Chapter 8: Confessions
The gray light of dawn was a thief, stealing the intimate dark of the room piece by piece. Tessa woke to its slow invasion, the shapes of furniture resolving from shadows. Hardin was a solid, warm weight beside her, one arm flung possessively across her stomach, his breathing deep and even. She was curled into his side, her cheek on his chest, the steady thump of his heart against her ear.
For a moment, it was perfect. Then the memory of the night before, of her own half naked vulnerability, crashed into the quiet. Not with shame, but with a dizzying, terrifying clarity. She had let him see parts of her. And he had looked.
Carefully, she extricated herself from his hold, sitting up. The duvet pooled around her waist, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She looked at him in the dull light. The bruise on his cheekbone was a stormy purple.
He stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. Those ocean-blue eyes found her immediately, cloudy with sleep, then sharpening. He took in her posture, the way she held herself upright and away from him.
“Hey,” he said, his voice sleep-roughened. He propped himself up on an elbow. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” The word came out too fast. She pulled the duvet higher, a flimsy shield. “Just… thinking.”
“Thinking looks heavy.” He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder. She didn’t lean into the touch. He let his hand drop to the sheet between them, a silent question.
The words were there, suddenly, clogging her throat. They had nothing to do with him. She stared at the faded navy fabric.
“When my dad left,” she started, the sentence sounding like it belonged to someone else, “I was ten. He just… packed a bag one Tuesday after dinner. Said he needed air. He left us with nothing. Not even a fucking note on the fridge.”
Hardin didn’t move. He just watched her, his gaze a steady pressure.
“And my mom,” Tessa continued, her voice tightening. “She just… sort of fell apart. Like a chair with a leg snapped off. She’d lie in bed for days. The lights would be off. I’d come home from school and the house would be so quiet, so dark, I’d think maybe I was the one who had disappeared.” She finally turned her head to look at him. “I had to take care of her. Pay the bills she forgot, make the meals she wouldn’t, answer the phone when creditors called. I learned to forge her signature on checks. I was ten.”
Hardin sat up fully now, the sheets falling to his waist. He didn’t try to touch her. He just looked at her, and in his eyes, she saw no pity. Just a grim, familiar understanding.
“I think…” She swallowed. “I think I’m scared that if I… lean on someone, they’ll leave. Or break. And I’ll be left holding the pieces again. It’s easier to just… be the one holding everything together from the start.”
He was silent for a long moment. The gray light grew stronger, outlining the sharp angle of his shoulder, the ship sailing on his skin.
“It’s not your fault,” he said finally. His voice was low, but it cut through the quiet with absolute certainty. “Him leaving. Her breaking. None of that is on you, Tessa. You were a kid.”
“It feels like it is.” Her whisper was brittle.
He moved then. Slowly, giving her space to recoil. He reached out and took her hand where it clutched the duvet. His palm was warm, his grip firm. He didn’t lace his fingers with hers, just held it.
A weak, watery sound escaped her—not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. She looked down at their hands. Her small, tan fingers against his larger, ink-marked ones.
He lifted her hand, turning it over. He traced the line of her lifeline with his thumb, a slow, thoughtful motion. “You don’t have to hold everything alone now. Not with me.”
The stiffness bled out of her shoulders. She let go of the duvet and let herself lean into him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder. He released her hand to wrap his arm around her, pulling her firmly against his side. His skin was warm, his scent of leather and sleep enveloping her.
She lay down, her head on his chest, ear over his heartbeat once more. His hand came up, his fingers threading gently through her blonde hair, stroking her scalp in a slow, rhythmic pattern. It was hypnotic. Her muscles loosened, her breath evening out, syncing with the rise and fall of his chest.
Just as she was slipping under, she felt his body tense slightly beneath her. His fingers stilled in her hair.
He was silent for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then his fingers resumed their gentle motion, but slower, more deliberate.
She drifted off then, lulled by his heartbeat and the soothing pressure of his hand. But Hardin didn’t sleep. He stared at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster that mapped like rivers in the dim light. He focused on the weight of her on his chest, the softness of her hair through his fingers, the trust in her slow, even breaths.
He focused on the weight of her on his chest, the softness of her hair through his fingers, the trust in her slow, even breaths. When he finally slipped from the bed, she murmured and curled into the warmth he left behind.
