Chapter 2: Iron and Denial
The iron was cold in his hands. Ryan racked the barbell with a grunt that echoed off the concrete walls, the clang of metal on metal ringing through the empty weight room like a church bell. His quads burned. His hamstrings screamed. Good. That was the point.
He'd been at it since five-thirty. The sky outside the high windows had shifted from black to bruised purple to a pale, watery gray, and still he kept going. Squats. Deadlifts. Lunges until his legs shook and his vision blurred at the edges. He wanted to collapse. He wanted to hurt. He wanted to feel something other than the ghost of her mouth on his.
It wasn't working.
Every rep, every drop of sweat, every burning muscle fiber—none of it could touch the memory. Bria's taste. Mint and beer and something underneath, something warm and real that had burned itself into his tongue like a brand. He'd kissed a hundred girls. Maybe more. He'd never tasted anyone like her.
He loaded another plate onto the bar. Two hundred and seventy-five pounds. More than he needed. More than was smart.
He positioned himself under the bar, gripped it tight, and lifted.
The weight settled across his shoulders like a second skeleton. He descended slowly, controlled, feeling the stretch in his hips, the fire in his knees. Up. Down. Up. Down. His breath came in sharp bursts through his nose. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
"Yo."
Ryan's concentration shattered. The bar wobbled. He barely got it back into the rack before his legs gave out, and he dropped onto the bench with a heavy thud, chest heaving.
Dex stood in the doorway, gym bag slung over one shoulder, that familiar grin plastered across his face. "The hell you doing here so early? You look like shit."
"Couldn't sleep." Ryan wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. "Wanted to get some extra work in before Saturday."
Dex snorted and dropped his bag by the door. "Extra work. Right." He walked over, slow, deliberate, and perched on the bench press station across from Ryan. "You sure you're not just trying to avoid something?"
Ryan's jaw tightened. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Dex shrugged, but his eyes were sharp, watching. "Just saying. You've been off lately. Ever since the party."
The party. The word landed like a punch to the gut. Ryan forced himself to keep his expression neutral, to keep his breathing steady.
"I'm fine."
"You sure? Because you bailed pretty early. Didn't even say goodbye." Dex leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "And then I heard you were looking for that—what's her name. The fat one. Bria."
Ryan's heart stopped. Then started again, faster, harder. "Who told you that?"
"Marcus saw you go into the back hallway. Said you were gone for a while." Dex's grin didn't waver, but something shifted behind his eyes. Something cold. "What were you doing back there, man?"
"Nothing." The lie came out smooth, practiced. "Went to take a piss. Ran into her in the hallway. Told her to get lost."
Dex stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed—that booming, easy laugh that had always made Ryan feel like everything was okay. "Good. For a second there, I thought you were getting soft on me."
Ryan forced a laugh of his own. It sounded hollow, even to him. "Soft? Me?"
"Hey, it happens." Dex stood, stretching his arms above his head. "Some guys start thinking with their dicks instead of their heads. Start seeing potential in places they shouldn't." He clapped Ryan on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. "But not you, right? You know better."
"Right." Ryan's voice was barely a whisper. "I know better."
Dex nodded, satisfied, and headed for the locker room. "I'm gonna hit the showers. You coming?"
"In a minute."
Ryan waited until the door swung shut. Then he dropped his head into his hands and tried to remember how to breathe.
---
The shower was scalding. Steam filled the locker room like fog, thick and blinding, and Ryan stood under the spray until his skin turned pink and raw. He scrubbed himself with soap that smelled like chemicals. He washed his hair twice. He brushed his teeth until his gums bled.
None of it helped.
He could still taste her. Still feel the soft weight of her body beneath his, the way her fingers had curled into his shoulders, the small, broken sound she'd made when he'd pulled away. He'd left her there. Alone. In a dark room in a frat house full of people who hated her.
What kind of person did that?
He shut off the water and stood there, dripping, staring at the tiles. The answer was simple. The kind of person who cared more about his reputation than about doing the right thing. The kind of person who laughed at jokes that made his stomach turn. The kind of person who smiled and nodded and pretended everything was fine while the world burned around him.
The kind of person who didn't deserve someone like Bria.
He got dressed slowly. Jeans. Hoodie. Sneakers still damp from yesterday's rain. He didn't bother with his hair. He didn't bother with anything. He just grabbed his bag and walked out into the morning light, his legs still shaky, his mind still spinning.
He didn't go to class. He didn't go to the dining hall. He just walked. Past the quad, past the library, past the rows of dormitories with their identical brick facades. His feet carried him without direction, and his brain checked out somewhere around the science building.
