a waver in his grip.

“thanks.”

you find yourself staring at his profile as he carries you up the flights of stairs: the curve of his jaw, the concentration in his expression as he climbs, the little crease between his eyebrows. things you’ve never really paid attention to before.

or maybe never allowed yourself to.

the alcohol makes it harder to ignore, harder to keep your thoughts neatly organized. “you smell good.”

will nearly misses a step.

you don’t notice, too busy fighting another wave of dizziness.

“thanks.”

your gaze lingers.

his lashes.

the slope of his nose.

the silver chain hanging around his neck, peaking out from under his shirt.

a weird feeling settles low in your stomach—and it’s not nerves.

something unknown.

something you don’t quite have the brain capacity to name right now.

the second you get through the door, you don’t even make it properly to the toilet before you’re leaning over the bowl, hair falling forward as you gag and cough, one hand gripping the side like it’s the only solid thing in the world. will hovers in the doorway for half a second, unsure, then decides presence is better than distance. “you good . . ?”

you don’t answer. you can’t - too busy violently throwing up your guts.

he disappears for a while and comes back with a glass of water filled, ice clinking softly. you lay still, eyes closed with discomfort.

when he sees you slumped over the toilet, his expression softens again. “y/n . .” he calls, stepping in, “you feel any better . . ?”

you groan. “i hate this.”

“i know.” he crouches slightly, flushing for you. he looks at you sympathetically, “. . think you can stand up for me?”

you don’t move, so will takes the lead, taking a hold of your hands and pulls you carefully to your feet. you wobble and stumble but he keeps you upright, guiding you to the sink. “here,” he picks up a toothbrush he assumes to be yours. “try brush. maybe rinse your face or,” he takes a look at some dirt and grass stains marking your legs, as well as sticky liquid and maybe even a little blood from your fall. “maybe you should uh . . shower,” he leans over and turns on the shower.

you quickly make it out the shower. did you originally crawl in with all your clothes on? yes. did you come out with a freshly clean face and body? yes! you feel better for it, you do - even whilst drunk, you’re thankful you did it. the water was nice on your skin and you feel lighter with no makeup on.

“will?!”

“yeah?” he calls from the other side of the door.

“i need—” to get dressed. you need pyjamas, socks, underwear - and he doesn’t know where they are. you don’t think he would want to look through your things. you don’t think you’d want him to either.

you swing open the door, wrapped in a fluffy towel, groaning and whining again. will looks up and his face falls. he quickly gets up to leave when he sees you rustling through your wardrobe, the towel loosening the more you move. he ducks his head, not allowing his eyes to wander as he gives you privacy without being asked. you bring them back to the bathroom, brushing your teeth first.

you lean heavily into the sink, eyes half-lidded when will comes back to stand in the doorway. “you need like . . five minutes minimum,” he says.

“what?”

“five minutes. you need to brush for five minutes at least,” his smile says all - like you being sick was kind of amusing. kind of.

you roll your eyes, mouth full of white foam.

he walks out into the hallway again, giving you space. trying not to look at the water droplets coating your skin.

when he comes back, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed in a loose tank top and small sleep shorts, hair damp, face washed clean. it’s simple, but will feels his mind go blank. he tries to ignore it, but the caveman in him has short-circuited his brain from the imprint of your nipples through your shirt. he clears his throat and looks away, gulping quickly. “more water,” he says, holding the glass out.

you take it carefully.

he sits down on the edge of your bed, scratching his head, giving you room. “how good do you feel?”

that’s the thing - even though you were sick, you’re still drunk as hell. you shake your head, looking at him, then suddenly you sit up, gasping, whispering in a dawning realization, “will! my phone!”

will looks at you confused, and slowly lifts your phone that was on your bed.

what?

you look at him with your mouth open.

how? how has he done that?