By the time she woke properly, the room was empty. The silence felt different, though—not desolate, but expectant. She found her clothes folded neatly on his desk chair, a clean bandage and a tube of antiseptic ointment placed on top. The gesture was so deliberate, so un-Hardin-like, it made her chest ache.
The main campus library was a cathedral of hushed anxiety, the air thick with the smell of dust and desperation. Tessa was deep in a carrel, highlighting a dense paragraph on economic theory, when the overhead speakers crackled.
“The library will close in ten minutes,” a bored voice intoned. “Please bring all materials to the circulation desk.”
All around her, students groaned and began the frantic shuffle of packing. She clicked her highlighter closed, rubbing her eyes. Out in the main aisle, she saw him.
Hardin moved through the stacks with a prowler’s quiet grace, a worn, navy-bound book in his hand. He didn’t look at the spines around him. His focus was on the volume he held, his thumb stroking its edge. As he passed a gap between sociology and art history, his movement was a blur—a slight turn of his body, a dip of his elbow. The book vanished into the deep pocket of his leather jacket.
Her breath caught. He hadn’t seen her.
He turned then, and his eyes locked onto hers instantly. No surprise, just a dark, knowing intensity. He was beside her in six long strides. His hand came down on her shoulder, his grip firm.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Follow me,” he said, the words a low command she felt in her spine.
“What’re you—” she started, already standing, grabbing her bag.
“Down here.” He cut her off, leading her by the elbow away from the main flow of traffic, down a narrow row marked ‘Periodicals – 1990-1999’. At the very end, behind a massive desk supporting a dormant microfilm reader, was a shadowy alcove. He pulled her into it.
They pressed together in the dark space, the only light spilling weakly from the distant aisle. The heavy thud of the security guard’s footsteps approached. They heard the click of a light switch. Then another. Darkness fell in waves, rolling toward them until it was absolute.
The footsteps receded. A distant door clanged shut.
Hardin leaned out, looked back down the black corridor. “He’s gone,” he whispered. He slid down to sit with his back against the side of the desk, legs stretching out. The nervous energy seemed to drain from him, replaced by a weary calm.
Tessa lowered herself to the floor, settling between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. In the profound dark, her other senses heightened. She could smell the old paper, the faint leather of his jacket, the unique scent of his skin. Her fingers found his forearm, tracing the three birds she knew were there.
He shifted, pulling the stolen book from his pocket. He opened it somewhere near the middle. A sliver of faint security light from a high window finally reached them, just enough to see the text.
His voice, when he began to read, was quiet and raw, stripped of its usual defensive edge.
“‘You could draw me to fire,’” he read. “‘You could draw me to water, you could draw me to the gallows, you could draw me to any depth. You could draw me to anything I’ve most avoided, this and the confusion in my thoughts, so that I am fit for nothing.’” He paused, his breath stirring her hair. “‘Is what I mean by your being the ruin of me.’”
He closed the book with a soft snap. The silence that followed was heavier than the dark. He was looking down at her; she could feel the weight of his gaze on the top of her head.
She tilted her head back to look up at him. His face was all shadows and sharp lines, his eyes pools of reflected sliver-light.
“Why’d you stop?” she asked, her voice barely a breath.
A beam of light flickered suddenly across the high windows—a security car passing outside. It swept the room, illuminating the ghostly shapes of bookshelves for a terrifying second before plunging them back into black.
“We should go,” he said, already moving, his tone switching to something practical and urgent.
He stood, pulling her up with him. He kept her hand locked tightly in his. They moved quickly, silently, between the monolithic shelves, a path only he seemed to know. They slipped out a side fire exit, triggering a muffled, hiccuping alarm that was instantly swallowed by the night air.
They were in a dimly lit service alley. The cool air hit their faces. He looked at her, at their joined hands, then back at her face. A wild, unguarded grin broke across his features.
And they ran.
They ran hand-in-hand down the alley, their footsteps echoing, her bag thumping against her side, laughter bursting from them both—a giddy, breathless sound of shared escape. They didn’t stop until they reached the brighter lights of the main walkway, blending in with other students heading for dorms and parties.
They slowed to a walk, but he didn’t let go of her hand. His grip was tight, almost painful. She could feel the hard edge of the stolen book in his jacket pocket pressing against her arm.
He looked straight ahead, his profile set. “It’s Yeats,” he said, as if they were still in the middle of the conversation. “The poem. It’s Yeats.”
She just held his hand tighter, her fingers lacing fully with his. The words echoed in her, mixing with the memory of his touch and the frantic beat of their flight.
