Chapter 17: I don’t think I could ever get over you
Every quiet moment was filled with the echo of his voice. I think about it all the time. It played in her head while she brushed her teeth, while she waited for the microwave, a haunting, beautiful loop that left her stomach in knots. She didn’t call. He didn’t call. The unspoken rule had reformed, heavier than before.
Halloween afternoon was crisp and bright, the kind of day that felt like it was holding its breath. Leaves skittered across the quad outside her window. She was trying to study, highlighters scattered across her comforter, but the words on the page kept blurring into memories of sand and static.
A knock on the door.
Taylor was at the library. It was probably Katie from down the hall borrowing a charger. Belly shoved her textbooks aside and padded across the floor, pulling the door open without checking the peephole.
He was there.
Conrad Fisher stood in her dim hallway, backlit by the window at the end of the corridor. He was wearing a dark gray hoodie, his hands shoved deep in the pockets. His fluffy blonde hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it for hours. The sight of him, physically present in three dimensions, was so shocking her brain simply short-circuited. She just stared.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was quieter than it had been on the phone, rougher around the edges. “Happy almost Halloween.”
“Conrad?” His name left her lips like a question, disbelieving. She blinked, as if he might be a mirage conjured by too much studying and not enough sleep.
A faint, nervous smile touched his mouth. “I know I’m not supposed to be here.” He brought one hand out of his pocket, holding up a small, crumpled paper bag. “But I’m here. I brought candy.”
Her mind was a white-noise roar. She looked from his ocean-blue eyes, wary and hopeful, to the stupid bag of candy, to the scuffed toes of his boots on the industrial hallway carpet. The distance between Massachusetts and her dorm room collapsed to nothing.
She didn’t say anything. Couldn’t.
His smile faltered. He shifted his weight. “Uh. Do you want me to go?” he asked, already beginning to turn his shoulder away, the gesture so familiar it finally broke her paralysis.
“No.” The word burst out of her. She took a hurried step forward, one hand reaching out slightly before she stopped herself. “No, no, no. Um. Don’t leave. Just… what’re you doing here?” She hugged her arms around herself, suddenly aware she was wearing old sweatpants and one of Steven’s faded high school t-shirts.
He watched her, his gaze taking her in—the messy bun, the bare face, the way she was holding herself together. “I wanted to see you,” he said, simple and devastating.
“Yeah, but I thought—” Her mind spun to Jeremiah, to the unspoken treaty they’d all broken, to the grenade he’d dropped on the phone.
“Wait, no, I know.” He cut her off, his words coming faster now. “I know you’re worried about Jere. But look, I talked to him. I called him after we… after. He’s doing really good, actually. He’s going on dates, you know.”
He watched her face, desperate for the tension to break. He needed her to understand this one thing was finally, definitively clear.
“That’s great. So, um, he’s over—” she started, the words brittle with a hope she didn’t fully trust.
He cuts her off. “Yeah. I think he is.” He said it softly, with finality. He looked at her, taking her in—the confusion in her brown eyes, the way she bit her lower lip. She looked at him.
“Belly, I don’t think I could ever get over you.” The admission was quiet, a fact stated in a hushed hallway. “I mean, I’m not. I’m here.” He said.
She looked at him. The paper bag of candy hung forgotten from his fingers.
“I mean, whenever I talk to you, I’m just happy.” He swallowed, his gaze unwavering. “And I gotta say, right now, standing in front of you, it’s torture not being able to kiss you.” He said.
She looked at him. For a second, nothing moved. Then she took a step forward, closing the space between them. She wrapped her arms around his neck and she kissed him.
He inhaled sharply against her mouth. The bag of candy hit the carpet with a soft rustle. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her firmly against him, and kissed her back. It was nothing like the beach—there was no surprise, no salt spray, just the overwhelming rightness of a question finally answered.
They broke away, both breathing hard. She smiled at him, a real, unguarded smile that lit up her whole face. He let out a breath, a ragged laugh of pure relief.
She didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her arms back around his neck and kissed him again. This one was deeper, slower, a conversation without words. His hands slid up her back, pressing her closer, one tangling in the messy knot of her hair. The world narrowed to the feel of his hoodie under her hands, the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his soap.