When he finally stopped, he was standing in front of the library.
The third floor was quiet. It always was. The kind of quiet that pressed against your eardrums, that made you aware of every breath, every heartbeat, every shift of fabric against skin. The study rooms lined the far wall, glass boxes tucked into the corner like afterthoughts.
Ryan didn't know why he'd come here. He told himself it was for the quiet. For the space to think. But his feet knew the truth, even if his brain refused to admit it.
She was in the third one from the end.
He saw her through the glass before he saw anything else. Her head bent over a notebook, pen moving fast, hair falling in her face. She was wearing a gray sweatshirt today—too big, sleeves rolled up past her wrists—and her lips were moving slightly, like she was reading under her breath.
She looked up.
Their eyes met through the glass.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Ryan stood frozen in the hallway, his hand still on the strap of his bag. Bria's pen stopped mid-word. Her expression flickered—surprise, then anger, then something harder to name.
She looked back down at her notebook.
Ryan should have walked away. He knew that. Every rational part of his brain was screaming at him to turn around, go home, forget this ever happened. But his feet were already moving. His hand was already on the door.
He stepped inside and closed it behind him.
"Don't." Bria's voice was flat, cold. She didn't look up. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
Ryan didn't say anything. He just stood there, watching her, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"I mean it." She finally lifted her head, and her eyes were hard, guarded. "I don't know what last night was, and I don't care. Just leave me alone."
"No."
The word hung in the air between them.
Bria's jaw tightened. "Excuse me?"
"I said no." Ryan took a step closer. Then another. "I'm not leaving."
"You don't get to do this." She stood up fast, her chair scraping against the floor. "You don't get to kiss me and then run away and then show up here like nothing happened. That's not how this works."
"I know." Another step. "I know it's not."
"Then what are you doing?"
He didn't have an answer. Or maybe he did, but he couldn't find the words. So he kept walking, slow and steady, until he was close enough to see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, close enough to smell the faint hint of vanilla on her skin.
"Ryan." Her voice wavered. "Don't."
He reached past her and clicked the lock on the door.
Bria's breath caught. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I don't know." He turned back to her, and his voice was raw, honest in a way he hadn't been with anyone in years. "I don't know anything anymore. I just know I can't stop thinking about you. I can't stop tasting you. And I can't keep pretending that I don't."
She stared at him. Her chest was rising and falling fast, her hands clenched at her sides, and he could see the war playing out behind her eyes—want and fear and anger and something else, something that looked almost like hope.
"You're an asshole," she whispered.
"I know."
"You're a coward."
"I know."
"You laughed at me. You laughed with them."
"I know." He stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off her body. "And I hate myself for it. Every single day. But right now, in this moment, I don't want to be a coward anymore."
Bria's lips parted. She was going to say something—something sharp, something cutting, something that would put him in his place and send him crawling back to where he came from. He could see it forming on her tongue.
But before she could speak, he kissed her.
She didn't push him away this time.
Her hands came up to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie, and she kissed him back with a ferocity that stole his breath. It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tender. It was hungry and angry and desperate, teeth and tongue and the taste of her, and Ryan thought he might actually die from it.
He walked her backward until her hips hit the edge of the desk. Papers scattered. A coffee cup tipped over and rolled off the edge, hitting the floor with a dull clatter. Bria gasped against his mouth, and he used the opening to deepen the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair, the other gripping her waist.
"I hate you," she breathed between kisses. "I hate you so much."
"I know." He lifted her onto the desk, settling between her thighs. "I hate me too."
Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. Her hands were everywhere—his shoulders, his back, his hair—and he couldn't get enough. He wanted to touch every inch of her, taste every inch of her, worship every inch of her until she forgot every cruel word anyone had ever said.
He pulled back just long enough to yank her sweatshirt over her head. She wore a plain black bra underneath, simple and unadorned, and he thought it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He kissed the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach.
"Ryan—" Her voice broke. "Please."
"What do you want?" He looked up at her, his hands resting on her hips. "Tell me."
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
She bit her lip. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dark, and she looked at him like he was the only person in the world.
"I want you," she whispered. "I want you to touch me. I want you to make me forget."
He didn't need to hear anything else.
He undid the button on her jeans with shaking fingers and pulled them down her legs, taking her underwear with them. She was wet—so wet—and the sight of her, spread out on the desk in front of him, made his cock ache.
He knelt down.
Bria's eyes went wide. "What are you—"
He ran his tongue along her slit, and her words dissolved into a moan.
