Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, carved with angel-soft beauty, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection. But Renna knows perfection is nothing but a golden prison, coated in pretty lies that k...
"And if I was honest, you remind me of all the gentle things in life, like tea when it's cold, and big sweaters to sleep in.
You remind me of all the safe things in life, like a hand to hold, and a shoulder to lean on.
You remind me of all the reasons to take a chance, like when things seem out of reach, and a place seems so far away.
You remind me of all the beautiful things in life, like the sky when the sun sets, and the way your face lights up when you smile."
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There’s a specific kind of hell where you’re trapped between a Graphpad prism full of research data and six half-dressed lads arguing over whose turn it is to eat the last bag of Walkers. Turns out, that hell looks exactly like the hallway at the dorms on a Friday night.
I was sat right at the doorway threshold, laptop balanced on my thighs, half-blind from staring at Dr. Walters’ “urgent” data sheets. My MacBook fan was screaming like it hated me, and honestly, same.
He’s probably at home sipping whisky and watching telly while I’m over here calculating mean arterial pressures for rats or whatever nonsense this old man calls “pioneering research.”
“Oi, Aadam!” Cameron bellowed, clutching his medal like it was forged by gods. “Tell them how the hall went dead silent when I took the mic. They were terrified, mate. Fucking terrified.”
“Yeah,” I muttered without looking up, fingers flying over the keyboard, “terrified you’d talk longer than the entire conference.”
That got a laugh—Atlas actually fell back against the wall, clutching his stomach. Aaron leaned against the doorframe beside me, eating straight from a family-sized bag of Doritos. The crumbs were snowing down my shoulder like orange dandruff.
Gavin was strumming my guitar like he was torturing it for answers. Each chord screeched as if the instrument was begging for mercy. Nico and Logan were parked by the window, trying to one-up each other with who could throw peanut shells into Cameron’s medal case.
Cameron didn’t even flinch. “Laugh all you want, but when the judge said, ‘Mr. Eriksen, that was brilliant work on that case,’ I knew it. People’s champ. Born for it.”
“People’s champ, my arse,” I said, clicking through another line of code. “You called our patient’s rash ‘mystical.’”