A door slammed down the hall. They jolted apart, but only by inches, foreheads resting together. Her heart hammered against his chest, or maybe it was his against hers.
“You’re really here,” she whispered, her voice full of wonder.
“I really am,” he murmured back. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “Can I come in? Or are we going to do this in the hallway?”
She laughed, a bright, shaky sound, and pulled him by the hand into her room. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in her sunlit, cluttered sanctuary.
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in her sunlit, cluttered sanctuary. For a second, they just stood there, his hand still in hers, the only sound their shared, ragged breathing. The afternoon light cut across the floor between them, illuminating dust motes dancing in the sudden stillness.
He looked at her, really looked, his eyes tracing the familiar maps on her walls, the ticket stub from a concert they’d seen together taped to her mirror, the childhood photo of the three of them. His gaze finally landed back on her. “Your room smells like you,” he said, his voice low. “Like that coconut stuff and old paper.”
“It’s a mess,” she said, a nervous laugh escaping her. She hadn’t cleaned in days. Highlighters and textbooks were strewn across her unmade bed.
“It’s perfect.” He let go of her hand only to reach up, slowly, as if she might vanish. He brought his hands up to her face, cupping her cheeks. His thumbs brushed the fragile skin beneath her eyes. His forehead rested against hers. “Belly.” He said. It was just her name, but it held everything—the phone calls, the miles, the confession, the distance he’d crossed.
She closed her eyes, leaning into the solid warmth of his palms. All the fear, the overthinking, the constant replay of his voice on the phone, just quieted. “Just kiss me.” She said.
He did.
This kiss was different. It wasn’t the frantic collision in the hallway, or the confused, perfect one buried in beach memories. This one was slow, deliberate, a full-stop punctuation to every word they’d ever left unspoken. She felt his breath catch, then release, a surrender. His fingers slid back into her hair, cradling her head.
She clutched the fabric of his hoodie at his waist, anchoring herself. The world outside—the campus sounds, the future, the past—melted into a faint hum. There was only the soft press of his mouth, the slight scratch of his jeans against her sweatpants, the grounding pressure of his hands.
When they finally parted, they didn’t go far. Their noses still brushed. His blue eyes were dark, searching hers. “Tell me to stay,” he murmured, the words a vibration against her lips.
“Stay,” she breathed instantly.
“For how long?”
“I don’t care. Just now.” She kissed him again, a brief, soft press. “Just this.”
A real smile broke across his face then, the kind that crinkled the skin around his eyes and made him look like the boy she’d known forever. It unlocked something in her chest. She took his hand and led him the two steps to her bed, pushing the textbooks onto the floor with a sweep of her arm. They sat side-by-side on the edge, shoulders touching.
“You just drove here,” she said, the reality of it settling in. “On a Tuesday.”
“Yep.”
“You have class tomorrow.”
“Skipping.”
“Conrad,” she said, a mock-scolding tone hiding her awe.
“Belly,” he echoed, matching her tone. He bumped his shoulder against hers. “It was this or fail my midterm because I couldn’t stop thinking about your mouth. This seemed more productive.”
She shook her head, laughing softly, and leaned into him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. They sat in a comfortable silence, watching the sunlit rectangle on the floor slowly lengthen. The simple weight of his arm was a promise he’d never voiced.
“What now?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer with words. He shifted, turning to face her fully on the narrow bed. He leaned in, pausing just an inch away, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn’t.
Instead, she closed the distance, meeting him with a hunger that surprised them both. This kiss wasn’t soft or slow. It was deep, consuming, a wave pulling them under. She fell back onto the pillows, pulling him down with her. The weight of him was electric, real, here.
His hands cradled her face again, his touch reverent amidst the growing heat. Every point of contact felt like a circuit completing. She could feel the strong, steady thrum of his pulse under her palms where they rested on his neck.
The world condensed to the space of her twin bed, to the pressure of his body and the frantic, wonderful alignment of their limbs. He kissed her like he was memorizing the feeling, his mouth warm and insistent, one hand sliding from her cheek down to her hip.
A small, pragmatic part of his brain, the part that always calculated consequences, sent a signal. He tried to lean back slightly so his weight wasn’t on her too much. She pulled him back down.