She tasted like heat and salt and something sweet he couldn't name. He licked her from bottom to top, slow and deliberate, circling her clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking it gently into his mouth. Her hips bucked. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and she pulled hard enough to make him grunt.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Oh, fuck."
He smiled against her cunt and kept going. He worked her with his tongue until she was trembling, until her thighs clenched around his head, until she was begging—actually begging—for him to keep going. And when she finally came, when her body arched off the desk and a broken cry tore from her throat, he didn't stop. He kept licking, kept sucking, drinking her in like she was water and he'd been lost in the desert for years.
When he finally pulled back, his chin was slick with her, and she was staring at him like she'd never seen him before.
"You—" She swallowed hard. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"Does it matter?"
"No." She reached for him, pulling at his hoodie. "Get up here."
He stood, kicking off his jeans and boxers, and then he was on top of her, his body pressed against hers, his cock resting hot and heavy against her thigh.
"You sure?" His voice was rough. "Because once I start, I don't think I can stop."
"I'm sure." She spread her legs wider, tilting her hips. "Fuck me, Ryan."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pushed into her slowly, inch by inch, watching her face as he filled her. Her mouth fell open. Her eyes fluttered shut. She was tight—tighter than he expected—and hot, so hot it made his head spin.
"God," he breathed. "You feel—fuck—"
"Move." Her nails dug into his shoulders. "Please, just move."
He pulled back and thrust forward, and the sound she made—a low, guttural moan—was the best thing he'd ever heard. He did it again. And again. And again, each thrust deeper than the last, his rhythm building until the desk was rocking beneath them and the glass walls were fogging up.
She was loud. He loved that she was loud. But the library was quiet, and the last thing he needed was someone walking by and seeing them—seeing her—like this. He clamped a hand over her mouth.
Bria's eyes snapped open. She bit down on his palm, hard, and he felt the sting all the way up his arm.
"Fuck," he hissed.
"Shut up." She bit him again. "Don't stop."
He didn't.
He fucked her harder, faster, driven by the way she clenched around him, the way she bit his hand to keep from screaming, the way her body moved with his like they'd been doing this for years. The desk banged against the wall. A textbook fell to the floor. Neither of them cared.
"Ryan—" His name was muffled against his palm, but he heard it. "I'm gonna—"
"Come," he grunted. "Come on my cock."
Her back arched. Her cunt tightened around him like a fist, and she came with a scream trapped in her throat, her nails raking down his back hard enough to draw blood. The pain pushed him over the edge, and he buried himself deep inside her, coming harder than he had in his entire life.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Ryan pulled out, slow and careful, and collapsed onto the desk beside her, both of them breathing like they'd just run a marathon.
"Holy shit," Bria whispered.
"Yeah." He turned his head to look at her. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were swollen. There was a bite mark on her shoulder, and he had no memory of making it. "Holy shit."
She laughed—a real laugh this time, warm and breathless—and something in his chest cracked all the way open.
Then reality crashed back in.
The empty hallway. The unlocked door. The fact that he'd just fucked the girl his best friend used as a punching bag. He sat up, running his hands through his hair, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.
Bria noticed. Of course she noticed. She was too smart not to.
"You're going to leave now," she said quietly. "Aren't you."
It wasn't a question.
Ryan looked at her—really looked at her—and he wanted to say no. He wanted to tell her he was done hiding, done pretending, done being the person everyone expected him to be. He wanted to promise her something. Anything.
But the words wouldn't come.
"I don't know," he said, and it was the most honest thing he'd ever said.
Bria nodded slowly. She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She just pulled her clothes on with steady hands, gathered her scattered papers, and walked to the door.
She paused with her hand on the lock.
"You know where to find me," she said. "If you ever figure it out."
Then she was gone.
And Ryan sat alone in the empty study room, the smell of her still on his skin, and wondered if he'd just made the biggest mistake of his life.
He didn't know the answer.
But he knew, with a certainty that settled into his bones like cold water, that he had to find out.
The door clicked shut behind her, and Ryan sat there for a long time. The silence pressed in. The room smelled like sex and her shampoo and the ghost of coffee that had spilled hours ago. He stared at the closed door, at the fingerprints smudged on the glass, and tried to remember how to be a person.
His phone buzzed. Dex.
Where you at? Practice in 20.
Ryan didn't answer. He shoved the phone into his pocket and stood, his legs still unsteady, his back stinging where her nails had raked him raw. He caught his reflection in the dark glass of the window. Same face. Same jaw. But the eyes looking back at him belonged to a stranger.
