Chapter 2: The Dock Aftermath
The grass was cold against her bare ankles, a shock that grounded her as she pressed her back against the peeling paint of the frat house's side wall. Her breath came in short, ragged pulls. She could still feel the heat of his palms on her waist, the firm, undeniable pressure that had sent every rational thought scattering like roaches under a light.
Stupid, she told herself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
She'd spent two years perfecting her invisibility, building walls with mortar and wit and carefully curated distance. And one conversation with a quarterback in a beer-stained shirt had crumbled a section she didn't even know was load-bearing.
The music thumped through the wall behind her, a dull, arrhythmic heartbeat. She dug in her pocket for her lighter, found it, clicked it open and closed. Open and closed. A nervous tic she'd never managed to shake, even after all these years of pretending she had it together.
A rustle of movement to her left. Her head snapped up.
Justin stood at the corner of the house, his silhouette cutting through the dim spill of a porch light. He'd rolled his sleeves up, exposing forearms that looked like they'd been carved from something durable, and the beer stain on his Henley had dried into an ugly brown map across his chest. He didn't move closer. Just stood there, one hand raised in a half-apologetic gesture.
"I'm not following you," he said, though the lie was thin, transparent. "I just—" He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm fine." The words came out sharper than she intended. "You don't need to check on me."
"I know I don't." He took a tentative step forward, then another, closing the distance with careful, deliberate slowness. Like he was approaching a deer that might bolt at any sudden movement. "But I wanted to."
She clicked the lighter again, the flame flaring briefly in the dark before dying. "You got what you wanted at the party. A fresh audience. A new story to tell your friends. You don't need to add 'made the weird girl run away' to your repertoire."
He flinched. It was subtle, a tightening around his eyes, but she caught it. "That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. For a moment, he looked genuinely lost, stripped of the easy charm that seemed to come as naturally to him as breathing. "I don't know," he admitted, and the honesty in his voice was so raw, so unexpected, that it caught her off guard. "I just know that talking to you felt different than talking to anyone else tonight. And I didn't want it to end with you running away."
Paris stared at him. The lighter clicked in her hand, a nervous metronome. The night air moved between them, carrying the scent of lake water and cut grass and something faintly floral from the overgrown bushes near the porch.
"You barely know me," she said.
"I know." He shrugged, a helpless, almost boyish gesture. "But I'd like to change that."
She should have said no. Should have turned, walked back to the party, grabbed her jacket, and called it a night. Every instinct, every carefully constructed defense mechanism, screamed at her to retreat. But something else, something quieter and more dangerous, whispered that maybe running wasn't the answer. Maybe the answer was standing still.
She clicked the lighter one last time, then pocketed it. "There's a stone wall behind the house. By the fire pit."
"Is that an invitation?"
"It's a statement of fact."
He smiled, a slow, genuine curve of his lips that did something complicated to her stomach. "Then I'll take it as one."
The stone wall was exactly as she remembered: a low, crumbling barrier that separated the frat house's lawn from the tangled brush leading down to the lake. It was lopsided in places, missing chunks where someone had kicked it in some long-ago party, but it was sturdy enough to sit on. A single string of bulbs hung overhead, casting a dim, amber glow over the space. One of the bulbs flickered sporadically, like a faulty heartbeat.
She sat down first, pulling her beanie lower against the night chill. He settled a foot away, close enough to feel his body heat but not touching. The silence stretched between them, filled with crickets and the distant thump of the party and the quiet lap of water against the shore.
"You smoke?" she asked, pulling a joint from her pocket.
He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a trick question?"
"I'm not a cop."
"Then yes."
She lit it, the flame catching the tip with a soft crackle. She took a drag, held it, exhaled a thin stream of smoke that curled into the night air. Then she passed it to him.
He accepted it without hesitation, bringing it to his lips with a practiced ease. He inhaled deeply, held it, let it out slow. "Good shit."
"I know."
"Where'd you get it?"
"I have a guy." She watched him take another hit. "His name's Gary. He sells used textbooks and weed."
"That's a solid business model."