“it fell from your arm when you went outside,” he explains, scanning your face. you stare back at him.

you replay the night without meaning to.

the way he’d carried your shoes home. the way his arm never really left you. the way he kept slowing down every time you felt sick, like it wasn’t annoying or inconveniencing him. the way he’d scooped you up at the stairs without making a big deal about it, like it was obvious - like of course he was going to because carrying you was easier than arguing.

the thought settles heavily in your chest.

warm.

fuzzy.

dangerous.

god, he’s so nice.

like actually nice.

not nice when people are watching, not nice because he wants something in return, not nice because he’s trying to get credit for it — just . . pure heart nice. “you’re just . . .”

you don’t even know what the perfect word is. he’s everything. every good thing.

something glows in your chest that you don’t have a name for, but it feels like warmth.

like wanting.

like somebody quietly reaching inside your ribs and pulling.

he looks at you. “just what?”

you blink at him.

your brain feels too soft to explain it.

you think about how easy it would’ve been for him to make fun of you tonight. how he could’ve left you at the party. could’ve laughed at you and handed you off to one of your friends and gone back to having fun with his own. instead, he’d spent half the night making sure you hadn’t fallen down a staircase, checking you were okay, finding you every time you disappeared.

who even does that?

will does.

and suddenly that fact feels enormous.

your eyes linger on his face.

his stupid pretty face.

his stupid blue eyes.

his stupid mouth that never seems to stop smiling whenever he’s around you.

your heart gives an uncomfortable squeeze, because no matter how much he flirts, no matter how much he riles you up, no matter how often he drives you absolutely insane — he’s always there. always. and for one horrible, wonderful second, you realize how much you’ve started expecting him to be.

you look at him and feel your chest ache with affection so sudden and overwhelming it almost scares you.

you want to be closer.

want him to keep looking at you like that.

“you’re really sweet,” you say softly, glancing at his lips.

his posture tightens slightly.

“y/n,” he deadpans.

you lean forward slightly without meaning to, just a bit closer, your chest pushing out. close enough that he can get the faint smell of your body wash. “what?”

will doesn’t move away, but he does breathe out slowly through his nose, like he’s trying very hard to stay exactly where he is.

your face is so close now, close enough that he can see the faint smudge of lipliner on your lips, close enough to notice the tiny freckles tucked beneath your eyes, the sleepy heaviness in them with the way your lashes flutter when your gaze drops to his mouth again.

your lips part slightly, and will realizes what’s about to happen if he doesn’t stop it now.

“whoa.”

his hand comes up gently, catching just under your throat before the gap completely disappears.

you blink. confused. “what?”

will laughs quietly through his nose - a little nervous, a little helpless. “uh—” he inches back the more you inch closer, “as much as i’ve dreamed about this moment, gorgeous . . . you’re pretty drunk and . . you were kinda spilling your guts fifteen minutes ago.”

it feels like cold water has been dumped on you. again.

your face falls. “oh.”

will drops his hand, guilt riddling his chest because that’s exactly the reaction he didn’t want. “no—”

you shake your head, tucking your hair behind your ear embarrassingly. “sorry.”

“no list—”

“—it’s fine,” you snap, furrowing your brows as you move away before he can finish. you tuck your hair behind your ear again, the wall looking real interesting now. “it’s ok.”

will can tell what you’re doing, trying to pretend you don’t care, trying to recover your dignity. “no, hey–”

you refuse to look at him. “it’s fine.”

“it’s not you—”

“—it doesn’t matter.”

“it does.” he places his hand high on your thigh to stop you. that gains your attention. you glance at him.

his expression has softened completely now. “you think i’m saying no.”

“you kind of are.”

“i’m not.”

you look at him.

will shakes his head. “seriously,” he leans forward slightly. “i’m saying . . you’re drunk.”

you roll your eyes, shaking your head again, falling back into the cushions on your bed, but will grabs a hold of your wrists gently, and pulls you back up to him so you face him properly. his hands are warm. they wrap around your wrists delicately, his touch always soft.

he shifts closer, holding your attention. “you were literally throwing up fifteen minutes ago.”

“i feel better now.” you argue. “i’m sober!”

he almost laughs, it’s cute. “you are not.”

you try to roll your eyes but they’re already heavy, like your body is arguing with you on his behalf. will laughs softly, tucking the piece of hair that keeps falling in your face behind your ear. “look, i’ll come back tomorrow.”

“you won’t.”

“i will.”

“hmm, i don’t want you to.”

he raises an eyebrow. “liar.”

your eyes widen a little. “i’m not lying.”

“you are.”

“i’m not.”

“you’re doing that thing where you say one thing and your face says another.”

you make a frustrated sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and he just smiles like he’s won something. he leans back comfortably, endeared by your argument, “i’ll come by tomorrow.”

“you’re not.”

“i am.”

“stop saying that.”

“why?”

