Renna Rose Lancaster never searched for love.
She stumbled into it long before she was old enough to know what to call it.
It lived inside flower crowns that barely survived a minute on his head. Pebbles he slipped into her pockets because every tre...
"Life is yours, death is mine Peace is yours, stress is mine Happiness is yours, sorrow is mine Everything is yours But you are mine."
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If there's one place in the world that feels like it was carved out of the universe with my name stitched into its walls, it isn't some chic café with overpriced lattes, or the boujee boutiques that try too hard to look Parisian, not even the marble mausoleum I call home.
My place—my real place—is Aadam Alaric Callahan's room.
And don't even start with the eye-rolling, because yes, it smells faintly like a basketball team decided to live, die, and reincarnate here. But that's not what I see. What I see is ours. A space that feels like it belongs to me just as much as him.
Aadam's half is unexpectedly... civilised. Wardrobe door shut, notes stacked in that slightly chaotic but somehow functional order only his brain understands, his cologne soaked into the pillowcases so deeply I could probably get high on it. And then there's Cameron's side—utter Armageddon. Shoes in every corner, laundry mountains competing with Ben Nevis, empty protein bottles lined up like fallen soldiers. Last week there was an actual banana peel lounging on his hoodie like it was wearing a crown.
And yet—I'd pick this room over crystal candle holders and silent corridors a thousand times. Because here, things are alive. Messy in a way that feels human. Stupidly full of my boy.
Today, though, I arrived under the flimsiest disguise.
"Study session," I'd texted him. I even stuffed my bag with biochem notes like some tragic theatre prop, as if enzymes were the reason I couldn't stop orbiting this boy.
Spoiler: I wanted him, not enzymes.
Which explains why the second I spotted his white shirt—crisp, freshly ironed, hanging off the back of his chair like temptation incarnate—I snapped. Goodbye, crop top. Goodbye, trousers. Goodbye, any trace of shame. They're all in a crumpled little heap on his floor.
And hello new outfit: Aadam's shirt. Just his shirt. Buttoned enough to tease, but not enough to protect. It's soft against my skin, smells faintly of him and I know I look like trouble. Exactly the point.
We started innocent, or at least I did a very Oscar-worthy performance of innocence, perched on his desk chair, spinning lazily while he pretended to be a serious tutor. He pointed out pathways on scrap notes, frowning in concentration, while I nodded like the world's worst student.
Five minutes later, I ditched the act, crawled over to his bed with the textbook dragging behind me like a loyal puppy, and tugged him along by his wrist. His smirk told me he knew I was up to something, but he followed anyway. He always does.
