Chapter 3: The Morning After
The fluorescent lights in the classroom buzzed like trapped wasps, a sound that drilled straight into Tessa’s skull. She’d chosen a seat near the back, two rows from where she’d sat last time, her notebook open to a blank page that seemed to mock her. The room smelled of industrial cleaner and the faint, sweet decay of old highlighters.
She kept her eyes on the door.
Students filed in, slumping into chairs, the murmur of weekend gossip filling the stale air. Molly came in with a group of girls from the sorority, their laughter sharp and performative. She shot a look at Tessa—a quick, appraising glance—before turning away, dismissing her.
Tessa’s pen tapped a nervous rhythm against the paper.
He walked in a minute before the lecture was due to start. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud. Hardin. He wore a faded black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the dark ink of his tattoos. His hair was messy, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He didn’t scan the room. He looked straight at the empty chair beside hers from last week, then his gaze slid, purposefully, to where she sat now.
He didn’t hesitate. He walked down the aisle, the casual swagger in his step making several heads turn, and dropped into the same seat he’d occupied before. The one now directly behind her.
She felt him there, a solid, tense presence at her back. The air grew thicker, warmer. She could smell the faint scent of his soap, something clean and woodsy, cutting through the classroom smells.
Professor Davis began droning on about narrative voice in Pride and Prejudice, his words flattening into a monotone. “The free indirect discourse allows Austen to critique the social machinery while maintaining an intimate, often ironic, proximity to her protagonist’s mind…”
Tessa tried to focus, to write something down. Her hand wrote social machinery before stalling. All she could think about was the weight of his stare between her shoulder blades. The memory of his room, the whisper of owe me a dare, played on a loop in her head, syncing with the professor’s metronome voice.
She didn’t turn around. Not once.
When the hour finally bled to a close and the professor dismissed them with a wave, the scrape of chairs was a relief. She stood quickly, shoving her untouched notebook into her bag. She needed air, needed space, needed to not feel him right behind her.
She followed the stream of students into the hallway, the buzz of conversation swelling around her. She turned left, heading for the glass doors at the end of the corridor that led to the quad.
Footsteps, steady and close, echoed hers on the linoleum.
She walked faster. The footsteps matched her pace.
At the doors, she pushed outside into the crisp autumn morning. The sunlight was blinding after the fluorescent gloom. She kept walking, across the concrete path, toward a cluster of oak trees.
“Tessa.”
His voice stopped her cold. It wasn’t loud. It was just there, a statement.
She turned around slowly. He stood a few feet away, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark jeans, his posture deceptively relaxed. The morning light caught the blue in his eyes, turning them glacial.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” she said, the words coming out in a rushed, defensive tumble, “nothing happened between us.”
A slow, knowing smile touched his lips. It wasn’t friendly. It was a dissection. “Us?” he repeated, tilting his head slightly. “I thought we were talking about Pride and Prejudice.”
She stared at him, thrown. He was using the lecture, twisting it, fencing her in with her own assumptions.
He took a single step closer. The distance between them hummed. “You’re the one who said ‘us,’ Tessa. Interesting word choice. Implies a unit.” His gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, then back to her eyes. “I was just coming to ask if you’d found Davis’s take on social constraint as reductive as I did. But you’re already miles ahead, aren’t you? Already in the aftermath of something that,” he paused, letting the word hang, “nothing.”
Her face flushed with a heat that had nothing to do with the sun. He’d turned her own flustered denial into a confession she hadn’t made. She had no retort. The clever, analytical part of her brain had short-circuited, filled with the image of him leaning in, the shared weight of the book.
He watched her struggle, the smile not quite leaving his eyes. He gave a faint, almost imperceptible shake of his head, as if she was a mildly disappointing equation he’d already solved. Then he turned and walked away, blending into the stream of students crossing the quad without a backward glance.
She stood rooted to the spot, her heart pounding a messy, angry rhythm. He had a way of leaving her feeling exposed and foolish, all with a few perfectly aimed words.
“Hey, you okay?”
The voice was different—softer, concerned. She blinked, the world swimming back into focus. Landon stood beside her, his textbook-laden backpack slung over one shoulder, his friendly face etched with genuine worry.
“You looked like you were about to either cry or set something on fire,” he said, offering a tentative smile. “Both are valid after Davis, for the record.”
Tessa managed a shaky breath, forcing a smile in return. “Just… a lot.”