“because you’re not.”

will’s grin turns softer now, more amused than smug, like he’s watching you argue with a point you can’t win. “you arguing with me about my own plans, gorgeous?”

your head snaps up. “stop with the gorgeous.”

he laughs under his breath, like that reaction is exactly what he wanted. he leans in a fraction more, voice dropping just slightly as you concentrate on him again. “i’ll come back in the morning and check how you’re feeling . . see if you still wanna kiss me.” he winks.

your face burns. you open your mouth to argue again, but nothing comes out. you don’t try to argue. you look down at your lap. “whatever.”

will’s smile widens. “that’s what i thought.”

and even as you roll your eyes, you don’t move away this time. he stands slowly, still watching you like he’s making sure you’re okay. “text me if you feel worse,” he says, already backing toward the door.

“i won’t.”

“you better.”

“i won’t.”

he shakes his head, amused, hand on the doorframe now. “goodnight.”

you pause, then quieter, “night.”

he leaves with one last look back at you like he doesn’t entirely trust you to stay upright without supervision.

and when the door clicks shut, the room feels a little too quiet . . a little too empty.

you knock out the moment your head hits your pillow before you can think about anything else.

the sunlight peaks through your curtains thanks to your lack of sense from last night to shut them before crashing out - however you’re lucky at all to have made it home and gone to sleep in your own bed instead of the floor or some bathtub at a frat house.

the first thing you notice is that you don’t feel as bad as you should — which immediately feels wrong.

you lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the rest of the hangover to arrive — it doesn’t.

your head hurts a little, your mouth is a little dry, but you don’t feel sick.

honestly? you feel suspiciously okay.

you frown.

that can’t be right.

you slowly roll onto your side.

what happened last night?

you remember the party - you remember brad being there. did you argue? it feels like you did. you squint, trying to recall the night from start to finish, trying piece together how the hell you even managed to get through the front door.

it starts in bits: you remember being in the kitchen, talking a lot, and a drink always being in your hand. you remember sitting on some steps, and feeling sick.

will comes to mind. did you speak to will?

actually, will had to have been there, because you recall him carrying somebody, if not you.

oh god — did will carry you? your eyebrows pull together. or was that part a dream?

you honestly don’t know. you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to remember, trying to sort what was real and what was fake. every memory feels half-real, like trying to remember a dream from three nights ago. the more you focus on it, the more it slips away.

the walk home. there was definitely a walk home.

you sit up.

somebody walked you home, and you know it wasn’t brad.

something else catches your attention.

you’re clean - skin soft, fresh pyjamas on. you don’t even have bad morning breath.

you freeze.

you’re really clean, not college-party clean — clean clean. your makeup is gone, your skin feels washed, your teeth feel brushed, you’re in different clothes.

you stare down at yourself.

what?

you don’t remember showering. or do you? did you get in with clothes on? did you shower? did somebody tell you to shower? did you force yourself to shower? did will make you shower?

your eyes widen.

no. surely not, that sounds insane.

you lay back again, catching sight of the glass of water on your bedside table.

no — will was definitely in your room. you remember him getting you a glass of water. repeatedly.

you suddenly remember him sitting on your bed, looking at him. you remember thinking he looked nice. you remember being very aware of him.

too aware.

dangerously aware.

your stomach drops.

god, you were close.

why was his face close?! why was his lips so soft-looking? did you dream that part? your eyes fly open.

wait — did you . . . did you kiss will?!

no.

no, no, no. why can you picture it so well? leaning in— GOD NO! you touch your lips anxiously.

maybe it was a dream. maybe you tried to in your dream. “oh my god.”

why does it feel so realistic?

your brain feels like somebody shook all the memories loose and threw half of them away, and the only person who knows what actually happened — is will.

no! your stomach flips, because that’s somehow worse. if you didn’t kiss him? fine. embarrassing that you’re even worried about it. if you did—

you might have to transfer colleges.

anxiety riddles you. a small headache begins forming at your temples. you pull a pillow over your face, trying to suffocate the thoughts.

did you say something weird? did you tell him he was attractive? did you call him pretty? you physically cringe. you cannot rule anything out which is the worst of it. usually there’s a rough timeline, but you’re left staring at the ceiling, trying to separate reality from whatever drunken nonsense your brain has invented overnight.

one unavoidable truth settles over you though: you’re going to see will eventually, and you’ll probably know all the answers the second you look at his face.

you need to avoid him at all costs.

you’re halfway through convincing yourself that maybe last night never happened when somebody knocks on your door. three quick taps and you freeze.

your roommate isn’t back yet, and if you were arguing with brad, he wouldn’t come around until later on tonight . . .

you stare at the door.

a dreadful feeling settles in your stomach.

you climb out of bed and shuffle across the room, still wrapped in your duvet like a human burrito.

the second you pull the door open, your heart drops.

will.

fuck!

he stands with a bottle of water in his hand, wearing a baseball cap and black hoodie, looking entirely too awake for this time of day.

you stare, wide eyed, cheeks flaming.

he looks normal, not even hungover - completely normal.

which worsens your feelings by one hundred.

his eyebrows lift, “morning, sunshine. how’s the head?”

you continue to stare. “why . . why are you here?”

he scrunches his face up. “rude.”

