CHAPTER thirty-five #5
His eyes linger there, heavy, deliberate, and it sends a rush of heat pooling low in my stomach. My breath stutters, shallow, because I can feel the weight of it—the unspoken, the want. My lips tingle and part on instinct, traitorous and desperate, as if they already know what he's thinking.
My knees threaten mutiny, and I feel about two seconds away from melting into an actual puddle on the dorm floor.
The way he's looking at me... it's dangerous. Like he's a starving man and I'm the last bite of dessert in the universe. Like one wrong move and he'll close the distance, and I won't even pretend to stop him.
My heart's pounding so loud, I'm half convinced he can hear it. The hallway disappears, the world disappears, and it's just his eyes on my lips, and me trying not to combust under the weight of it.
And if he doesn't look away soon, I swear I'm going to burst into flames.
The spell breaks when the door suddenly swings open.
Both Zach and I spring back like guilty teenagers caught sneaking around, eyes darting everywhere but at each other.
I suddenly find the ceiling tiles fascinating. He looks like he might propose to the linoleum floor.
Sam stands there, hair sticking out in every direction like she just fought a war with her pillow and lost. Her sandy blonde waves are a tangled halo, her eyes still half-shut, a yawn cracking her face as she blinks between us.
"I just woke up and heard your voice..." she mumbles, pushing the door wider with her shoulder.
Zach recovers first, plastering on that easy, casual grin like he wasn't just staring at my mouth like it was his last meal. "Hey, angel. How're you feeling?"
We all shuffle inside, he's trailing right behind his sister, hovering close in that big brother’s way.
For some reason, my feet take me straight to my desk.
"Better," she says, her voice clearer than last night. "It was just a minor cold. I'm fine now."
Still, he steps forward, brushing his hand over her forehead like the human thermometer he's always been.
Relief softens his jaw, his shoulders dropping an inch. "Good."
I try busying myself with straightening absolutely nothing on my desk, because why would I act weird? Nothing happened out there. Definitely not. Just my overactive, delusional imagination working overtime again.
Yep. Totally that.
Sam stretches, then pats her stomach. "I'm hungry."
Zach's already nodding. "Let's head to the dining hall then. We'll eat together."
"I—" I start to protest, but my stomach chooses that exact moment to roar like a caged lion. Both Westbrooks snap their heads toward me, grinning like hyenas.
Stupid. Traitor. Belly. Couldn't have waited two minutes? Subtlety? Ever heard of it?
Sam's laughter bubbles out, light and chirpy, so different from her exhausted groans last night. "Then it's settled. Hurry up, guys—I'm starving!"
And just like that, she's bouncing toward her dresser, voice bright and clear, proof she really is back to herself again.
*****
The dining hall feels almost Parisian this morning. The air is warm with the scent of butter and sugar — croissants fresh out of the oven, pain au chocolate lined up in baskets like little pieces of heaven, and coffee so rich it curls around you like velvet.
There's the faint sound of clinking china, the low hum of morning chatter, and sunlight spilling through the tall windows in soft golden stripes, making the whole room glow like a postcard.
The plates stacked with flaky pastries, glossy fruit tarts, perfectly folded omelets, and fresh berries that look like they belong in a magazine spread.
We slide into a table near the window, and for a second, I swear it feels like we're tucked into some café along the Seine, not a college campus.
Time slips by without me even realizing it, the three of us working our way through breakfast. Sam's busy drowning her strawberry pancakes in syrup, I've got my avocado tartine with coffee and fruit, keeping it simple.
Then there's Zach.
Of course he went and ordered half the menu—sausages, croissants, a bacon-cheese omelet, those pastry squares with eggs baked right in the middle, plus a giant bowl of fruit cocktail.
Not exactly shocking. He's always been a heavy eater—comes with the territory when you're burning calories on the ice every day.
Still, it's kind of crazy how much food a hockey player can put away.
And, weirdly enough, almost everything on his plates happens to be my old breakfast go-to's. The omelet. The egg pastries. Even the croissants. Coincidence? Probably.
At one point, when he notices my plate's empty, Zach casually nudges the omelet closer. No words, no push—just that subtle little move.
I act like I didn't notice, because one tartine already have me stuffed to capacity.
Sam's halfway through her stack of pancakes when she groans, stabbing her fork into a strawberry.