“Tell me about it. Hey, I’m headed to The Grounds. Gotta mainline some caffeine before my next class. You wanna come? My treat. You look like you could use it.”
The offer was normal. Kind. Uncomplicated. It was everything the last twenty-four hours had not been.
She glanced in the direction Hardin had disappeared. He was gone, swallowed by the campus. The relief was physical, a slight sag in her shoulders.
“Yeah,” she said, turning back to Landon. “Coffee sounds really good.”
They walked together toward the student union, Landon chatting easily about a film he’d seen, the simple noise of his words a balm. She listened, nodding, feeling the tight coil in her chest begin to loosen.
As they pushed through the doors of the bustling cafe, the rich aroma of roasted beans wrapping around them, Tessa stole one last look over her shoulder through the glass.
The quad was just autumn sunlight and scattering leaves, no brooding figure in sight. She turned back to Landon, forcing her shoulders to relax, and let the warm, noisy chaos of the place swallow her whole.
Landon bought her a large black coffee, insisting it was medicinal. They found a small table near the window, its surface sticky with dried syrup. He talked about the cinematography in some indie film, his hands moving enthusiastically, and she nodded, sipping the bitter liquid, trying to anchor herself in his normalcy.
“You seem a million miles away,” Landon said, his tone gentle, not pushing. “Rough weekend?”
Tessa traced a finger through a coffee ring on the table. “Something like that. Just adjusting.” She wouldn’t give him the details; saying them out loud felt dangerous, like handing someone a lit match near gasoline.
They finished their drinks, and Landon walked her to her next class, his presence a quiet, undemanding shield. The rest of the day passed in a blur of syllabi and unfamiliar faces. Back in her dorm that night, Ariana was full of stories about Chloe, some friend from her psychology class, but Tessa barely registered the names. She fell into a fitful sleep, the ghost of old paper and a low whisper haunting the edges of her dreams.
The next morning, Tessa returned to the cafe alone, needing caffeine and a moment of quiet before her nine AM. The place was less crowded, the air cooler, smelling of damp earth from the morning rain and fresh pastries. She ordered her coffee, her eyes scanning for an empty seat.
That’s when she saw him.
Hardin was slouched on a worn leather sofa in the corner, a thick, dog-eared book open in his hands. The weak morning light from the window beside him glinted off the silver rings on his fingers. He looked engrossed, his brow slightly furrowed, a different person from the provocative figure in the classroom.
Her pulse did a hard, sudden knock against her ribs. She looked away quickly, focusing on the barista calling her name. She grabbed the paper cup, its heat a sharp comfort in her palm, and turned directly for the exit. She didn’t look back. She wouldn’t.
Her hand was on the cold metal door push bar when she heard the soft rustle of someone rising, then footsteps approaching behind her. She froze.
“Hi.”
His voice was close, just over her shoulder. She turned her head slightly, looking at him briefly. His ocean eyes were clear, intent, no trace of last night’s storm. “Hi,” she said, the word tight in her throat.
He shifted his weight, the book now tucked under his arm. “I can’t stay away from you.” He said it plainly, a simple statement of fact, not a plea.
She fully turned now, facing him, her back against the door. “What?”
A small, uneven smile touched his lips. “Well, we’re gonna see each other. I’m friends with Chloe.” He paused, watching her process it. “Your Ariana’s roommate.”
The connection clicked, a mundane, irritating thread tying their worlds together. She just stared at him, her coffee warming her fingers.
He looked at her, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a second before returning. “Let’s just start over? Reset.” He took a breath. “And we can be—”
She interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. “What? Friends?”
“Well, why not?” he responded, his head tilting slightly.
She looked at him, at the earnest set of his jaw that felt like another performance. The memory of his hands on the book in his dark room flashed between them. “I think it’s better if we keep our distance,” she said, folding her arms.
He took a small step back, that smile returning, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. It was cooler, resigned. “I’ll see you around,” he said, his tone final.
She pushed the door open, the bell jangling overhead, She didn’t turn around. She just stood there.
She just stood there. It was the heat on her skin, left by his presence and her own stupid hesitation, that truly unsettled her.
His voice replayed. I can’t stay away from you. A statement, not an apology. A fact as inconvenient and undeniable as the weather.
She turned around. He was still there, by the now-empty sofa, He looked up as the bell chimed again, his movements slowing. He didn’t speak. He just watched her walk back across the scuffed floor, her coffee forgotten on a table.
“Okay,” she said, stopping a few feet from him.
“Okay what?” His voice was careful, measured.
