His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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C A M I L A
"Women love smoothies. Like, they can be pink and shit. That's a thing, like a business thing. That was what I put down for 7c. You know, I think we should go out for smoothies to celebrate our final exam."
If eye-rolling burned calories, I'd be transparent by now.
"This class sucked. I'd like to do something fun." Not-Brandon leans back, running a hand through his dark hair. "You in?"
"Quiet," Dr. Wen mutters as he passes—because some people are still writing their exams. We can't leave because it's the last 15 minutes.
I'm wedged into a desk, the kind designed for maximum discomfort. The air's heavy with the scent of stale coffee and desperation—the other kids, mostly. I aced this exam, just like the rest.
"I don't understand why you hate me so much," Not-Brandon whispers. "I've only ever been nice to you."
I glare sideways at him, my hands clasped tight. He's tapping a pen on his desk, waiting.
Not-Brandon, with his opinions that nobody asked for, especially about my boyfriend. I haven't forgotten, and I won't. I don't like this guy. He doesn't understand why? He doesn't need to.
"Camila, come on. I thought we could at least talk if we worked together this semester. I wanted Wen to put us together so I could make you give me a chance."
I focus on the graphite markings on my desk.
'Get me out of this goddamn hellish cycle of being alive'
'im gonna light my prof's car on fire'
'greg+ellie 4eva'
The idiot at my left is still watching me, a weird mix of interest and annoyance. I shove away his presence with my mind like a witch.
Reflecting on the last few weeks feels like touching a live wire—exciting, risky, and a little bit dreadful. God, I'm exhausted. From finals to my new job and moving in with three men, I'm fucking tired.
"Pencils down!"
I flinch in my seat, groaning. Thank fuck.
My hands work on autopilot, shoving notebooks and pens into my bag with more force than necessary.
"Camila, why won't you just go out with me once? I'm a decent guy." Not-Brandon's persistence is a thorn in my side, one that's been digging in deeper with every unwelcome invitation.
I'm packing up my things faster now. "My heart's not a democracy. You don't get a vote. Leave me alone."
Then, through the mess of bodies shoving out of the lecture hall, I see him, and my body just...forgets what to do.
Noah's against the open class doorframe. Black jeans, and a simple white tee that seems to know exactly how to accentuate everything about him that pulls at me. His dark hair is messy, longer than I've ever seen it, and his scar seems more pronounced, especially since he's holding a leather jacket over his shoulder. His grin, though. That's the knockout punch.