That night, sleeping alone in her own bed felt like a form of regression. The sheets were too cold, the silence too complete. She dreamed of dark alcoves and stolen words, waking with his voice, gritty and tender, still wrapped around her.
The next day, the drone of the astronomy professor’s lecture was a dull soundtrack to her wandering thoughts. The overhead lights were dimmed, constellations slowly rotating on the planetarium dome above two hundred drowsy students. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She slipped it under the desk. The screen glowed. A text.
Hardin- im outside.
A smile broke across her face before she could stop it. She turned the phone off, slipping it back into her jeans. She tried to focus on the projection of Cassiopeia, tracing the ‘W’ with her eyes. A soft creak from the door at the top of the steep auditorium stairs. No one else seemed to notice.
Footsteps, quiet and deliberate, moved down the carpeted aisle. She kept her eyes forward, her neck prickling. The scent of leather and faint cigarette smoke arrived a second before his heat did. He crouched in the space behind her seat, his chest brushing her back.
His lips brushed the shell of her ear, his whisper a velvet intrusion. “What’re you doing, Tessa? Gazing at the stars?”
She turned, finding his face inches from hers. His eyes were brilliant even in the dark. She kissed him quickly, a soft, claiming press, then turned back around to face the front, her heart hammering. On the dome, a nebula swirled in silent, gaseous gold.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are right now?” he murmured, his voice still low, for her alone.
She smiled, reaching back without looking. Her hand found his where it gripped the seatback. She laced her fingers through his, felt his immediate, tight clasp. She gathered her notebook and pen, stood up, and without a word to the professor or a glance at her neighbors, she let him lead her up the stairs and out into the bright, ordinary hallway.
They didn’t speak on the walk to her dorm. His thumb kept stroking the back of her hand, a rhythmic, possessive motion. He went straight to the bed, clearing a space for them.
He sat, picking up a thick, black-bound notebook and a pen. He opened it to a marked page and began to write, his brow furrowed in concentration.
Tessa kicked off her shoes and sat sideways beside him, drawing her knees up. She watched his hand move, quick and sure. “What’re you always writing in there?” she asked, her voice soft in the quiet room.
“None of your business,” he said, not looking up. A small smile played on his lips as he continued scribbling.
She smiled back, leaning her head against the wall. “Show me,” she said, reaching for the book.
He moved it smoothly out of her reach. “No.”
“Come on,” she said, sitting up straighter. She made another grab for it, her fingers brushing the leather cover. He held it higher, just out of reach. With a laugh, she climbed into his lap, straddling him. The journal was pressed between his back and her stomach now. “I just wanna see,” she said, stopping herself. She looked at him, really looked. He was smiling fully now, a rare, unguarded expression that softened his entire face.
He slowly leaned forward, reaching one arm behind himself. He placed the journal on the nightstand, well out of her reach. The action was final. Then his hands came back to her hips, settling there.
She leaned in and kissed him. It was a slow, deep kiss that tasted like the coffee he must have had before class. She broke the kiss, her hands going to the hem of his black t-shirt. She pulled it up, and he lifted his arms obediently, letting her drag it over his head and toss it aside.
She kissed him again, her hand sliding into the hair at the nape of his neck, gripping lightly. His hands slid from her hips, one arm wrapping around her waist to pull her tighter against him. The other ran up her thigh, under the skirt of her dress, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her inner leg.
She broke away, looking down at him. Her breath hitched in her throat. He watched her, his eyes dark, waiting. She ran her fingers down the defined planes of his chest, feeling the beat of him beneath her touch. She kissed him again, sinking into the sensation, into the firm pressure of his hands holding her in place.
His skin was hot beneath her palms, under her fingertips she could feel the shift in him, a gathering tension like a storm about to break.
With her hands on his chest, she pushed him back. He yielded, falling against the pillows with a soft exhale, his eyes never leaving hers. She kissed him one last time, a quick, biting press of lips that tasted like promise and impatience.
Sitting up, she slid down a little, still straddling him. The denim of his jeans was rough under her thighs. Her fingers found the button, working it open with a deliberate twist. The sound of the zipper lowering was stark in the quiet room.
She looked at him. His breath caught, his chest stuttering. His hands went to either side of her thighs, his fingers pressing into her skin, not guiding, just holding on. Her hands traced up his arm as he did so feeling the taut muscle beneath.