“will.”

“what?” his mouth twitches.

you narrow your eyes. you’re heavily suspicious. “why are you smiling like that?”

“like what?”

“like you know something.”

he laughs at that, and your pulse instantly spikes.

oh god, he knows something. you know he knows something. “you remember your own name today?” he says, coming in.

you swallow. “yeah . . why wouldn’t i?”

“why wouldn’t you?” he repeats back, pausing in his steps to turn around. “huh, you tell me. what do you remember?”

your heart starts racing again, but you lean against the door frame of your room while he takes a seat on your bed, trying to appear relaxed, trying very hard not to appear like somebody conducting a criminal investigation. “i—i remember everything.” you lie, acting confident.

will’s eyebrow raise. “oh you do, do you?”

“m—mhm.”

his tongue pokes his cheek. “oh yeah? tell me.”

oh no.

oh no no no.

the way he says it makes your entire body tense, not because of the words — because of the smile.

you stare at him.

he stares back.

“go ahead,” his grin grows, “tell me what you did.”

“what i—” your voice cracks a little, “what i did?”

“mhm.” he sits with his fingers laced.

the smugness begins draining from your face, because it suddenly doesn’t feel like a game anymore. your stomach twists as you approach your bed, a horrible thought occurring to you. “i . . i didn’t fight anybody, did i?”

will’s expression immediately changes, the teasing softening, “no,” a small breath leaves your lungs, “no, nothing like that.”

“okay,” you nod once, then continue. “i didn’t . . break anything? or . . i dunno, ruin somebody’s life by sharing t their secret.”

“nope,” he perks a brow questioningly, “although what secrets have you got that could ruin somebody’s life?”

“so what did i do?” you ignore him, eyes pleading, trying not to come across desperate.

his smile returns instantly, and it’s that look that’s been making you nervous since the second you opened the door. “what are you digging for?”

“i’m not digging for anything?” you lie, taking a seat on your bed. you lift a pillow, using it to cover yourself like a shield of protection. will continues to lay slouched across the bottom half, eyes twinkling mischievously. “why you so nervous?” he asks amused, “you been trying to figure something out since i got here.”

“i’m not.”

“you are.”

you hate how easily he reads you, hate that he sounds so sure of himself. it makes heat crawl up your neck.

will shifts slightly on the mattress, sitting up and turning towards you. it’s barely a movement, but somehow the distance between you feels smaller than it did a second ago. he looks at you and then away, like he’s thinking over something in his head, his lips pulled in contemplation as he scratches his head.

you take a sip of water, not taking your eyes off him. “you tryna figure out if we kissed or somethin’?”

you immediately choke on your water.

the coughing fit that follows is humiliating. “what?!” you sputter, looking at him like he’s insane. “n-no?!”

“no?”

“no!” your voice jumps an octave. “i would never do that!” the accusation in your tone only seems to amuse him.

will’s mouth twitches. “oh. never?

“no!”

“huh,” he drags, making your stomach drop.

“huh what?” you splutter, “why you saying it like that?”

he studies you for a second, like he’s deciding how much to enjoy this, “well, because . . you did try to kiss me.”

the room goes completely silent as you stare at him with your mouth agape.

“—but it’s ok, i was a gentleman about it.”

you wait for the punchline, for the grin, for the inevitable ‘gotcha’ and his usual laugh - but it never comes.

“no i didn’t.” you deny, the laugh that leaves you sounding nervous even to your own ears.

will just looks at you, and slowly, your smile disappears, because he’s not joking. the realization settles over you in horrifying stages: first confusion, then disbelief, then pure dread. “you’re lying.”

“m’not.”

“will.”

“y/n,” he mocks the way you say his name.

you stare at each other, your heart beating as fast as it’s ever done. “it’s cool,” he says casually, leaning back, “i didn’t let it happen.”

your mouth actually falls open. “what?”

he shrugs, completely unfazed. “figured i’d save it for when you’re sober.

your brain short-circuits. “WHAT?”