Her hands fisted in the back of his hoodie, holding him there. The message was clear. Don’t pull away. Don’t be careful. Not now.
“Okay,” he breathed against her mouth, the word a surrender. He let his full weight settle back onto her, and the feeling was profoundly different. It was an anchor, a total commitment. She let out a shaky sigh that sounded like relief, her body softening beneath his.
His kisses moved from her mouth to her jaw, then to the sensitive spot just below her ear. Her fingers traced the line of his spine through the soft fabric.
He nudged her nose with his, bringing his gaze back to hers. His blue eyes were clouded, intense. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking I should’ve failed trig a long time ago if this was the tutoring reward.” Her joke was weak, breathless.
A genuine laugh rumbled in his chest, a sound she felt through her own. “Shut up,” he murmured, smiling, before kissing her again. This one was slower, sweeter, a temporary ceasefire in their desperate intensity.
The late afternoon sun had moved, now painting a hot stripe across her pillow and lighting the dust in the air like gold flakes. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. His other hand pushed a strand of hair from her forehead, his touch impossibly gentle. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself.” She smiled up at him.
She smiled up at him. The fading light turned his blond hair into a soft halo, his features blurred at the edges. She traced the line of his eyebrow with her thumb, a gesture so familiar and yet so utterly new. He caught her hand, pressing her palm flat against his chest where his heart hammered a relentless, joyful rhythm.
“Feel that?” he whispered.
“Yeah.”
“It’s yours. It’s been yours.” He said it simply, a fact pulled from some deep, guarded place. “Since before I even knew what that meant.”
The enormity of it wrapped around her, warm and terrifying. She pulled his hand to her own chest, letting him feel the frantic echo there. His eyes widened slightly at the sensation. For a long moment, they just breathed together, a silent conversation witnessed only by the fading day.
“I missed you, Belly.” He said. The words weren’t soft. They were ragged, torn from him, weighted with every quiet hour and every silent phone.
“I missed you, Conrad.” Her reply was a breath, a confession. Then her hands fisted into his hoodie, pulling him down. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a reclaiming. She poured every lonely day, every envious glance at couples on the quad, every replay of his voice on the phone, into it. He met her with equal intensity, his arms tightening around her as if he could fuse them together through sheer force of will.
The last of the sun dipped below the windowsill, plunging the room into a deep, blue-gray gloom. They didn’t notice. The only light came from the digital clock on her desk, casting a faint green glow across the tangle of sheets and limbs. Her fingers found the hem of his hoodie, slipping underneath to map the warm, solid plane of his back. He shivered under her touch.
His own hand slid under the worn fabric of her t-shirt, his palm rough and warm against the skin of her waist. She gasped into his mouth. Every nerve ending was alive, singing. This was different from the beach, from the hallway. This was deliberate. This was a choice, being made in the dark, with full knowledge of the cost.
The weight of that knowledge was a live wire between them, a silent third presence in the room that only sharpened every sensation.
His lips left her mouth, tracing a slow, burning path along her jaw. He felt the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath his tongue. He shifted his weight, allowing himself to sink deeper into the mattress beside her, his body aligning with hers in the cool tangle of sheets.
His mouth found the delicate skin where her neck met her shoulder. He kissed her there, gently. The touch was a question, a whisper.
She let out a low moan.
The sound, unguarded and thick, shattered the quiet. He froze. Every muscle in his body locked. His brain, always ten steps ahead, flooded with panic. Too much. You moved too fast. You scared her.
“Belly—” He started to pull away, the word an automatic apology already forming.
“Sorry.” She cut him off, her voice muffled into the pillow. She turned her face away, humiliation radiating from her in a hot wave.
He actually laughed then, a short, breathless burst of pure relief. He moved his hand to her cheek, turning her face gently back towards his. In the green clock-light, her eyes were wide with chagrin.
“Hey. No, no, no, no.” He brushed his thumb over her lips. “I liked it, Belly.” He was surprised by the rough honesty in his own voice. “I really liked it.”
The tension bled from her shoulders. She searched his face, finding only a raw sincerity that mirrored the feeling in her chest. A slow, real smile tugged at her mouth. She leaned up and kissed him, a soft, grateful press of lips.
