Chapter 3: The Morning After
She was early. A full twenty minutes early, which was so unlike her that she almost turned around and walked a lap around the library just to burn off the nervous energy. But her feet carried her toward the coffee shop anyway, drawn by something she didn't want to examine too closely.
The glass door swung open, releasing a wave of warmth and the bitter-sweet scent of espresso. She ordered a chai latte—too sweet, too basic, but it was cold in a way that had nothing to do with the weather—and found a table by the window. The chalkboard wall behind her was covered in half-erased doodles, a faded Kappa Sigma shield someone had drawn with surprisingly good shading, and a poem fragment that read "you are the kind of lonely / that fills a room."
She pulled out her copy of Their Eyes Were Watching God, but didn't open it. Just traced the spine with her thumb, watching the door.
He was late. Not obnoxiously late—only seven minutes—but she noticed. She told herself it was because she'd been raised to respect punctuality, not because she'd been counting the seconds since she sat down. He walked in with the door half-closing behind him, his eyes scanning the room until they found her. That smile spread across his face like it had been waiting for her.
"Sorry," he said, sliding into the chair across from her. He was wearing a maroon hoodie she hadn't seen before, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. "Coach kept us late. Film session ran over."
"You're a quarterback." She stated it like a fact, not a question. "Don't you already know the plays?"
"I know them. Doesn't mean Coach trusts me to remember them." He flagged down a passing barista, ordered a black coffee, and turned back to her. "You look nice."
She was wearing her usual uniform—jeans, a thrift-store sweater with a hole in the elbow she kept meaning to patch, her beanie pulled over her wild hair. "You're lying."
"I'm not." He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "But if I'm being honest, you looked nice last night too. And the night before. It's kind of a problem."
She felt the heat climb her neck and willed it away. "You're ridiculous."
"I've been told."
The barista brought his coffee, and he added sugar—three packets, which was objectively too many—and stirred it with a focused intensity that made her smile. She hid it behind her mug.
"So," he said, setting down the spoon. "Tacos?"
"Tacos."
They walked the three blocks to the truck, which was parked in a gravel lot beside a shuttered laundromat. The truck was painted a faded red, with hand-lettered signs advertising carnitas and al pastor and a warning that the salsa was "not for the weak." They ordered—she got two al pastor, he got three carnitas and a horchata—and ate standing at a rickety wooden table that wobbled every time someone leaned on it.
"This is good," she said, speaking around a mouthful of cilantro. "Like, genuinely good."
"Best kept secret on campus." He wiped a smear of salsa from the corner of his mouth. "You have to know someone who knows someone."
"And you know someone."
"I know everyone." He grinned. "It's my curse."
She snorted, then choked on her bite. He reached across the table, patting her back with more enthusiasm than skill, and she waved him off, coughing and laughing at the same time.
"Not a morning person," she managed, once she could breathe.
"It's one in the afternoon."
"Exactly."
They finished their tacos, and he bought her another horchata to go. They wandered back toward campus slowly, the sun warm on their shoulders, their hands brushing occasionally but never quite linking. She was hyperaware of the space between them—the six inches of air that could close in an instant, if either of them chose.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, as they passed the library.
"Sure."
"Kate." She watched his face, waiting for a reaction. "She was at the party. You two seemed—close."
He didn't flinch. But he did slow his pace, considering his words before he spoke. "Kate and I hooked up a few times at the beginning of the semester. It wasn't anything serious. She wanted it to be." He paused. "I ended it. Told her straight up I wasn't looking for a relationship. She didn't take it well."
"How not well?"
"She's been—" He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture almost boyish. "She's been showing up at parties I'm at. Sending me texts. Just letting me know she's around."
Paris stopped walking, turning to face him. "She's not over you."
"That's not my fault." There was an edge to his voice now, defensive. "I was honest with her. I told her from the start that I don't do commitment. She knew the deal."
"And now?" She held his gaze, watching for the tell. "Is this a deal?"
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe, or surprise. "No," he said finally. "This isn't a deal. This is—" He stopped, frustrated. "I don't know what this is. But it's not the same."
She didn't push. She turned and kept walking, and he fell into step beside her, a new tension humming between them.
