Chapter 21
Blake
Mads isn’t built for studying.
He’s stretched out beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight, sheets twisted around his legs.
He keeps pulling my attention off the page, the way his muscles flex and shift when he moves, every line of him begging to be stared at. None of it helps me focus.
Eventually, he gets up to take a shower, but it doesn’t help. My eyes still drift to the empty spot beside me.
My textbook’s open across my lap, highlighter wedged between the pages, but I’ve read the same line six times and couldn’t repeat any of it if my life depended on it. The words blur in my mind, tangling with everything we’re already wrapped up in—and with us.
I chew the end of my pen, shoulders tense, every part of me restless.
Outside the window, the trees lining the sidewalk have finally gone full autumn—burnt orange, bright yellow. The air feels thinner the way it does in fall, the rain finally giving us a little reprieve for the evening. It should feel cozy. Instead, it makes the weight pressing on my chest heavier.
My notes are a mess. My brain’s worse. Murder.
Masks (the bad kind and the good). Dead Channel.
The pieces are all splintered and sharp; trying to put them back would leave me bleeding or end with the whole thing in ruins.
I should be working through exam prep, but instead I’m picturing that frozen frame of the video again and again, stuck behind my eyelids.
I pull my eyes back to the page, force myself to underline a sentence just to prove I can.
Focus, Blake. Just focus. If I can control this—my grades, my routine—then maybe everything else won’t feel like it’s closing in.
The shower cuts off. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens, steam spilling into the room. Mads strolls out in sweats slung low on his hips, towel draped around his shoulders, hair damp enough that a drop slides down the curve of his throat and disappears under the collar of his shirt.
His fucking crop top. How many of those things does he have?
“Still studying?” His voice carries that infuriating blend of amusement and disbelief.
“Yes,” I say, firm. Maybe if I say it with enough conviction, it might become true.
He pads over, leans down, and plucks the pen straight out of my hand before I can stop him.
“Hey—”
He bares his teeth in a smile that feels more like a threat than anything. He’s all shameless satisfaction, flipping my notebook closed with his other hand. “Nope. Not happening. You’ve got murder boards in your brain and exam prep on your lap. That’s two disasters too many.”
I glare, but he just sets my stuff on the nightstand. Then he drops onto the bed beside me, curls his body around mine.
“Mads.”
“Blake.” He gives me a look that’s supposed to pass as serious. It’s anything but. “You’re welcome, by the way. Saving you from an evening of self-inflicted torture. Very heroic of me.”
I give him a flat look.
He leans in, drops his voice lower, letting his breath skate across my ear. “I’m a lot more fun than the dynamics of musculoskeletal systems.”
I shove at his shoulder, but he barely budges. “If you’re not going to let me study, at least let me wallow in peace.”
“Nope,” he says, popping the p obnoxiously. “Because I, unlike your textbook, actually care about your well-being. And”—he hops off the bed with way too much enthusiasm—“I have a surprise.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do those words sound like a threat coming from you?”
“Because you have trust issues.” He yanks open the closet and starts rifling through my things.
“Hey—” I sit up straighter. “That’s my closet.”
“Correction,” he says, pulling something free from the hanger, “this is your wardrobe of date night attire.” He turns, holding up a soft knit sweater dress in one hand and a pair of tights in the other.
“Tonight, you’re not Blake the Exhausted Engineer or Blake the Murder Detective.
Tonight, you’re Blake the Hot Girl Who Lets Me Take Her Somewhere Fun. ”
I blink at him. Then at the clothes. Then back at him. “You’ve officially lost it.”
“Lost it ages ago.” He lays the outfit on the bed with exaggerated care, then winks. “But you’re going to thank me when you see where we’re going.”
“Not happening.” I flop back against the pillows.
Mads crosses his arms, mock-offended. “Wow. Zero faith. I thought we were building something here.”
“We are. It’s called boundaries.”
He huffs out a laugh, dropping onto the bed beside me again. “C’mon, Blue. Humor me. One night. If you hate it, you can go right back to chewing pens and glaring at textbooks you’re not actually reading. But I’m betting you won’t.”
I roll my eyes, but his grin is relentless, practically forcing me to cave.
I sigh, dragging it out just to watch him squirm. “Fine. But only if you tell me where we’re going.”
His expression twists into something wicked. “Drive-in horror marathon. Triple feature. Popcorn the size of your torso. You, me, and an obscene amount of candy.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
The fact that he even thought of this does make me feel better, but I can’t resist giving him shit. I feel like it’s our thing.
“Absolutely. Nothing says self-care like gore and gummy worms.”
I groan, but I swing my legs off the bed and snatch the clothes from where he laid them out. “You’re so pushy.”
“It’s strangely effective.” He doesn’t move, just sits there watching me with his arms crossed, leaning against the headboard like he’s settling in for a show.
I hold the sweater dress up between us. “You’re not seriously planning to just sit there staring at me while I change.”
“Why not?” The look he gives me is pure sex, his voice dropping a register to match. “Already seen most of what’s under there.”
My face heats instantly. “Mads.”
“Yes, Blake?” He swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, closing the distance between us in a few strides.
I shove him in the chest, hard enough that he stumbles a step back. “Out.”
He laughs the whole way to the door, throwing me a wink over his shoulder as I slam it shut.
The drive takes less than twenty minutes.
When we pull into the gravel lot, strings of orange lights loop between poles, flickering in the crisp night air, and carved pumpkins glow along the edges of the lot, their crooked grins glowing menacingly.
The massive screen looms at the far end, already playing the countdown reel.