"Oligopoly, really. He's cornering the market on freshman anxiety."
Justin laughed, a low, warm sound that seemed to settle in her chest. He passed the joint back, their fingers brushing briefly—a spark that had nothing to do with the ember between them. She tried not to react, but something in her face must have given her away, because he was looking at her with those blue eyes, sharp and searching.
"You're interesting," he said.
"Is that a compliment or a diagnosis?"
"I mean it as a compliment. You don't meet a lot of people who just say what they're thinking."
She took a drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs before exhaling slowly. "Most people don't want to hear what I'm thinking."
"Try me."
She considered him for a moment, weighing the risk. The weed was starting to settle in her system, a warm, hazy blanket that softened the edges of the night. "You probably get told a lot that you're charming. That you're easy to talk to. That people feel comfortable around you."
He nodded, a cautious acknowledgment.
"It's a performance," she said. "And I think you know that. I think you're tired of it—tired of the adoring freshmen and the well-worn stories and the way everyone assumes they know you because they saw you throw a ball on a Saturday afternoon."
He was quiet for a long moment. The joint burned between his fingers, a thin thread of smoke rising into the dark. When he spoke, his voice was lower, rough around the edges. "You see a lot."
"I read a lot. It's the same thing."
"No it's not." He turned to face her fully, one knee pulled up on the wall. "Reading teaches you about characters. But you—" He shook his head, a small, almost disbelieving laugh escaping him. "You see people. That's different."
She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, grateful for the dim lighting. "I don't know if that's a good thing."
"It is." His voice was certain, no hesitation. "It's rare."
The joint had burned down to a roach now. She stubbed it out on the stone, tucking the remains into her pocket. The silence that followed was different from before—heavier, charged with something unspoken. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, and when she finally looked up, his face was closer than she expected.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"That depends on the question."
He hesitated, then pushed forward. "What are you afraid of?"
The question hit her like a splash of cold water. She blinked, scrambling for a deflection, a joke, anything. But his eyes held hers, steady and patient, and she found herself answering before she could stop. "Being seen."
He didn't laugh. Didn't offer a platitude. Just waited.
"Being seen and found wanting," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Being the smart girl in the room who knows all the words but can't actually figure out how to be with people. How to let them in."
"Is that why you keep your distance?"
She shrugged, a defensive gesture. "It's easier."
"Easier isn't the same as better."
"I know." She laughed, a hollow sound. "I'm a literature major. I know all about the tragic heroine who pushes everyone away. Doesn't mean I'm not her."
He was quiet for a moment, processing. Then he said, "I've been with a lot of people. Not something I'm proud of—it's just a fact. A way to fill the space that I guess I've been trying to ignore." He paused, his jaw tightening. "But I've never hooked up with anyone I actually saw. Like, really saw."
She didn't know what to say to that. The honesty in his voice threatened to overwhelm her, cracking open something she'd kept locked for years.
"I've never—" She stopped, swallowed, forced herself to continue. "I've never been intimate with anyone. Not really. I've never let anyone close enough."
He didn't look surprised. Didn't look judgmental. Just nodded, his eyes soft in the amber light. "That's not a flaw. That's a boundary."
"It's a wall."
"Walls can come down."
The air between them changed, thickening with possibility. She was acutely aware of the distance between their bodies—the few inches of stone and space that separated her hip from his. Her skin felt hypersensitive, every nerve ending attuned to his proximity.
"Paris." His voice was low, almost reverent. "Can I kiss you?"
The question—direct, unassuming, waiting for her answer—undid her. She'd prepared for charm, for ego, for the smooth moves she assumed came naturally to a guy like him. But he was asking. Waiting. Giving her the choice.
"Yes," she heard herself say. "Okay. Yes."
He moved slowly, giving her every chance to retreat. His hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. The touch was featherlight, almost tentative, like he was handling something fragile. She closed her eyes, and then his lips were on hers.
The kiss was slow at first, exploratory. A gentle pressure that tested the boundaries between them. She felt his breath warm against her skin, felt the slight roughness of his stubble against her chin. Her body responded before her mind could catch up, leaning into him, her hands finding purchase on his shoulders.