They ended up back at the coffee shop, because neither of them wanted to call the afternoon over. They ordered another round—she got a chai, he got a cold brew this time, maybe trying to prove something—and claimed the same table by the window. She pulled out her book, and he pulled out his phone, and they sat in comfortable silence, the kind that felt like it had been practiced.
She was three pages in when the door opened. She didn't look up at first—just registered the shift in the room's energy, a sudden alertness that prickled her skin. When she glanced up, she saw her.
Kate.
She was blonde, tall, wearing a sundress that looked expensive and a smile that looked sharper. She made a beeline for their table with the confidence of someone who had never been told no. Justin's hand, resting on the table, tightened almost imperceptibly.
"Justin." Kate's voice was sweet, sticky, like syrup over something rotten. "Funny running into you here."
"Kate." His voice was flat, polite. "This is Paris."
Kate's gaze flicked to her, dismissive. "Paris. Cute." She turned back to Justin, dismissing her as thoroughly as if she'd evaporated. "I've been trying to reach you. You haven't been returning my texts."
"I've been busy."
"Too busy for me?" She reached out, touching his arm. "That's not what you used to say."
Paris watched. She was being ignored, which was fine. She was good at being ignored—she'd spent her whole life cultivating it. But she caught the flicker in Justin's eye, the discomfort he was trying to hide. Something hot and protective flared in her chest.
"Actually," Paris said, closing her book with a soft snap, "he has been busy. With me."
Kate's head swiveled, her gaze sharpening. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Paris's voice was calm, unhurried. "We've been spending a lot of time together. Which is probably why he hasn't returned your texts—he's been occupied. And I imagine, since he's a decent guy, he didn't want to be rude about it."
Kate's smile turned brittle. "I don't think you understand the relationship Justin and I have."
"I understand you hooked up a few times at the beginning of the semester. I understand he told you he wasn't looking for a relationship, and you decided that didn't apply to you." Paris tilted her head, her amber eyes steady. "I understand you're here, right now, making a scene in a coffee shop because you can't handle being told no."
The table next to them had gone quiet. Kate's cheeks flushed a mottled red. "You don't know anything about it."
"I know enough." Paris stood, sliding her book into her bag. "And I know you need to leave. Because Justin's not going to say it—he's too polite—but I'm not."
Kate sputtered, looking between Paris and Justin. Justin had gone very still, his cold brew forgotten, his eyes fixed on Paris like she'd grown a second head. But there was something there, underneath the shock, that looked a lot like awe.
"Who do you think you are?" Kate demanded.
"I'm the girl he's seeing." Paris shouldered her bag. "And I'm not going anywhere. So you can either leave with your dignity intact, or you can keep making a fool of yourself. Your choice."
Kate's jaw worked, but no sound came out. After a long, tense moment, she turned on her heel. She didn't storm—that would have required some semblance of grace. Instead, she pushed through the door with a force that made the bell jangle violently, the glass rattling in its frame.
The coffee shop exhaled. The neighboring tables returned to their conversations, disappointed.
Paris sank back into her chair. Her heart was hammering, a wild pulse in her throat, but her hands were steady. She picked up her chai, took a sip, and tried to ignore the fact that her palms were sweating.
Justin stared at her. "What—" He shook his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. "What was that?"
"I told her to leave." Paris shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "She left."
"No, I mean—" He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen."
She felt the blush rise, uncontrollable, spreading across her cheeks. "Don't be weird about it."
"I'm not being weird. I'm being accurate." He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. The touch was warm, grounding. "You didn't have to do that. Stand up for me like that."
"I know," she said, quietly. "But I wanted to."
His thumb traced a slow circle on her knuckles. The room felt smaller suddenly, like the only thing in it was the space between them.
"I'm not good at this," he admitted. "I don't know how to do—whatever this is. Dates and feelings and—" He gestured vaguely. "All of it. But I want to try. With you."
She looked at him. The golden-hour sun was slanting through the window, painting light across his face, and for a moment he looked younger, stripped of the quarterback armor she'd assumed he wore.
"I'm not good at it either," she said. "But I want to try too."
He squeezed her hand, and when he smiled, it reached his eyes.