He kissed her back, pouring every ounce of his relief into it. Then he broke away, nudging her with his nose. “Here.” He guided her onto her side. She rolled over, her back slotting perfectly against his chest.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, his hand splayed over her stomach, holding her close. He buried his face in the messy knot of her hair and breathed her in—coconut, sleep, and the unique scent that was just her. Her hand came up to cover his, her fingers lacing through his.
A profound, exhausted calm settled over them. The frantic energy of the day, the drive, the talking, the kissing, evaporated. Their breathing slowed, syncing in the dark.
They fell asleep almost instantly.
The room was still dark when he surfaced. The digital clock read 4:17 AM. The deep blue of pre-dawn faintly outlined the window. For a disoriented second, he didn’t know where he was. Then he felt her.
Belly was still tucked against him, her body loose and heavy with sleep. The even rhythm of her breathing warmed the skin of his forearm. He didn’t move. He was terrified of breaking the spell, of this becoming just a dream he’d had on his own floor a thousand times.
He replayed the moan she’d tried to apologize for. A fierce, protective thrill shot through him. He pressed his lips to the back of her head, inhaling again. She stirred, just a slight shift deeper into the pillow.
His mind, clear in the silent darkness, began to turn. Jeremiah’s voice on the phone, cheerful and distant, saying he was fine, going on dates. The ugly, guilty knot in his own stomach when he’d heard it. He’d used it as a key to this door, and it had worked. He pushed the thought away, focusing on the weight of her in his arms. It felt like the only true thing in the world.
Her alarm buzzed at 7:02, a harsh, electronic snarl. She groaned, fumbling blindly on the desk. Her elbow connected with his ribs.
“Ow.”
“Oh my god.” She bolted upright, hair wild, and stared down at him. The events of the previous day crashed over her in a visible wave. Her eyes went wide. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep. He squinted up at her. “And you have a class.”
“Shit.” She scrambled out of bed, then hesitated, looking back at him lying in her tangled sheets. A slow smile spread across her face. “You’re in my bed.”
“I am.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “It’s a good bed.”
She bit her lip, a happy, private thought flashing behind her eyes. Then practicality took over. “I have Art History at eight. I can’t skip, there’s a quiz.”
“Go,” he said, lying back down. “I’ll be your creepy roommate who sleeps all day. I’ll even harass Trusky for you via text.”
She laughed, grabbing clothes from her drawer. She moved around the small room with a new, conscious energy, hyper-aware of his gaze following her. It wasn’t a stare. It was a quiet observation, like he was memorizing the ritual of her morning.
“What will you do?” she asked, pulling a sweater over her head.
“Sleep. Maybe raid your mini-fridge. Contemplate the existential horror of your 8 AM quiz.” He watched her brush her hair, the simple domesticity of it making his chest ache. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
She paused at the door, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She looked at him—rumpled, in her bed, a surreal and perfect anchor in the center of her room. “You promise?”
“I drove six hours, Belly. I’m not leaving to get bagels.” He said.
Her smile then was everything. She blew him a kiss and slipped out the door.
The silence she left behind was different. It was anticipatory, not empty. He listened to the sounds of the dorm waking up—showers running, doors slamming, muffled chatter in the hall. He rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in her pillow. It smelled intensely of her. He could still feel the phantom press of her back against his chest.
He must have dozed again, because the next thing he knew, a key was scraping in the lock. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. The room was brighter.
The door opened and Belly walked in, dropping her backpack with a heavy thud. She looked flushed, a little breathless. She leaned back against the closed door, just looking at him.
“How was the quiz?” he asked.
“I have no idea. I think I wrote an essay about Venetian glass when the question was about Flemish tapestry.” She pushed off the door and came to the bed, crawling over him to the space against the wall. She settled on her side, facing him. “I just kept thinking, Conrad Fisher is in my bed right now.”
“It’s a distracting thought,” he agreed, mirroring her position. Their noses were inches apart.
“What did you think about?”
“You. The sound you made.” He said it softly, watching her eyes. “Mostly I just existed in the fact that you were coming back.”
She closed the small distance, kissing him. It was a kiss of possession, of defiance. “Today is just this.”