He deepened the kiss, and a low sound escaped her—half gasp, half sigh. His fingers threaded into her hair, dislodging her beanie, which fell to the grass beside them. She felt his smile against her lips before she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
"What?" she breathed.
"Your hair." His gaze traced the wild curls tumbling over her shoulders. "It's beautiful."
Her face flushed, but she didn't look away. "You're a charmer."
"I'm being honest."
She laughed, a soft, broken sound that she didn't recognize. "That's the problem."
He kissed her again, and this time the gentleness gave way to something hungrier. His hands roamed her back, her waist, pulling her closer as the world dissolved into the sensation of lips and breath and heartbeats pounding against each other's ribs. She couldn't stop touching him—the firm muscle of his chest, the warmth of his neck, the way he shuddered when she raked her fingers through his hair.
When they broke apart, both of them breathing hard, she rested her forehead against his. The string of bulbs flickered above them, casting shifting shadows across their faces.
"Okay," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "That was not part of the plan."
"What plan?"
"The one where I stay invisible."
He laughed, a low, warm sound that vibrated through her. "Seems like your plan's broken."
"Seems like it." She pulled back just enough to look at him, seeing him properly for the first time—not as the quarterback, not as the performer, but as the boy who'd asked for her consent, who'd seen her fear and met it with patience. "I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted.
"Neither do I." He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft and lingering. "But I'm okay with figuring it out."
The party continued inside, rattling the walls with its bass and its laughter, but the sound felt distant now, muffled by something bigger than walls. Paris looked at Justin, at the way the flickering light softened the sharp planes of his face, and felt a terrifying, exhilarating certainty take root in her chest.
This wasn't over. This was just the beginning.
And for the first time in years, she didn't want to run.
And for the first time in years, she didn't want to run.
The thought terrified her more than any exit strategy ever had. She stayed, feeling the warmth of him beside her, and let the moment settle into her bones like a song she didn't want to end. Eventually, the party sputtered out behind them, voices fading into the night one by one. The string of bulbs flickered once, twice, then steadied.
Justin walked her to her dorm, hands in his pockets, silence comfortable between them. They stopped at the entrance, the yellow porch light casting long shadows across the concrete. He didn't try to kiss her again.
"Can I see you tomorrow?" he asked, and the question was simple, unadorned.
"Yeah," she said, surprising herself with how easily the word came. "I'd like that."
He smiled, that real one she was starting to recognize, and walked backward a few steps before turning. She watched him disappear around the corner, then floated up the stairs, her body still humming with the ghost of his touch.
The next morning, she woke with a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the sun slanting through her blinds. She rolled over, grabbed her phone, and saw a text from an unknown number.
"Morning, Paris. I'm the quarterback with the beer stain. Wanted to make sure you knew I was real."
She laughed out loud, startling her roommate's cat from its perch on the windowsill. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, then typed: "I'm still deciding if you are."
His response came almost instantly: "Fair. I'll prove it. What's your schedule like today?"
"Lit Theory at 10. Then I'm free."
"I'll be there when you're out. If I'm real."
She set her phone down, her pulse a little quicker than it should have been. Her morning routine felt different—lighter, somehow. She pulled on her usual uniform: jeans, a faded band tee from a thrift store, her beanie. But she caught herself in the mirror, checking her reflection, running a hand over her hair. Stop it, she told herself. You don't perform for anyone.
But she was already smiling.
Lit Theory was brutal, as usual. Dr. Mallow droned on about Foucauldian readings of Victorian novels while Paris scribbled notes she'd never look at again. Her mind kept drifting to the dock, to the weight of his hand on her jaw, to the way he'd asked permission like it mattered. She emerged from the lecture hall at 11:15, blinking into the midday sun, and almost walked directly into a wall of people.
Football players. A whole cluster of them, laughing and shoving each other, blocking the path. She recognized a few faces from the party—generic jock types, all broad shoulders and easy grins. And there, at the center of it all, was Justin.