He grabbed his bag. Walked out of the study room. Down the stairs. Past the circulation desk where a freshman work-study kid barely glanced up from his phone.
The cold air hit him like a slap when he pushed through the library doors. He stood on the steps, breathing, letting the wind dry the sweat on his neck. The campus spread out before him—the quad, the science building, the dining hall with its endless stream of oblivious students. Normal people doing normal things. He envied them. He envied their ignorance.
His phone buzzed again.
Seriously. Coach is gonna flip.
Ryan typed back with numb fingers. On my way.
He wasn't.
---
Practice was a blur of whistles and drills and Dex's voice in his ear. Ryan threw the ball harder than he needed to, faster, until his receivers were scrambling and Coach was yelling at him to dial it back. He didn't dial it back. He couldn't. The burn in his shoulder was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"Easy, man." Dex jogged up to him during a water break, helmet tucked under one arm. "You're gonna blow your arm out before Saturday."
"I'm fine."
"You keep saying that." Dex squinted at him, suspicious. "You get laid last night or something? You've got that look."
Ryan's grip on his water bottle tightened. "What look?"
"Like you're either pissed off or pussy-whipped. Can't tell which."
Marcus snorted from somewhere behind them. "Probably both. That redhead from the Phi Delt party wouldn't leave him alone."
Ryan forced a smile. "Something like that."
Dex laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and jogged back onto the field. Ryan watched him go, the ease of his stride, the confidence in every step. Dex had never doubted himself a day in his life. Dex had never wanted something he couldn't have.
Ryan wanted something he couldn't have.
No. That wasn't true. He'd had her. He'd had her spread out on a desk with his mouth between her legs and his name on her lips. He'd had her, and then he'd let her walk away.
Because he was a coward.
The rest of practice passed in a haze. Ryan hit his marks, ran his routes, did everything he was supposed to do. But his mind was elsewhere—on a girl with dark hair and sharp eyes and a bite that left marks. On the way she'd looked at him when she asked if he was going to leave.
He'd never answered the question.
After practice, he showered and dressed in a daze. Dex tried to drag him to the dining hall for dinner, but Ryan begged off, claiming he needed to study. Dex laughed at that, loud and long, because Ryan hadn't studied for anything in four years. But he let him go.
Ryan walked home. The apartment was dark and cold and empty, just like always. He dropped his bag by the door, kicked off his shoes, and stood in the middle of the living room, listening to the silence.
Then he pulled out his phone.
He knew her number. He'd never used it—never had a reason to—but he knew it. He'd found it two years ago, buried in a class roster, and memorized it before he could think better of himself. The digits were burned into his brain like scripture.
He typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Come over.
Two words. Pathetic. He stared at them until the letters blurred, then hit send before he could stop himself.
The reply came seven minutes later.
Why?
Ryan closed his eyes. He deserved that.
Because I need to see you.
Another pause. Longer this time. He paced the length of his living room, then the kitchen, then back again. His heart was doing something weird—pounding and fluttering at the same time—and he hated it. He hated that she had this power over him. He hated that he'd given it to her.
His phone buzzed.
Where?
He typed his address with fingers that wouldn't stop shaking.
Give me 30 minutes.
---
She knocked at 8:47.
Ryan opened the door, and for a second, neither of them spoke. She stood in the hallway wearing jeans and a black hoodie, her hair pulled back in that same messy knot from the library, and she looked at him like she was still deciding whether to run.
"You came," he said.
"I don't know why." Her voice was flat, guarded. "I shouldn't have."
"Probably not."
She didn't move.
"I'm not going to beg," Ryan said quietly. "If you want to leave, leave. But I asked you here because I needed to see you. Not for an hour. Not for a night. I needed to see you."
Bria's jaw tightened. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for something—a lie, a trick, a reason to walk away. Whatever she found, it made her exhale slowly, like she'd been holding her breath for days.
"Thirty minutes," she said. "That's it."
She stepped inside.
Ryan closed the door. Locked it. Then he turned and kissed her.
This kiss wasn't like the others. It wasn't frantic or hungry or desperate. It was slow. Deliberate. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her like he was trying to memorize the shape of her mouth, the taste of her breath, the small sound she made when his tongue touched hers.
Bria melted into him. Her hands found his waist, sliding under his shirt, tracing the ridges of muscle along his back. He walked her backward through the apartment, through the living room, through the doorway of his bedroom, until the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she fell onto the bed with a soft gasp.
He followed her down.