They left the coffee shop together, hands intertwined, and she didn't pull away this time. The afternoon stretched ahead of them, open and unplanned and full of possibility. And for the first time, the uncertainty didn't feel scary.
It felt like the beginning of something.
It felt like the beginning of something.
The walk back to her dorm was slow, unhurried, their fingers loosely intertwined. She was hyperaware of every point of contact—the calloused pads of his fingertips, the warmth of his palm, the way he swung their joined hands gently as they walked. The sunset painted the campus in shades of gold and umber, and she caught herself stealing glances at him, at the way the light caught the curve of his jaw.
"So," he said, as they reached the steps of her building, "I have practice in the morning. But tomorrow evening is wide open."
She raised an eyebrow. "Is that your way of asking me out again?"
"I'm not good at the whole subtle thing." He grinned, that lopsided, boyish smile she was starting to recognize. "I was thinking we could do something different. Something not food-related."
"Like what?"
"Like the arcade on Fifth Street. The one with the skeeball and the crappy pizza and the tickets you can't actually redeem for anything good."
She laughed, surprised. "You want to take me to a skeeball arcade?"
"I want to beat you at skeeball." His eyes sparkled. "And maybe win you a prize. The giant stuffed bear that's been sitting in that claw machine for three years, taunting everyone who tries."
"That bear's probably cursed."
"Then I'll break the curse."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. "Fine. Arcade. Tomorrow. But I'm warning you—I'm competitive."
"I'd expect nothing less."
He leaned in, and she thought he might kiss her, here in the open where anyone could see. But he just pressed his lips to her forehead, a soft, lingering brush that made her chest ache. "Tomorrow, then."
"Yeah." Her voice came out softer than she intended. "Tomorrow."
She watched him walk away, his silhouette growing smaller against the fading light. And when she finally climbed the stairs to her room, she was still smiling.
---
The arcade was exactly as he'd described—a cavernous space of flashing lights and tinny chiptunes, the carpet sticky with decades of spilled soda. It smelled like popcorn and ozone and the particular mustiness of machines that had been there since the Reagan administration. She'd changed into a crop top and high-waisted jeans, a compromise between wanting to look cute and refusing to try too hard.
He was waiting by the entrance, leaning against a graffiti-covered pillar. His hair was still slightly damp from his shower, and he was wearing a plain black tee that fit him in a way that should have been illegal. He spotted her, and his whole face lit up.
"You came."
"I said I would." She gestured at the arcade behind him. "This is very—retro. I didn't know places like this still existed."
"They're endangered species. Like me." He held out his hand. "Come on. I need to dominate you at skee-ball."
"We'll see about that."
They got tokens—a whole bucket of them, which she told him was excessive, and which he ignored with a shrug. He led her to the skeeball lanes, which were tucked in a corner between a dying Street Fighter cabinet and a row of pinball machines that looked like they'd seen better decades.
"Ladies first," he said, gesturing grandly.
She rolled her eyes, but stepped up to the lane. The balls were worn smooth, sticky from years of use, and she weighed one in her palm before sending it rolling. It bounced up the ramp, wobbled on the edge, and dropped into the 30-point hole. A showing that was neither embarrassing nor impressive.
"Not bad," he said, grinning. "Watch a professional."
He stepped up, his stance wide, his focus sharp. He sent the ball flying with a controlled snap of his wrist, and it sailed straight into the 50-point hole. The machine lit up, flashing red and gold.
"You practice this?" she demanded.
"I have hidden depths."
"Uh-huh. Hidden."
They played three rounds. He won the first. She won the second, narrowly, after discovering that a lighter touch yielded better results than power. The third was tied until the final ball, when she nailed a 50 that made him groan and throw his head back.
"That was luck," he said.
"That was skill. I'm just better than you."
"You're shorter than me. That should count against you."
"There's no height requirement in skeeball, Justin."
He conceded with a laugh, pulling her into a quick side hug that lingered longer than necessary. The contact sent a pleasant current down her spine. They moved on to the other games—a shooting gallery where she discovered he had surprisingly steady aim, a racing game where she spun out at the final turn and finished in last place, and a claw machine that he approached with the seriousness of a man on a mission.
"Okay," he said, feeding tokens into the machine. "That bear. I'm getting it for you."