He looked different in daylight. The porch-light shadows were gone, replaced by the full, unflinching sun. He was wearing a plain white tee and athletic shorts, more casual than any of the guys around him, and he was mid-laugh at something one of them had said. The sound was genuine, unforced.
She stopped walking. She must have made a sound, or perhaps it was just the sudden vacancy in the crowd's attention, but he looked up. Their eyes met across the quad.
His face broke into that real smile, and he said something to his friends—something that made them look at her, then back at him, a ripple of interest passing through the group. He ignored it. He was already moving, leaving them mid-conversation.
"Paris," he said, closing the distance. "You survived Mallow's lecture."
"How did you know—"
"You told me. Lit Theory at 10." He shrugged, a little sheepish. "I remembered."
She felt the heat climb up her neck. "That's creepy, actually."
"It's called paying attention. I've heard it's rare."
"You're ridiculous."
"Maybe." He fell into step beside her as she started walking, his stride easily matching hers. "You want food? There's a taco truck by the science building that doesn't inspect IDs too closely."
"I have a Tupperware of leftover pasta in my dorm."
"Sounds thrilling."
She laughed, surprising herself. "It's got a lot of garlic. Might keep vampires away."
"See, that's practical. Campus dating advice for the apocalypse." They walked in comfortable silence for a moment. The sun felt good on her shoulders, and the space beside her felt natural, like it had always been empty before and she hadn't known it. She caught herself glancing at his profile, the way the light caught the sweep of his jaw. He noticed.
"You're staring," he said, not looking at her.
"You're not as interesting as you think you are."
"That's not what your face is saying."
"Oh, my face is saying nothing. It's a very neutral face."
He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. His eyes were playful, but there was something deeper underneath. "You have the least neutral face I've ever seen. It tells me everything."
The words hit her like a physical touch. She swallowed, the bravado draining out of her. "What's it telling you right now?"
He studied her for a long moment. "That you're scared. And curious. And that you haven't decided whether to let me in yet."
She opened her mouth to deflect, but nothing came out. He didn't press. Just started walking again, and she fell in beside him, her heart hammering against her ribs.
They reached her dorm building, a brick box that had seen better decades, and she stopped at the entrance. The door was propped open with a cinder block, letting in the warm breeze. She could hear her roommates' TV blaring through an open window on the second floor.
She should let him go. Say goodbye, see him later, maintain the carefully constructed distance that had kept her safe for two years. But the words that came out were different.
"Do you want to come up?"
He blinked, surprised. "Are you serious?"
"I have movies. And the pasta's actually pretty good." She was babbling, she could hear it. "I don't know. No pressure. Just—"
"I'd love to," he said, cutting off her rambling. And this time, when he smiled, it was soft. Real. "Yeah, let's go up."
Her room was small, cramped, with a single bed pushed against one wall and a desk overflowing with dog-eared novels. She'd hung string lights along the ceiling—the same kind they'd had at the frat house, but hers were star-shaped and dimmed to a warm glow. The window was open, letting in the sound of distant laughter and the smell of cut grass.
"Wow," he said, stepping inside. "This is very you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He gestured at the wall, which was covered in postcards and pressed flowers and pages torn from old books. "It means it looks lived in. Like a place someone actually exists, not just sleeps."
She laughed, a little nervous. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's definitely a compliment."
She gestured at the bed, suddenly awkward. "You can sit. Do you want to watch something? I have—" She gestured at her laptop, currently showing a paused Netflix screen. "I've been rewatching Clueless, but I'm open to suggestions."
He settled cross-legged on her bed, looking strangely natural there. "Clueless is a classic. I have no objections."
She sat beside him, a careful distance between them. The movie started, and the familiar opening notes filled the small room. But she couldn't focus on the screen. She was hyperaware of his presence—the weight of him on her mattress, the faint scent of soap and something warm, the way his shoulder almost brushed hers when he shifted.
About thirty minutes in, the pizza scene came on, and she laughed at one of Cher's lines, forgetting to be self-conscious. She felt his gaze on her, and when she looked over, he was watching her instead of the screen.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing. Just—you're nice to watch."
