Chapter 5: Bash's POV
The hallway of the girls’ dorm smelled like burnt toast and cheap vanilla body spray—a sharp, annoying contrast to the rain-washed morning outside. I stood in front of Room 312, shifting the weight of that heavy statistics textbook under my arm and bracing two iced chais against my chest.
My head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton wool. I’d spent six hours staring at a glowing screen until the maps of Portland’s nightlife started to look like a blood-spatter pattern. Dozens of clubs. Hundreds of dive bars. Thousands of shadowed corners where a girl with fire for hair could disappear.
My "research" had been a spectacular failure. I knew nothing.
I’d scoured every "now hiring" ad and "late-night" tag in a five-mile radius, and all I’d gotten for my trouble was a pounding headache. Maybe it wasn't a club. Maybe it was something embarrassing—a 24-hour laundromat? A greasy spoon? Or maybe, the thought that gnawed at me most, she just didn’t want me there. She knew if I found out where she worked, I’d be there every night, leaning against the bar and making it impossible for her to think about anything but me.
I’d texted her at 1:00 AM, a casual “Hey, you left your nemesis at the library. I’ll bring it by with caffeine at 9:30.” No "where were you?" No "who are you cleaning for?" Just the Golden Boy being helpful.
I checked my watch. 9:30 AM sharp.
I knocked, my heart doing a jagged little rhythm against my ribs. A moment later, the lock clicked, and the door swung inward.
The air left my lungs.
Sera stood there, blinking against the hallway light. Her auburn hair was a wild, sleep-mussed tangle around her face, her cheeks still flushed from the pillows. She wasn't in her usual overalls. She was wearing a pair of tiny, black running shorts and an oversized white T-shirt riddled with holes that hung halfway down her thighs.
My gaze dropped to the shirt. It was big. Too big. The neckline slumped off one pale shoulder, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone.
A cold, sharp spike of jealousy pierced through my exhaustion. Whose shirt is that? Did she have someone over last night? Is that why she was in such a rush to leave the library? I felt my jaw tighten, my hand nearly crushing the cardboard carrier of the drinks. I wanted to reach out, grab the hem, and demand a name.
"Bash," she croaked, her voice thick with sleep. She looked up at me, her eyes unfocused behind her glasses. "You're actually here. I thought I dreamed that text."
"I don't make promises I can't keep, Little Bellwether," I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. I held out the iced chai—three shots, exactly the way her soul required it.
She took it, her fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my gut. She took a long, desperate sip, her eyes fluttering shut. Then, she let out a long, low moan of pure appreciation—a sound that was far too intimate for a Saturday morning in a dorm hallway.
"Oh, god," she sighed, leaning her head back against the doorframe. "I love you. I actually, truly love you for this."
I felt the blood rush south with the force of a tidal wave. My jeans suddenly felt three sizes too small. I shifted the textbook, trying to use it as a shield, my pulse hammering in my ears. She had no idea what that sound did to me. She had no idea that I’d spend the rest of my life getting her to make those noises or die trying.
"Careful, Sera," I managed to say, leaning one arm against the doorframe to steady myself. "I might hold you to that confession. It's a binding verbal contract."
She let out a sleepy, melodic laugh and took another sip. "Worth it. My brain was a desert before this hit."
"The library opens in like 20 minutes. I’m headed that way to get some work done. Do you want to come?" I asked, catching myself before I mentioned I knew she usually spent her Saturdays in the library, specifically the quietest corner of the third floor. She nodded "For sure! Just, let me... I need to get human," she said, gesturing vaguely at her beautiful, chaotic state. "Give me ten minutes?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
She ducked back into the room, but in her sleep-deprived haze, the door didn’t click shut. It stayed ajar, a tiny, four-inch gap of forbidden space. I knew I should stay in the hall. I knew I should keep my eyes on the opposite wall.
But I’ve never been good at ignoring what I want.
I shifted slightly, just enough to see through the crack. I told myself I was checking the room—scanning for a pair of size-twelve sneakers or a second person hiding in the shadows. But there was no one. Just Sera, standing by her bed, reaching for the hem of that tattered white shirt.
As she pulled it over her head, her back arched, exposing the creamy skin of her waist and the perfect curve of her hip. She was wearing little pink panties with tiny, cartoon donuts printed on them.
I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from letting out a low, guttural groan.
She looked so small. So soft. My hands gripped the cardboard drink carrier until the joints turned white. I stared at the donut print, the absurdity of it mixing with the sheer, blinding heat of wanting to walk in there and press her into the mattress until she made that moan again.
I pulled back from the door, my breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. I stood in the hallway, the cool linoleum under my boots, listening to the rustle of denim as she pulled on her overalls.
I didn't know where she was last night, and I didn't know whose shirt she was wearing. But I was going to find out. Because the only person allowed to see those pink panties—the only person allowed to hear her moan like that—was me.