In 1988 when Dylan Montgomery moves to Beverly Hills after her mother remarries, she must navigate the challenges of fitting into a glamorous but daunting upper-class life. Living across from the charmingly cocky Nicholas and his introspective broth...
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UPPER CLASS | cherriasian
august '89
Nicholas's alarm buzzed sharply at 5:30 a.m., pulling him out of the light sleep he'd barely managed. He groaned, running a hand down his face before shutting it off, the faint glow of early dawn seeping through the window blinds. It was too early for his body to cooperate, but swim practice at six wasn't optional—especially not if he wanted to stay on his coach's good side.
Dragging himself out of bed, Nicholas rubbed at his eyes before grabbing his swim gear from the back of his desk chair. Across the room, Elliot remained dead to the world, his snores the only sound in the otherwise still dorm. Nicholas felt a fleeting pang of envy before shaking it off and heading out.
The cool water of the pool snapped him fully awake soon enough. Practice was grueling but familiar, a rhythm he'd fallen into years ago. Two hours later, muscles sore but adrenaline buzzing, Nicholas emerged from the locker room, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends, the droplets glinting faintly in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
Two hours later back in his dorm, he tossed his duffel bag onto the floor with a satisfying thud, already eyeing his shower bag. The room was quiet, as expected; Elliot had mentioned he'd be out with his family for most of the morning. That left Nicholas with one thought immediately.
Dylan.
He glanced at his clock to check the time. Still early. She might not even be awake yet—but the memory of last night, the way she'd kissed him like she couldn't get enough, told him she'd come.
After a hot shower, the tension in his shoulders loosened, and the chlorine washed away, Nicholas let his hair dry naturally. He didn't bother with a towel for it, knowing it would fall into its usual tousled, damp waves. By the time he was dressed—shorts, a plain black t-shirt that clung just right, and his favorite watch—there was a soft knock at the door.
His pulse quickened, a grin already tugging at his lips.
When he opened the door, there she was. Dylan stood there, her hair slightly mussed as if she'd hurried over after waking, her cheeks flushed from the crisp morning air. She wore an oversized shirt that slipped off one shoulder and one of her usual linen shorts, effortlessly perfect in a way that made his stomach flip every time.
But it was Dylan who felt like her breath had caught in her chest.
His damp hair, still curling slightly at the ends, sent her heart racing. It had always gotten to her in a way she couldn't fully explain—like now, the way it clung just enough to frame his face, darker and messier than usual. It reminded her of Beverly Hills, those moments after swim practice or a late-night pool session when she'd caught him like this. Back then, she'd brushed it off, refusing to let herself admit how much she liked the sight of him like this. Now, she didn't have to pretend.
