Chapter 6: Bash's POV
The walk to the library was slower than usual. Every time Sera took a sip of that chai, her eyes would flutter shut, and I’d have to remind myself how to breathe. The jealousy from earlier was still sitting in my gut like a stone, cold and heavy, centered entirely on that oversized, hole-riddled white T-shirt she’d been wearing.
Now that she was "human," she looked different. She’d swapped the sleep-mussed chaos for a long, flowery skirt with a deep autumnal pattern—rust oranges and dried-leaf browns that swished around her ankles. Her top was a cream-colored peasant blouse with puffed sleeves, but it was shorter than her usual oversized knits. Every time she reached up to adjust her hair or took a particularly long stride, a sliver of creamy, pale skin peeked out between the waistband of her skirt and the hem of the shirt.
Just a thumb’s width of her stomach. Enough to make my mouth go dry. With her auburn hair and those thick glasses, she looked like some kind of earthy, boho witch who had just stepped out of a forest.
"That shirt you had on earlier," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet morning air. I tried to sound casual, like I wasn't still picturing the way it had slumped off her shoulder. "I didn't know you went for the 'distressed' look. It looked like it had been through a war."
Sera looked down, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, that? It’s a relic. It was my dad’s—he bought it at a souvenir shop in Seattle years ago. We were there for one of my dance competitions. It’s basically held together by memories and spite at this point."
I nearly tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. "Dance competitions?"
She blinked, looking a little surprised she’d let that slip. "Oh. Yeah. I... I used to dance. Ballet, mostly. A bit of contemporary. My mom and dad used to drive me all over the Pacific Northwest for it. I lived in a leotard until I was fifteen."
I stared at her, re-evaluating the way she moved. The perfect posture, the way she walked with her toes slightly turned out, the effortless grace that made her seem like she was floating even in that breezy skirt.
"Why’d you stop?" I asked, my voice dropping. "You don't exactly seem like the type to just give up on something you’re that good at."
Her expression shadowed, and she focused on the brick path. "Life got expensive, Bash. Classes, shoes, travel... it adds up. After my mom died, the math just didn't work anymore."
I felt a sharp pang of something that felt dangerously like heartache. I wanted to reach out and pull her into my side, to tell her I’d buy her a thousand pairs of shoes if it meant she never had to give up anything ever again.I wished to ease the heartbreak from losing her mom so young, but before I could find any kind of words, a loud, raucous shout shattered the moment.
"Yo, Bash! My man!"
I stiffened as a group of guys from the team rounded the corner, flanked by a few cheerleaders. Leading the pack was Miller, our starting tight end, grinning like a shark.
"Twenty-one, baby!" Miller shouted, slapping me on the shoulder. "Tonight is the night. We’re hitting the town to celebrate my legal descent into alcoholism. You’re coming, right?"
"I’ve got a lot of film to watch, Miller," I said, my eyes flicking back to Sera. She had instinctively stepped half a foot away, trying to blend into the brickwork. I reached out, snagging the strap of her bag and pulling it over my shoulder so she wouldn’t walk away. She made a face because she knew what I was doing but I was unfazed.
Deal with it cupcake.
One of the cheerleaders—Tiffany, a blonde who’d spent the last three mixers trying to "accidentally" fall into my lap—stepped forward. She was staring at my hand on Sera’s bag like it was a personal insult.
"Come on, Bash," Tiffany purred, twirling a lock of hair. "It’s Miller's big night. We’re all going. It’ll be a waste if the star QB isn't there to buy the first round."
I looked down at Sera. "You want to go? It’s a Saturday. You could use a break from the... cleaning."
Tiffany’s eyes narrowed into slits, her jaw practically dropping that I was inviting the "library girl" to their inner circle.
Sera gave me a tight, nervous smile. "I can't, Bash. I have to work tonight. Big Saturday rush, and all that," she muttered
"See? She’s busy," Miller interrupted, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. "Besides, it’s for the best. Tonight is a guys-only mission. That means you're not coming either Tiff.” She started winning “What? Why can’t we come?” She asked at a pitch I’m pretty sure only dogs could hear. “We’re heading somewhere specific. Somewhere you girls wouldn't really be 'interested' in, if you know what I mean." He gave me a pointed wink.
I knew exactly what kind of night Miller was talking about. A club. High-end, probably. Somewhere with a stage and girls with minimal clothing. A place I wouldn’t normally be caught dead in, but I would bite the bullet for team camaraderie.
"Right," I said, my voice turning icy. "Guys only. Got it."
