•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•✾•⋅⊰∙∘☾✶☽∘∙⊱⋅•

The next evening, I found myself making my way to Callington Hall, hands jammed deep into my jacket pockets and an uncomfortable knot twisting in my stomach.

The campus had always had a different vibe at night. The crowds were sparse, the pathways hushed, and the soft glow of the streetlights smoothed out the harsh lines of the surrounding buildings, giving them a strangely gentle feel.

Groups of students passed by, giggling about things that might have felt crucial at that moment but would probably be forgotten by morning. In the distance, music spilled from an open dorm window, something with a deep bass that felt out of place in the stillness of the evening, yet somehow fit perfectly.

Usually, I’d soak in the calm atmosphere, maybe sit in a bench someone and do some people watching. But tonight, my mind was too busy for that.

I reached into my pocket and grasped the little hockey keychain that hung from my keys. It had become a bit of a habit...whenever I felt anxious or overwhelmed, my hand would automatically find it, rolling the worn plastic between my fingers much like some folks click pens or bounce their legs.

I kept walking, that small repetitive motion my only way of keeping my hands from showing just how nervous I felt.

Twenty-four hours. I’d made sure to wait a whole day before coming here. After the mess with Melanie, rushing over felt like a terrible idea, she’d been angry, embarrassed, and hurt, which, honestly, she had every right to be.

Just thinking about that morning made me cringe, especially recalling how Damien had overheard every single word from just a few feet away, half-dressed and way too composed for someone who’d just rolled out of bed.

Ugh. Just the thought made me want to find a heavy blanket and fucking hide under it.

My grip tightened on the keychain.

At least something good had come from it. My conversation with Damien afterward kept replaying in my head, just like those important talks do. For months, I’d carried the weight of my dad’s illness all by myself, convinced, because I never bothered to test the theory...that I had to.

That asking for help showed weakness. That leaning on someone would somehow make me feel less capable, less responsible, less deserving of everything I was trying so hard to keep together.

The reality was a lot simpler. I was utterly wiped out. Completely drained. And Damien had seen that, everything, from the hospital bills and the endless shifts to the fear I masked like it was nothing, the sleepless nights piling up one after another.

And instead of walking away or seeing me as person with way too much problems, he stayed.

A small smile tugged at my lips despite the knot in my stomach. The stubborn idiot had spent nearly an hour arguing with me before we reached something that resembled a compromise. He wanted to cover all my dad’s medical expenses, which nearly gave me a damn heart attack right then and there.

Because...um, no?

"Absolutely not," I had said. "All of it? Do you even realize what ’all of it’ means in this situation?"

"I know exactly what it means. I have a finance degree, Oliver."

"You have a finance degree and apparently zero sense of boundaries."

We finally settled on half, and I only agreed because he wouldn’t drop it, circling back to the issue every time I tried to steer the conversation another way with the patience of someone who had endless time and no intention of letting go.

The argument wrapped up with Damien calling me ’impossible to deal’ with and me calling him an ’annoyingly, aggressively rich nepo-baby’. So, neither of us really won.

Which probably meant we both did in the end.

I was surprised by how warm that memory felt, because it wasn’t really about the money. It was everything surrounding it, like the groceries he’d started buying without making a big deal out of it, the meals he whipped up when he noticed I hadn’t eaten, the coffee he left out for me before my early shifts, the blanket he practically threw at me during those cold nights weeks ago, and how he seemed to sense the moment something was off, even before I said a word.

A complicated mix of feelings settled in my chest. Gratitude, affection, guilt, weaving through both like it always seemed to do. Part of me deeply appreciated all he’d done to an extent that frightened me.

Another part couldn’t shake the nagging worry that I was becoming more of a burden, that this generosity would eventually dry up, like it often does when the person receiving it never gives anything back. The last thing I wanted was for Damien to feel like he had to fix my whole life, piece by piece.

I sighed, heavy and long.

But that wasn’t the only thing on my mind tonight. Because Melanie was still there—the whole reason I was trudging across campus with my stomach in knots.