“what?” he asks, confused.

“you can’t just say things like that!” you spit, looking at him up and down in his stupid cozy hoodie and cap.

“why not?” he furrows his brows, “you tried kissing me.”

your face flares, “no i didn’t!”

“ya did.”

“i—” you stop, because the problem is you don’t actually know. your memory is a mess, a collection of blurry fragments and missing hours, and the confidence drains from your face fast enough that he notices.

fuck, there’s no way this is happening. this can’t be.

you feel you anxiety start to dwell in, the embarrassment as you bring your fingers to your hair.

will shuffles a little closer, his hand settling on your leg which jolts you out of your trance. his teasing has subsided as he speaks. “hey, you don’t need to be embarrassed,” he deadpans, looking at your face.

you risk taking a look at him, lifting your head to meet his gaze - big mistake.

he’s closer than you realized.

close enough that you can make out the tiny scar near his eyebrow, see he different shades of blue in his eyes. close enough that looking away suddenly feels difficult.

“don’t will.”

your stomach is in knots. you can’t even look at him. you feel sick. you just want him to go home.

“i’m serious,” he stands, setting his drink on your bedside table so he’s in front of you, looking down. “i’m not gonna tell anybody if that’s what you’re scared of,” he looks down at your face. watching you closely. “i’m flattered, really.”

“will,” you warn, not in the mood for his games - you want to die on the spot and never see him again.

a beat passes as he watches you, waiting for your comeback, a sassy look to follow, but it doesn’t come.

he scans your face, your chest rising and slowing hastily. “what? can’t look at me now?”

silence.

“y’ignoring me?”

still nothing.

your eyes stay fixed anywhere but him, your chest tight with that awful mix of humiliation and awareness that he’s still right there, still watching.

then his voice drops a little, almost murmuring. “look at me.”

your heart spikes, doing a stupid kick as you feel your body tense from the command - not that it’s demanding, but . . the fact that it’s coming from will.

you can’t, you physically can’t look at him.

then he moves, his arm raising, hand coming up gentler than everything else about him and he tilts your face toward him, not forcing, not yanking - just . . guiding, slowly, until your eyes meet his and he holds you there.

“i’m not trying to mess with you,” his gaze flicks briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. you almost convince yourself you imagined it, but you saw. when you don’t pull back, his palm settles more fully against your face, thumb resting just under your eye as he stands directly above you, the edge of your bed stopping him from getting any closer. it’s grounding and unbearable at the same time. “will.”

“stop saying my name like that,” he murmurs, his face dropping closer to yours.

your lashes flutter shut, unable to look him in the eye. “like what?”

“like i’m about to do something you don’t want me to.”

your breath catches, a shiver prickling across your skin as his gaze drifts over your face one last time. the teasing has disappeared completely now, replaced by something quieter - something certain.

you risk a glance up at him just as his thumb brushes beneath your eye, lingering there for a second before tracing lightly across your cheek. his eyes drop to your mouth, and the look on his face makes your stomach flip—as if he’s finally settled on a decision he’s been fighting all this time.

you can feel the heat radiating from him now, his body close enough that every shift feels magnified as he shifts lower to you. his breath ghosts across your lips, warm and steady, making you tense, and for a moment, neither of you move.

you think it’s about to happen. you feel his lips barely graze yours when he murmurs softly. “open your mouth.”

the room goes completely still. your heart races as you keep you eyes closed, breathing shakily, and slowly, hesitantly, and entirely trustingly - you part your lips.

will presses his mouth softly to yours, long and lasting. he catches your bottom lip, his mouth warm, and he moves them with a gentle force that’s just enough for you. the soft smack of your lips seems impossibly loud in the silence that follows, ringing in your ears as he pulls back with the echoing wet sound. your pulse stumbles, your heart hammering violently in your chest.

nobody moves. nobody says anything. just the shallow breathing of yours fills the space for a beat, your lips glistening.

then, just as the realization begins to dawn on what’s happened, with your hand clasping around his wrist, will leans in again - capturing your mouth again with his own. your shoulders loosen, your jaw relaxes and your mind switches off. smoothly, he slides his tongue in, soft and lazy, in a way that makes your toes curl. your consciousness slips through your fingers as you move your lips against his, his tongue licking into your mouth like it’s familiar.