"Catch you later, Bash!" Miller called out as the group headed toward the dining hall, Tiffany casting one last venomous look over her shoulder at Sera.
We stood there for a second in the silence they left behind. The "dance competition" revelation was still spinning in my head. I felt like I was barely scratching the surface with Sera. I didn’t know she was a dancer, still don’t know anything about her so called “cleaning job”, I didn’t even know her mom had passed away. The frustration was a dull roar in my ears. I looked down at her, at that sliver of skin peeking out between her skirt and her cream-colored top.
A dancer. The word echoed in my mind, shifting everything I thought I knew about her. It explained the grace, the strength in her legs, the way she carried herself like she was always on a mark. But why hide it? And why the "cleaning" job?
I wondered for a split second if the two were connected—if she was teaching classes at some late-night studio, or if she was doing something that required that kind of athletic precision. Or maybe it was a total non-factor. Maybe she just liked the irony of being a former ballerina who now scrubbed floors for extra cash.
Either way, it was another wall she’d built between us. I hated it. I wanted to run straight at it, having it collapse in a pile of rubble. No, I will bust down these walls. Sera couldn’t hide from me, I wouldn’t let her. I looked at her beautiful face and committed myself to locking this girl down. By any means necessary.
"Your friends seem... energetic," Sera said softly, pulling me out of my dark spiral.
"They're teammates, not friends," I corrected, nudging her toward the library entrance. I didn't care about Miller’s "talent" or Tiffany’s mixers. I cared about the fact that Sera was a vault, and I was running out of patience with the lock. "Come on. Let's go find our corner before the freshmen take it. I want to hear more about this Seattle trip."
I steered her inside, the heavy doors of the library swallowing the noise of the campus. I didn't have a plan yet, but I knew I wasn't letting her go until I got at least one honest answer.
We found our corner on the third floor. I sat beside her, rather than across, my chair angled so my knee was inches from hers. I watched her pull out her laptop, that sliver of skin at her waist appearing again. It was a taunt. A distraction I couldn't allow.
I reached for what remained of my chai, my eyes never leaving the curve of her neck as she bent over her notes. All of a sudden, my hand just… "slipped."
The plastic lid popped, and a wave of sticky, spice-scented liquid splashed across the front of her cream peasant top.
"Oh! Bash!" she gasped, jumping back as the cold liquid soaked into the thin fabric. The cream cotton turned translucent instantly, clinging to her skin and outlining the lace of her bra.
"Dammit, Sera—I'm so sorry," I said, though my voice lacked even a hint of genuine regret. I was already on my feet, following after her as she darted into the nearby bathroom. My heart was thundering, a dark, heavy beat. Did I feel guilty? A little, but even after finding out that shirt was her dad’s having imagined it belonging to some guy she was interested in, I couldn’t sit by any longer.
She was frantic, grabbing rough library paper towels. "It’s okay, it’s just... it’s going to stain. This was my favorite top. I’ll need to rinse it out now, but I can’t wear a wet top." I looked down at the see-through material again and practically growled at the idea of anyone else seeing her like this. "Here," I said, my voice dropping into that low, command register. I was already pulling my heavy, dark grey athletic hoodie over my head. "Take this. You can work on the stain and be covered. It’s a win-win."
"Bash, no, it's fine—"
"Sera. Put it on."
It wasn't a suggestion. I watched her hesitate, then slowly pull the damp, ruined blouse over her head. For a split second, she was just in her bra, her skin goose-fleshed in the library’s chill. I felt a predatory heat coil in my gut. I wanted to reach out and map every inch of her, to remind her that I was the only one allowed to see her like this.
She dove into my hoodie, disappearing into the thick, oversized fleece. The sleeves hung four inches past her fingertips. She surfaced, pulling the drawstrings tight, smelling like me. Sandalwood and my detergent. She rolled up the sleeves and got to work on her shirt. It looked like the stain would come out after all, but I would have just bought her a new shirt anyway.
She emerged from the bathroom with the slightly damp shirt in her hands and we sat back at the table, “Bash, I can’t wear this. It’s,” I leaned over her, my hands resting on the edge of the table, effectively pinning her into her chair. I felt a surge of pure, dark satisfaction. She looked marked. Anyone who walked past this corner would see her in my clothes with my last name and number printed on the back and know exactly who she belonged to.
"Deal with it, cupcake," I murmured, echoing my earlier thought.
I sat back down, but the air had changed. I wasn’t going to let her build up any more walls between us and I was going to demolish the ones there now one sledgehammer throw at a time.