Chapter 2: Bash's POV
I stood at the third-floor window, my forehead pressed against the chilled glass. Below, a small, hurried figure burst out of the side exit and hit the pavement running. Even in the grey, dismal Portland rain, her hair was a streak of living flame against the shadows.
Watching her wasn't just a habit anymore; it was a biological necessity.
I watched the way she fumbled with her braid as she ran, shaking out those auburn curls until they billowed around her like a halo. Most guys would see a girl running late for a shift. I saw my entire future disappearing into the mist.
I remembered the exact second it happened. Freshman orientation. The air had been thick with the smell of floor wax and desperate social climbing. I was the star recruit, the boy with the golden arm and the NFL trajectory, surrounded by a swarm of girls who looked like they’d been manufactured in the same factory.
And then there was Sera.
She’d been sitting on a stone bench, her nose buried in a thick paperback, completely oblivious to the circus around her. She had these oversized glasses that kept sliding down her nose, and she looked so... permanent. While everyone else felt like static, she was the only thing in high definition. I didn't just want to talk to her. I wanted to build a wall around her and keep the rest of the world out.
Since that day, I haven’t looked at another woman. Not really. They throw themselves at me in the gym, in the bars, in my DMs—bleached hair, practiced smiles, and eyes that only see the jersey. They’re background noise. They’re ghosts. When I’m on the field, I’m not playing for the scouts or the fans; I’m playing to ensure the life I’ve already designed for us.
Some people would call it "stalking." I called it preparation.
I knew her schedule better than she did. I knew that she preferred the quiet of the library on typical party nights because the "party crowd" made her anxious. I knew she liked her brewed coffee with brown sugar and a splash of milk, but would rather have a “dirty chai” with three shots of espresso when the stress really hit. I knew she’d spent the last six months researching small business loans for a bakery she thought was just a pipe dream, but would be a reality as soon as I got drafted. I was going to give her the world, she just didn’t know it yet so I let her dream and hope knowing I’d swoop in and make it happen.
It wasn't creepy. It was devotion. If I was going to be the man she deserved, I had to understand every facet of her soul.
That understanding included knowing exactly who else was looking at what belonged to me. I’d spent three years patrolling her perimeter like a hawk. Most of the time, a simple, bone-chilling stare-down was enough to make some frat boy look at his shoes and walk away. But sometimes, people were slow to take a hint.
I still remembered her lab partner from freshman year—some kid with a lip ring who spent too much time leaning into her space during chemistry. I’d followed him to the bike racks after class, pinned him against the brick wall, and explained, very calmly, that if he ever touched her again, I’d make sure he never held a beaker with ten fingers again. He’d dropped the class the next day.
I protected her. That was my job. But I could only protect what I could see.
I turned away from the window, the silence of the library feeling heavy and sterile now that she was gone. My gaze fell on the wooden table. There it was. Her business statistics textbook.
A slow, deliberate heat spread through my chest. She’d been so panicked, so desperate to get to this "cleaning job," that she’d left her nemesis behind.
I walked over and picked it up, the weight of it satisfying in my hand. I traced the corner of the cover where she’d doodled tiny, stylized croissants in the margin. My heart did a slow, heavy thud against my ribs.
I had her book. Which meant I had a reason to be at her door tomorrow morning. I’d bring her a chai—three shots, iced—and I’d watch her eyes light up when I "rescued" her from her forgotten homework.
"Always so messy, Little Bellwether," I whispered, tucking the book under my arm. "Lucky for you, I’m never going to let you lose anything important. Especially not me."
I headed for the stairs, the adrenaline of the encounter still humming in my veins. But underneath the thrill, a new, jagged anxiety was clawing at my throat. A "club." A "cleaning" job.
The lie was so thin I could see right through it. Sera didn't "clean" clubs. She was too meticulous, too focused on her degree to waste time scrubbing floors for minimum wage. If she was at a club, she was there for another reason—and if she was there, other men were there too.
The thought made my blood turn to battery acid.
I made it to my truck, the engine roaring to life as I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. My mind was already racing, cataloging every dive bar, lounge, and music venue within a five-mile radius of campus.
Don't freak out, I told myself, taking a jagged breath. Just get home. Look them up. All of them.
I needed to know which door she’d walked through. I needed to know who was looking at her while I wasn't there to block their view. By the time I pulled into the dorm parking lot, I had a digital hit list forming in my head. I was going to find her. And if I found out someone was touching her that shouldn’t be, well that someone was going to pay for it.