"You're extremely cheesy."
"I've been told." He didn't look away, and the air between them shifted, growing thicker. He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull back, and his fingers brushed the stray curl that had escaped her beanie. She'd taken it off when they sat down, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. His touch was light, almost reverent.
"Can I kiss you again?" he asked.
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
He leaned in, and when his lips met hers, it was different from the night before. Slower. Deeper. A conversation they were still learning to have. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, cradling her skull, and she felt herself melt into him. The movie played on, ignored. The world outside disappeared.
He deepened the kiss, his other hand finding her waist. She gasped against his mouth, her body responding on instinct. He eased her backward, never breaking the kiss, until she was lying beneath him. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping muscle, exploring the warmth beneath his shirt.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his pupils blown, his breathing uneven. "Tell me to stop," he murmured. "At any point. If this is too much."
"It's not." The words surprised her, but they were true. "I don't want you to stop."
He leaned down, kissing her neck, a trail of heat that made her arch into him. His hand slid down her side, from her ribs to her hip, his touch questioning. She answered by pressing closer, letting him know she was there. He traced the waistband of her shorts, and she sucked in a breath, her heart pounding.
"Paris." His voice was low, rough. "Have you done anything like this before?"
"You know I haven't."
"I know." He kissed her jaw, soft. "I'm just checking in."
The care in his voice undid her. "I'm okay. I trust you."
He looked at her, those blue eyes searching hers, and must have found what he was looking for. He kissed her once more, deep and thorough, then his hand returned to the waistband of her shorts. He paused, waiting.
"Okay," she whispered.
He slid them down, slowly, and she lifted her hips to help. Then her underwear, a wordless negotiation of trust and breath. She was half afraid, half vibrating with anticipation, but he didn't make her feel exposed. He pressed a kiss to her hip, another to her inner thigh, taking his time, warming her.
"Relax," he breathed, his voice a murmur against her skin. "Just let me take care of you."
She let herself surrender. His first touch was tentative, a gentle stroke of his thumb that made her gasp. Then he leaned in, and his tongue found her, and her entire body bucked. She cried out, her hands flying to his hair, gripping, holding on as he worked.
He was thorough. Patient. Every flick of his tongue sent shockwaves through her, building a pressure she'd never known. She gasped, moaned, heard herself making sounds she didn't recognize. His name tumbled from her lips, half plea, half prayer.
"I've got you," he murmured between strokes, his voice a vibration against her skin. "Let go, Paris."
She shattered. She didn't know she could make sounds like that, didn't know her body could surge like the lake. A wave crested inside her, and she dissolved into it, crying out his name, her vision going white. She was dimly aware of warmth spreading, of his soaked face, of his soft, satisfied sound.
When she came back to herself, she was trembling, breathless, the ceiling tilting above her. He was looking at her with parted lips and dark eyes, a sheen of moisture coating his chin. She reached for him, meaning to return the favor, her hand sliding to his waistband.
But he caught her wrist, gentle. "Stop."
"Why?" She was confused, exposed.
"Because I didn't do that so you'd owe me." He kissed her forehead, soft. "I did it because I wanted you to feel good, Paris. That was for you."
She blinked, tears pricking her eyes. "But—"
"No buts." He pulled her close, tucking her against his chest. "We finish the movie, and I go home. That's the deal."
She laughed, a wet, trembling sound. "That's the worst deal I've ever heard."
"It's a good deal," he said, rubbing her back. "Trust me."
They watched the rest of Clueless, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing patterns on her arm. He left when the credits rolled, a lingering kiss at her door, and she floated back to her bed, the sheets still smelling of him.
As she drifted toward sleep, her phone buzzed.
"Hey Paris."
She smiled. "Hey."
"You feel like more tacos tomorrow? Non-vampire variety, I promise."
She stared at the screen, the unfamiliar warmth settling in her chest. The girl who never ran had decided to stay exactly where she was.
"I'd like that," she typed. "I'd really like that."