"And if you don't?"
He shot her a look. "I will."
She watched him work the joystick, his brow furrowed in concentration. The claw descended, wobbling, and grabbed the bear by its leg. She held her breath. The claw rose, and the bear swung precariously, dropping into the chute.
"See?" he said, handing her the bear. It was absurdly large, nearly as big as her torso, with floppy limbs and a goofy expression stitched onto its face. "Told you."
She hugged the bear, burying her face in its synthetic fur. "It's hideous."
"It's a trophy."
"I'm naming it Useless."
"Useless."
"Because you can't redeem tickets for anything good, and this bear is proof." She tucked it under her arm, feeling a ridiculous, giddy warmth spread through her. "Thank you. For winning me the ugly bear."
"Anything for you, Paris." His voice was soft, sincere. The noise of the arcade faded to a distant hum. "You want to get out of here?"
"Yeah." She hugged the bear tighter. "Let's go."
---
The walk back to her apartment was quiet. The bear was wedged between them, its floppy limbs brushing against their hips. Her building was an old Victorian-style house that had been converted into student apartments, with creaking floorboards and radiators that clanked at all hours. They climbed the stairs, the bear bumping against the railing.
She unlocked the door, stepping inside. The room was as she'd left it—books stacked on every surface, string lights glowing in the dimness, a half-empty mug of tea congealing on her desk. She set the bear on her bed and turned to face him.
He was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the hallway light. His eyes found hers, and something in the air shifted. The distance between them felt electric, charged.
"Close the door," she said.
He did.
The lock clicked, and then his hands were on her. Her back met the wall with enough force to knock the air from her lungs. His mouth found hers—not gentle, not tentative. This kiss was hungry, demanding, a stark contrast to the careful tenderness he'd shown before. A vibration started low in one of the machines outside her window. She barely noticed.
Her fingers fumbled with his belt buckle, a desperate inefficiency that made him laugh against her lips. He swatted her hands away, undoing it himself, and then his jeans were pooling at his ankles. He kicked them off, his eyes never leaving hers, and she drank in the sight of him. He was muscular but lean, a body built for function rather than show, and his skin was warm under her hands.
"Condom," she managed, her voice rough. "I have some—in the drawer."
He moved to the nightstand, fumbling through the drawer. He found the box, raised an eyebrow, and she felt her cheeks heat. She'd bought them months ago, a hopeful purchase she'd never used. His grin widened as he tore one open, rolling it on with practiced ease.
Then he was on the bed, above her, and all her smart-mouthed remarks evaporated. He looked down at her, his expression softened into something unguarded, searching for her consent. She nodded.
He pushed inside her. Then slowly, deliberately, he began to move.
The pace was torture. He filled her completely, his hips rocking against hers with a rhythm that seemed designed to drive her to the edge of madness. She clutched his shoulders, anchors in the storm, as he slid out almost completely and then pressed back in. She gasped, her nails digging into his skin.
"Okay?" he breathed against her neck.
"More," she urged, her voice breaking.
He obliged, his movements quickening, the careful rhythm dissolving into something rawer, more desperate. The shadows stretched and bent across the walls. She'd stopped noticing when he'd stopped fucking her.
The wave broke. She came apart beneath him, her cries muffled against his shoulder as he followed her a moment later. A low groan escaped his throat, and he collapsed against her, his weight a grounding presence. For a long moment, neither spoke. Their breathing slowly synchronized in the aftermath.
He pulled out gently, disposing of the condom with an efficiency that suggested practice. Then he was back, pulling her against his chest, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her spine. The bear watched from its post at the foot of the bed, stoic and unjudging.
"Useless is a very good name for that bear," he murmured. "It's seen things."
She laughed, burying her face in his chest. "You can't stay. My roommate comes back in the morning."
"Then I'll leave before sunrise." He kissed the top of her head. "But for now, I'm staying right here."
She fell asleep to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his arms wrapped around her. And when she woke in the gray dawn, he was gone, a text waiting on her phone. "Consider that date two complete. Date three is my call. This time, I'm picking the game."
She smiled, reaching for the bear, hugging it close as the morning light crept through her blinds. For the first time in her life, she couldn't wait to see what came next.