For a long time, I’d convinced myself that things would eventually click between us. Maybe if I tried harder. Maybe if I spent more time with her, put in more effort, showed up more present and less distracted. Maybe if I stopped being such an emotional wreck.

But after everything that had happened—the kiss that didn’t feel right, the conversation that peeled back the layers on just how absent I’d been—I couldn’t keep lying to myself anymore. Melanie was amazing. Kind, patient, funny, outgoing in ways I probably couldn’t match, even with serious effort. She deserved someone who looked at her and felt the kind of thrill that inspired actual songs. Someone who could hand over their whole heart without second-guessing.

That person wasn’t me.

The realization stung, not because I wanted her romantically and couldn’t have her, but because I knew how much pain this truth was about to bring, and I was the one about to deliver it.

My chest tightened.

Because if Melanie wasn’t the one my heart truly wanted, then there was only one other name available to fill that void.

Damien.

That name slipped into my thoughts way too easily, like it had been lingering at the edge of every thought for weeks, just waiting for its moment.

I groaned aloud. "Great," I muttered to myself.

A passing student shot me a weird look. I tried really hard not to notice.

The issue wasn’t figuring out that I liked Damien. I’d mostly come to terms with that fact somewhere between the hockey game, the shared blanket, and that morning when he’d said I looked cute in an apron. The issue was that Damien liked me back about as much as a brick wall enjoyed a conversation. To him, we were friends. Close friends. Roommates who had fallen into an odd domestic routine. Nothing more—at least, nothing he’d ever said out loud, and I had become an expert at analyzing every sentence he gave me for hints to the contrary, mostly without finding anything I could believe.

The memory from the kiss cam flashed in my mind—the way my heart had nearly burst, the way he’d laughed afterward, perfectly at ease, while I spent the rest of the night putting on a brave face like I was fine.

I rubbed my face. This was hopeless. Completely, thoroughly hopeless.

Yet, no matter how impossible it felt, one truth remained grounded beneath everything else. My heart had already made its choice somewhere along the way, without bothering to consult me. And because of that, I couldn’t keep hurting Melanie by remaining in something that had quietly stopped being fair for either of us. She deserved honesty. Even if it stung.

Especially if it stung.

By the time I arrived at Callington Hall, my nerves were a tangled mess. The building stood out brightly against the darkening sky, its windows glowing in patches like a crossword that someone had only partially filled in.

Students came and went at the entrance, carrying textbooks and takeout bags and the usual clutter of evening chores, completely unaware that I was about to have one of the most awkward talks of my college life.

I climbed the stairs to Melanie’s floor. With each step, my stomach clenched tighter.

This was going to be terrible. Necessary. But terrible.

Eventually, I found myself standing outside her door. For a few seconds, I just stared at it, trying to muster whatever courage was left in me.

Then I knocked.

Nothing.

I waited. Still nothing.

I knocked again, this time louder. Silence greeted me, unsettling given that Melanie was usually easy to find, she answered texts within minutes and opened doors within seconds, one of the many things that made her enjoyable to be around.

I shifted my weight, debating whether to leave a note or return tomorrow.

Then I heard something. A muffled sound from somewhere deeper within the apartment.

My stomach dropped.

Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she was sick. Maybe—

I reached for the handle. The door swung open instantly, unlocked, and an uneasy feeling settled in my chest at how easily it gave.

"Melanie?"

No answer.

The lights were on. At first glance, everything seemed normal, the same fairy lights, the same succulents on the windowsill. But then I noticed the clothes.

A jacket draped carelessly over a chair that didn’t belong to anyone I recognized. A shirt on the floor, definitely not Melanie’s, definitely not cut for a woman. Another piece of clothing further down the hallway.

My brain started piecing things together with cold, quick efficiency, like someone who had done this kind of math before and wasn’t thrilled with the answer it was reaching.

The muffled sounds came again, clearer this time. Voices, movement and...moans?