“A reset.” The words felt foreign. “Show me.”
A beat of silence passed between them, thick with unspoken questions. “My car’s out back.”
They walked through a rear exit into a small, asphalted lot crammed with old bikes and dumpsters. His car was an aging black sedan, its paint dull but clean. He unlocked the passenger door for her, holding it open. She slid inside.
The interior smelled of old leather, clean linen, and something faintly earthy, like petrichor. It was immaculate, not a gum wrapper or coffee cup in sight. He got in, the car dipping slightly with his weight, and started the engine. It purred to life with a quiet, reliable hum.
He drove without speaking, navigating the campus streets with a confident ease. As he turned onto a tree-lined road leading away from university grounds, he glanced at her. She was looking at him, studying the concentrated line of his profile, the way his hands rested lightly on the wheel. He felt her gaze and glanced back, his eyes meeting hers for a suspended moment before he focused again on the winding road ahead.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of the hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on pavement, the weight of all the things they hadn’t said in the cafe, in his room, in class. Houses thinned, replaced by dense stands of pine and oak dressed in fiery autumn colors.
As a small, wooden sign for a state park flashed by, he looked at her again. This time, a small, genuine smile touched his lips, quick and unguarded, before his eyes returned to the road. She felt an answering flutter in her chest, a dangerous curiosity unfurling.
He slowed, turning onto an unmarked gravel track nearly hidden by ferns. Branches scraped lightly against the car’s sides. He parked in a small, mossy opening dappled with fallen leaves, killing the engine. The sudden quiet was profound, broken only by the distant call of a jay.
They got out. The air was cool and damp, rich with the scent of pine needles and decaying wood. She looked around at the towering trees, the sunlight filtering through in dusty golden shafts.
“It’s down this way,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “Come on.”
He started along a narrow, winding path carpeted in soft brown needles. She followed, her shoes making almost no sound. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking she was there, his eyes searching her face for a reaction. She offered a small, tentative nod.
The path opened suddenly onto the weathered planks of a small, covered bridge. It arched over a narrow creek that spilled into a wide, still lake, its surface a perfect mirror for the fiery forest and crisp blue sky. He walked to the center, leaning his arms on the rough wooden railing.
She joined him, the old wood creaking softly under her steps. The view was breathtaking, a secret, still world. He was quiet for a long moment, just looking out.
“Welcome to my favourite place,” he said finally, the words soft, meant only for her, the trees and the water.
“Welcome to my favourite place,” he said finally, the words soft, meant only for her, the trees and the water.
It was peaceful. The only sounds were the lazy lap of water against the pilings and the distant rustle of leaves. She absorbed the quiet, so different from the stifling chaos of the frat house or the buzzing classroom. He’d brought her here. The fact felt significant, a tangible piece of the reset he’d proposed.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, her voice barely disturbing the air.
They stood in silence for a few more minutes, the tension from the car journey slowly leaching away into the crisp atmosphere. He pushed off the railing and began walking slowly toward the far end of the covered bridge. She fell into step beside him, their footsteps a soft, syncopated rhythm on the old wood.
At the very end, where the bridge met the bank, the lake spread out before them, deep and inviting. He stopped, hooded his gaze toward the water, his profile thoughtful.
“How about a swim?” he said, looking out at the glassy surface.
Before she could process the question, his hands went to the hem of his black shirt. He peeled it off in one fluid motion, the muscles of his back and torso flexing, revealing the full, intricate tapestry of his tattoos in the daylight. The dead tree spanned his ribcage, its barren branches a stark contrast to the vibrant life around them. He tossed the shirt onto the dry planks beside him.
He looked back at her over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.
“What’re—what’re you doing?” Tessa managed, her brain stumbling over the sight of him.
He didn’t answer. His fingers went to the button of his jeans. He popped it, pushed them down his hips, and stepped out, leaving them in a heap. He stood there in just his black boxers, the cool air seeming not to touch him. “Going swimming,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Hardin,” Tessa said, a warning and a plea tangled together.
He turned around, fully facing her for a heartbeat. The look in his ocean eyes was challenging, daring, but underneath it shone a bright, almost painful vulnerability. Then he turned back to the water, took two quick steps, and dove off the end of the bridge.
The dive was clean, barely a splash. He disappeared into the deep, clear water. Tessa rushed to the edge, her heart in her throat, scanning the surface. Seconds stretched. Then he broke through, gasping, his hair plastered to his forehead, water sluicing down the ink on his shoulders.