"You guys don't get it," she whines dramatically. "My Philosophy professor? He's a monster. I swear he feeds off panic. Like, he enjoys watching his students sweat bullets."
Zach raises a brow, smirking. "Oh yeah? What's his method? Fire-breathing? Pop quizzes from hell?"
"No," Sam says, eyes widening like she's telling a ghost story.
"He carries this little deck of index cards.
Each one has our name and photo on it, like some twisted playing card collection.
He just shuffles them mid-class, pulls one out, real slow, like the grim reaper deciding who dies next.
Then boom—he calls your name. You stand, you answer, or you get roasted alive. "
She saws off a slice of pancake, stuffs it in her mouth, and mutters through the chew, "It's like Russian roulette...but with Plato."
Zach snorts into his orange juice, nearly choking. "Wait—wait, let me guess. Professor Dalton?"
Sam's fork freezes midair. "Yes!"
"I knew it!" Zach leans back, shaking his head with a laugh.
"I had him freshman year. That old man was a nightmare. Every Monday, my friends and I would literally walk to class like we were marching to the gallows. You could hear the collective dread in the hallway. Someone even made a meme of him with the caption 'Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.'"
Sam wheezes. "I believe it. He lives for our suffering."
I roll my eyes, sipping my water. "Honestly, I don't see why you're both so terrified. If you actually study and prepare, it's not that hard. You'd be ready with the answer. It's not rocket science—it's basic effort."
They both whip their heads toward me with identical scowls.
And then, in perfect twin-like unison, they deadpan: "Of course you'd say that, Miss Straight-A-Eats-Extra-Credit-For-Breakfast."
I burst out laughing, nearly spilling my drink. Zach and Sam grin at each other smugly, pleased with their synchronized attack.
And suddenly I'm back in time. Like muscle memory. The three of us laughing like this—it's too familiar. Too easy.
It feels like elementary school all over again, Zach stealing my juice box just to be a jerk, Sam egging him on while I whined about it.
It feels like middle school bus rides, crammed in the back seat, whispering jokes about our teachers and trying not to get caught.
High school pizza runs after games, the three of us squeezed into a booth, grease on our hands, laughing so hard I swore my stomach would explode.
I didn't realize how much I missed this until right now. The kind of stupid, comfortable normal that used to be our default setting.
Before things got messy.
Before the heartbreak.
Before all the... grown-up stuff that made everything complicated.
And God, it feels good. Like for one second, we're us again.
"So, how about you, sugarplum—how's your capstone going?" Zach asks a few minutes later.
"Draining..." I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. "Rehearsals left and right. My afternoons are basically a game of Tetris—classes, rehearsals, repeat. And now it's about to get even busier because we just added something new."
"Really?" His head tilts, interest sharpening. "What is it?"
"Ballet lessons."
For a second, his whole face lights up. His silver eyes practically spark, excitement breaking through like I'd just told him the best news he could ever hear.
"You're gonna dance ballet again? And as the Sugarplum Princess, no less?
" His grin widens, like this means as much to him as it does to me.
The warmth in my chest blooms before I can stop it.
Of course he remembered. My lips curve as I nod, unable to hide my own excitement.
"Yeah. Honestly? I'm really excited about it, even if the schedule might kill me." I joke, then add, "Two senior ballet students are helping us with the choreography."
Zach's brows knit. "Us? Who's us?"
Before I can answer, Sam pipes up around her forkful of pancakes. "Who else? Adam, duh."
And just like that, Zach's whole face glitches. The brightness vanishes, replaced by a twitch in his jaw and the kind of stiff blink that screams he does not like that answer one bit.
Sam's eyes light up like she's been waiting for this moment.
She stabs a piece of pancake, chews, then leans in with her best conspiratorial grin.
"Oh, you should've seen them the other night," she gushes. "Their very first ballet lesson—and they nailed it. I didn't know ballet could be so... intimate." She wiggles her brows, giggling.
"Sam!" I whisper-yell, heat flying to my face.
If I'd known she was gonna run her mouth like this, I never would've made her come to the studio last Tuesday. But she'd locked herself out—left her dorm keys inside like a genius—so yeah, I had no choice but to let her meet me there. Ugh!
"And the best part? They're gonna be doing this every night for the next eight weeks. Just. The. Two. Of. Them."
Her grin is way too wide, way too gleeful, and it's aimed directly at her brother like she's deliberately lighting the fuse.
And oh, does it go off.