"I've been thinking about you all day," he murmured against her neck. "Couldn't focus. Couldn't eat. Couldn't do anything but think about the way you felt."
Bria's breath hitched. "Ryan—"
"I know." He pulled back just enough to look at her. "I know I don't deserve this. I know I don't deserve you. But I can't stop. I've tried. I can't."
She stared up at him. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. Not yet.
"You're going to hurt me," she whispered.
"I know."
"You're going to break my heart."
"Probably."
"Then why should I stay?"
He didn't have an answer. Nothing he said would make this okay. Nothing he promised would erase the months of silence, the years of standing by while Dex and the others tore her apart.
So he didn't say anything.
He kissed her instead.
---
The clothes came off slowly. Piece by piece. His shirt. Her hoodie. His jeans. Her bra. Every inch of skin revealed was a revelation—a new curve, a new freckle, a new place to press his lips. Ryan mapped her body with his hands and his mouth, cataloging every reaction, every shiver, every sharp intake of breath.
She was soft. She was warm. She was real in a way the other girls had never been.
When he finally pushed into her, slow and deep, she wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him closer. "More," she breathed. "Deeper."
He gave her more. He gave her deeper. He fucked her with a rhythm that built and built, each thrust drawing a moan from somewhere deep in her chest. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her teeth found his neck, his jaw, his earlobe, and she bit down hard enough to leave marks.
"Harder," she gasped. "Fuck me harder."
He did. He grabbed her hips and slammed into her, the headboard banging against the wall loud enough to wake the neighbors. He didn't care. He didn't care about anything except the way she felt around him—tight and hot and perfect. The way she looked beneath him, her hair spread across his pillow like a dark halo, her lips parted, her eyes locked on his.
"Fuck," he growled. "You feel so good. You have no idea."
"I know." She smirked, breathless. "Believe me, I know."
He laughed—actually laughed—and kissed her again, swallowing her moans as he pushed her closer to the edge. When she came, it was with his name on her lips and her body arching off the bed like a drawn bowstring.
He didn't stop.
He flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips up, positioning himself behind her. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes hazy, her mouth swollen.
"Again?" she asked.
"Again."
He pushed into her from behind, and she cried out—a raw, animal sound that made his cock throb. He fucked her hard and fast, his hands gripping her hips, his balls slapping against her clit with every thrust. She was so wet that he could hear it—that obscene, perfect squelch—and the sound drove him wild.
"You like that?" he grunted. "You like my cock inside you?"
"Yes—fuck—yes."
"Tell me."
"I love it." She was panting now, her voice breaking. "I love your cock. I love the way you fuck me. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He didn't stop. He fucked her until she came again, her cunt clenching around him like a vice, and then he pulled out and flipped her onto her back. He needed to see her face.
"Look at me," he said. "I want to see you when I come."
Her eyes found his.
He pushed back inside her, slow this time, deliberate. He wanted to remember this. He wanted to burn it into his memory—the way her lips parted, the way her fingers curled into the sheets, the way she whispered his name like a prayer.
"I'm gonna come," he breathed.
"Come inside me."
"Are you—"
"I'm on the pill. Just—" She pulled him closer, her lips brushing his ear. "Come inside me. I want to feel it."
That was all it took.
He buried himself to the hilt and let go, his orgasm ripping through him like a current. His hips jerked. His vision went white. He groaned her name—loud, guttural, raw—and emptied himself inside her until there was nothing left.
They lay there after, tangled together, sweaty and breathless. Ryan's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. Bria's fingers traced lazy patterns on his chest.
"Thirty minutes," she murmured.
"What?"
"You said thirty minutes." She tilted her head to look at him. "That was definitely more than thirty minutes."
Ryan laughed. It felt strange—real and unforced—like a muscle he hadn't used in years.
"I guess I lost track of time."
"I guess you did."
He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her like he could keep her there forever. She fit against him perfectly—her head tucked under his chin, her breath warm against his collarbone.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Then Bria shifted. "I should go."
"Don't."
She looked up at him, surprised.
"Don't go," he said. "Not yet."
"I've been here for hours."
"I know."
"My roommates are going to think I'm dead."
"Text them."
She bit her lip. He could see the war playing out on her face—the same war from the library, the same push and pull.
"Ryan—"
"I know." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I know I have no right to ask. I know I'm being selfish. But I'm asking anyway. Stay."
Bria was quiet for a moment.
Then she settled back against him.
"Okay," she whispered. "I'll stay."
And for the first time in years, Ryan felt something that might have been hope.