He treaded water, looking up at her. A slow, real smile spread across his face, transforming it entirely. “Come in,” he called, his voice ringing in the quiet cove.
The water shimmered where he’d broken the surface, but Tessa stayed frozen on the weathered planks, her fingers gripping the rough wood of the railing. The air was too crisp, the distance from the bridge to the lake suddenly vast. He floated on his back, watching her, his expression unreadable from here.
She shook her head, a smile threatening at the corner of her mouth despite herself. He looked different like this, unguarded, the constant tension in his shoulders dissolved by the water. He swam closer to the bank, standing now where it shallowed, the water lapping at his waist. Droplets clung to the dark ink of the dead tree across his torso.
“Scared?” he challenged, his grin sharp and familiar.
“Of hypothermia, yes,” she shot back, but she leaned further over the railing, drawn in.
He pointed at the small pile of his discarded clothes beside her. “You can wear my shirt,” he said. His voice was softer now, carrying easily across the short distance.
She looked at the black fabric, then back at him. His hair was dripping into his eyes.
He added, “It feels amazing. When you get out, I mean. Warm from the sun.” He said it like it was a secret, a piece of minor, personal physics he was sharing only with her.
The logic was absurd. The offer was intimate. Her simple summer dress would be transparent the second it hit the water. She weighed the impracticality against the dizzying leap this moment already was. He watched her think, treading water quietly, giving her the space to decide.
A deep breath filled her lungs. She bent and picked up the soft, worn cotton of his shirt.
“Okay,” she said, the word more exhale than sound. She held his gaze. “A little privacy?”
A slow nod. He turned around in the water, presenting his back to her—the ship on his shoulder blade, the knobs of his spine. A gesture of unexpected courtesy.
Her fingers trembled only slightly on the zipper of her dress. She stepped out of it, the cool woodland air raising goosebumps on her skin. She slipped his shirt over her head. It swallowed her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the hem stopping mid-thigh, carrying his scent of clean cotton and that faint, clean soap.
“Okay,” she said again, her voice firmer.
He turned back around. His eyes found her immediately, tracing the new lines of his shirt on her body. He didn’t speak for a long moment, just looked, his breathing the only sound mingling with the water’s gentle slap against the wood. The shirt was a dark flag against the pale skin of her legs.
“What?” she finally asked, the word tight in her throat.
He shook his head, a quick, almost imperceptible motion. “I like it better on you,” he said, the rawness in his voice stripping the comment of any easy charm. It was just a fact.
He swam the few strokes back to the bridge pilings. She sat down on the edge, the cool wood biting through the thin fabric of his shirt and her underwear. The water below looked deep, dark.
He positioned himself directly beneath her, the water up to his chest. “Ready?” he asked, his voice echoing softly under the bridge.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He lifted his hands. “Here.” She placed her hands on his wet, solid shoulders, the skin cool and slick. His hands came up, fingers spreading wide, and settled carefully under her armpits, his touch firm through the fabric of his own shirt.
For a suspended second, they held like that, connected at four points, her seated above the water, him standing in it. His eyes were serious, intent on hers. He was entirely focused on the task of lowering her, as if it were the most important thing he’d ever done.
Then he lowered her, his strength effortless, her weight nothing. The water was a shocking, breathtaking cold that stole the air from her lungs as it rose up her legs, her waist, her chest. She gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.
Her feet found the silty, leaf-strewn bottom. The lake was deeper here; the water came to her collarbone. He didn’t let go. His hands were still under her arms, her hands still clinging to him. They were close, so close the heat from their bodies warred with the chill of the water in the scant inch between them. Water dripped from his hair, from his eyelashes.
Her gasp echoed softly under the bridge, mingling with the lap of water against wood. The cold was a vibrant, shocking ache that quickly burned into a bright, tingling awareness. Her skin screamed with it, every nerve ending suddenly, vividly alive.
His hands remained under her arms, a steady, warm pressure against the chill seeping through the soaked cotton of his shirt. Her own fingers were still locked onto the hard curve of his shoulders, feeling the shift of muscle underneath. The water swayed between them, a liquid barrier that felt thinner than air.
He didn’t move back. His eyes searched hers, reading the shock, the adjustment, the focus settling in. A slow smile, different from the challenging grin from before, touched his mouth. It was quieter, more satisfied.
She was. Every cell in her body felt electrified, hyper-aware of the cold, the weight of the water, the points where their bodies connected. She released a shuddering breath that clouded briefly in the air between them.