She kissed him, leaning back down against the bed, and the world dissolved into a language of touch and gasping breath.
His hands were on her hips, guiding her, and the only sound was the rustle of sheets and their shared, ragged inhalations. Time became irrelevant, measured only in the slick slide of skin and the tightening coil of pleasure deep in her belly.
A key scratched in the lock of the dorm room door.
They froze, a sudden, silent tableau of tangled limbs. Hardin’s head lifted from the pillow, his eyes sharpening from a hazy, wanting darkness to immediate alert. Tessa’s breath stalled in her throat.
The door swung open, flooding the dim room with harsh hallway light.
“Tessa? I’ve been calling all day!” Her mother’s voice, shrill with worry, cut through the silence. She took two steps in and stopped. The plastic bag in her hand, likely containing some care package of muffins and laundry detergent, dropped to the floor with a soft thud.
Tessa looked back over her shoulder, her heart a frantic bird trapped in her ribs. Her mother stood framed in the doorway, her face a shifting mask of shock, confusion, and dawning fury.
“What’re you doing here?” Tessa’s voice was too high, strained.
She scrambled off of Hardin, pulling the twisted comforter up to her chest. The movement was clumsy, desperate. Hardin sat up slowly, the muscles in his back tense. He reached for his discarded shirt on the floor, pulling it over his head with a deliberate calm that felt like a provocation.
“What is going on?” Her mother’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“Nothing,” Tessa said quickly, the word sounding pathetic even to her.
Her mother’s eyes, so like her own, swept over Hardin as he stood. They took in his tousled hair, the tattoos snaking down his arms, the defiant set of his jaw. Her gaze was a physical scraping, leaving a chill in its wake.
“So this is how you spend your time?” her mother said, the question dripping with contempt. “This is what I’m working two jobs for?”
“No!” Tessa yelled, the sound tearing from her. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, still clutching the blanket. “Mom, it’s not—”
“I should go,” Hardin said, his voice low. He took a step toward the door.
Her mother’s eyes snapped to him. “You think?”
The condescension in her tone made Tessa flinch. She saw Hardin’s jaw tighten, a muscle flickering. He said nothing, just held the woman’s gaze for a charged, silent second.
“Can we talk about this outside, please?” Tessa pleaded, standing now, clutching the blanket around herself like a shield.
Her mother pointed a finger at Hardin. “You. Go.” She then turned the pointed finger on Tessa. “Come with me.” She spun on her heel and marched out into the hallway without looking back.
Tessa glanced at Hardin. His expression was unreadable, a carefully constructed blank wall. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. She let the blanket fall, grabbed the first thing she saw—his overshirt from the desk chair—and pulled it on. It smelled like him, a cruel comfort. She followed her mother out, the dorm door swinging shut behind her with a soft, final click.
The hallway was bright and echoey. Her mother was already several paces down, her back rigid.
“As soon as I saw your roommate,” her mother began, not turning around, her voice carrying in the sterile space, “I knew something like this was going to happen. That girl has ‘trouble’ written all over her, and now I find you tangled up with some… some…”
“Are you serious right now, Mom?” Tessa interrupted, catching up to her. They pushed through the heavy fire door into the stairwell.
“And after all this work,” her mother continued, wheeling on her, “you’re gonna throw it away for some boy? Her voice rose, bouncing off the concrete walls. “What’re you talking about?” Tessa shot back.
“You’re gonna stop seeing him,” her mother stated, each word a brick she was laying between them. “And you’re gonna focus on school. That’s the deal. That’s the only deal.”
Tessa folded her arms across the soft fabric of Hardin’s shirt. She shook her head, a slow, disbelieving movement. She looked at her mother—really looked—at the lines of exhaustion and worry etched around her mouth, at the fierce, fearful love burning in her eyes. And for the first time, it didn’t soften her. It ignited something.
“You don’t know,” Tessa said, her voice low but clear in the empty stairwell. “You don’t know what it has been like. Trying to be perfect for you. Having you mould my life, my future, into the exact shape you wanted it to be, just so you wouldn’t break again. I was the parent for ten years. Don’t you get that?”
Her mother’s face went pale. “I did it for your own good.”
The phrase, so familiar, so hollow, hung in the cold air between them. It was the answer to every questioned curfew, every denied sleepover, every pushed-away friend who didn’t have the right grades or the right family. Tessa just stared, the weight of all those years pressing down. The sound of a door slamming several floors above echoed like a punctuation mark.