he kisses you torturously slow, like he’s taking his time, trying to live in the moment while it lasts. you feel yourself sit up, chasing him for more, getting lost in the daze with his warm mouth on yours, rolling his tongue against yours, establishing its presence. a small sound slips out. you don’t mean for it to happen, but it does. a small, needy-like hum that sends both a shock to your system and a grin on will’s face that ultimately makes your face flame and pull off from him.

you stare up at him in shock.

wide-eyed and silent with wet lips, like you’ve only just realized what you were doing — what you were enjoying.

his blue eyes stare back at you, eyes half-lidded. he lets out a quiet breath through his nose after, grinning slowly as you discreetly try to catch your breath from your bed. “not bad for a freshman, huh?”

your face burns more, your mouth opening to speak but the words don’t come out. you don’t know what words would come out if you did know what to say.

but it doesn’t matter, because will’s lips ghost your own, hovering dangerously, eager to be on yours again - and you’re clearly as eager back because you part them instinctively when a sharp knock cracks through the air.

you jerk back with a gasp, eyes shooting to the door.

will’s expression barely changes. if anything, he just looks mildly annoyed at the timing as he glances towards the door.

another knock raps, and he gets up like he’s about to answer it.

your heart nearly launches into your throat. “what are you doing?!” you hiss quietly.

his brows pull together.

you grab a fistful of his sleeve and yank him back before he can take another two steps.

now he looks genuinely confused.

before either of you can say anything else, a familiar voice sounds through the wood. “y/n? you home?”

your shoulders relax as you resume opening the door. you wipe the fake sweat from your head, “it’s katie.” you open the door.

katie’s been your roommate since freshman year. nn paper, the friendship shouldn’t work. she’s quiet, private, spends most nights curled up with a book or her geeky boyfriend. you’re the complete opposite—cheer captain, face of the campus, recognised everywhere you go, somehow attracting attention even when you’re actively trying not to — but she’s become your person.

katie looks out for you in a way nobody else does. she’s seen the parts of your life nobody else has: the arguments, the tears, the nights you pretend you’re fine when you’re anything but. she knows more about what goes on in your life more than your cheer friends put together. people mistake her quietness for weakness all the time. they’re always wrong: she would go to war for you.

she knows the version of you that exists when nobody’s watching, and she loves that version just as much.

she’s the kind of friend who’d help you bury a body, then spend the whole drive home lecturing you for creating the problem in the first place. the kind that would take a bullet for you and then complain that the bullet interrupted her afternoon.

she spends most nights with her boyfriend now anyway, only staying over every so often. you don’t mind, you kind love that she’s loved up. although it’s kind of why you’ve tried not to lean on her too much lately. you sometimes feel guilty, like you’re the one constantly dragging drama into her otherwise peaceful life, so you’ve tried to be tough and think like her. if she had seen you in the state you were in last night, would she have wanted you to call her? yes, but did you make it home safe nonetheless without her? yes!

she comes inside, multiple bags on her arms, her long blue hair in a messy ponytail. you press against the wall for her to stumble in, will watching her with the same questioning look.

“i left so much clothes at james’ place, it’s ridiculous,” she drops them on her side of the room. “how—oh!” she pauses, making eye-contact with will. “who’s this?”

“uhh, that’s will,” you scratch your arm, “he was just leaving actually.”

“no, by all means, don’t let me interrupt—”

“—no! no, he has hockey practice anyway,” you cut in, holding the door open. “he was just . . . grabbing my file,” you stretch for the folder and shove it in his ah de as he stands confusedly. “it’s all good.”

will looks at you strangely, standing at the door nonetheless, “thanks . . ?”

“ok. nice meeting you will.”

“yeah, you too.” he looks over to katie, shooting her a smile.

you avoid eye-contact as he passes by you out the door, but you know the look he’s giving you. “bye.”

“see ya.”

the door shuts, leaving you standing.

“he’s cute.”

“he’s a freshman.”

“cuter than brad.”

“you think a lamppost is cuter than brad,” you roll your eyes, though your stomach turns at his name. god, brad.

“correct!” she cheers, slamming her stuff on the bed. “i’m gonna go shower first and then maybe grab a coffee before i sort these. wanna come?”

“love to.”

“nice. i’ll be five minutes.”

“cool.”

“don’t invite that pesky freshman back in while i’m gone! i’d be soooo mad!” she sings, closing the door.

“trust me, i won’t,” you silently groan to yourself, falling down on your bed to burrow your face in the covers.

what . . the hell . . . have you done.

“y/n! are these your clothes in the shower?!”

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