Cars are lined up in rows, some with trunks popped open and blankets piled up, others with lawn chairs set up like makeshift living rooms. The smell of popcorn drifts from the concession stand.
Kids run around in hoodies, faces painted like skeletons, plastic fangs catching in what little light there is when they laugh.
Mads finds a spot halfway back, easing his SUV into place at an angle that gives us a perfect view.
He backs it in, the rear hatch facing the screen, and kills the engine.
When he glances over, I know he’s waiting for me to admit he was right.
I don’t—at least not out loud—but my chest loosens anyway when I take in the scene.
It’s loud, chaotic, festive—and for once has nothing to do with murder or midterms.
He pops the hatch, and we climb into the back.
The mess of blankets he crammed in earlier gets tossed around until he finally wrestles them into something that actually resembles a nest. Satisfied, he hops out and heads for the concession stand, leaving me sprawled in the back to ponder how the fuck we got from where we were less than a month ago to here.
When he finally comes back, he hands me a bag of popcorn big enough to drown someone in.
“See?” he says, cheeky, settling in beside me. “Better than studying.”
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth tug upward. “Fine. You win this one.”
As the first trailer blares through the speakers and the crowd cheers, I let myself lean back against the pile of pillows, the chill of the night dulled by the warmth at my side. I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The first movie turned out to be pure cheese—rubber masks, ketchup blood, and dialogue so bad I nearly choked on popcorn from laughing.
Mads kept leaning over to whisper dramatic reenactments in my ear, which didn’t help.
But now the second feature’s rolling, and the vibe has shifted.
Darker. Slower. Horror that creeps under your skin instead of splattering it across the screen.
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, my earlier laughter fading into silence as the tension on screen starts to gnaw at me.
The music ratchets higher, strings screeching enough to set my teeth on edge. A shadow crawls across the wall of some doomed character’s house, and when the jump scare finally hits, I flinch so hard I sling popcorn all over both of us.
“God,” I mutter, shoving the bag aside and burying my face in the warm curve of Mads’ neck. His skin smells like soap and faint cologne, and his chest rumbles with a laugh I can feel against my cheek.
“Scared, Blue?” His voice is low, too pleased with himself.
“Shut up,” I mumble into his skin, refusing to look at the screen.
Instead of letting me pull away, he wraps his arms around me and tugs me easily into his lap. I should protest—I know we’re in public—but the steady press of his body and the way his hands settle on me strip every excuse from my mind before I can form them.
I don’t move. I let him hold me, heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with the movie anymore.
“Didn’t peg you for the type to hide from a little fake blood,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my hairline.
“It’s not the blood,” I mutter, refusing to lift my face from his shoulder.
“Mm. Sure.” He gives me a squeeze. He’s enjoying this way too much.
The next scare on screen makes me jump even harder, and Mads chuckles. It’s infuriating.
I lift my head just enough to glare at him, ready with a retort, but the look on his face cuts the words off. His grin’s still there, but softer at the edges, his eyes darker, fixed on me instead of the movie.
He surprises me with a kiss. A tease, barely there, until I lean into it without meaning to.
His hand slides up my back, pulling me closer, while mine twists in the fabric of his shirt. The movie’s gone the second his mouth is on me, fading with the scrape of his teeth when he nips at my lower lip, with the quiet sounds he makes that go straight to the pit of my stomach.
It builds, messy and hungry, until I’m straddling his lap, the movie outside forgotten. The whole lot could be watching us instead for all I care.
He grinds me down against his cock, the friction building until I’m biting back a sound I can’t let anyone around us hear.
“Yeah,” he mutters against my mouth, lips trailing to my throat. “There it is. Knew you wouldn’t last once I got my hands on you.”
I shiver, nails curling into his shoulders as his teeth graze my skin. His words come out hushed. Raw and coaxing. “You’ve been tense for days, Blue. Let me take care of it. Let me take care of you.”
My body betrays me before my mouth can form a protest. I grind against him, and his answering groan makes my head spin. He presses me down, guiding the movement with shameless intensity.
“That’s it. Use me,” he whispers, filthy and reverent all at once. “Let me feel you fall apart.”
It’s funny to me that just a few days ago, I was slightly embarrassed by using his body like this. But it turns out, he does like it just as much as I do.
Heat pools low in my stomach, every nerve sparking as I chase the rhythm he sets. My forehead falls against his, breath ragged. He doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stop winding me tighter.
“You’re so close, I can feel it. You gonna come for me?
Right here in my lap, while some guy two cars over is thinking his nachos are the highlight of his night?
” There’s a wicked tilt to his mouth, but his eyes are wild with need.
“Be a good girl and give it to me. I want every sound, every bit of it.”
The tension snaps, pleasure tearing through me as I gasp into his mouth, clinging to him like I’ll fall apart without him holding me together. His arms wrap around me, steadying, even as his voice keeps pouring filth into my ear.
“Yeah. That’s it. You’re mine, Blue. Mine to tear apart and put back together. Mine to fuck. I can’t wait to get you home. Fill this pussy like we both need.”
I sag against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, lungs burning like I’ve just run suicides on the field. His hoodie is soft under my cheek, his chest rising and falling steadily while mine heaves.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, words muffled into the fabric.
“Yeah,” he says, smug as hell, fingers tracing lazy patterns over my back. “That’s usually the review I get.”
I groan and smack weakly at his chest. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.” He kisses my temple. “You okay?”
I force myself to lift my head, meet his eyes. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“I’m fine,” I say, though my voice comes out breathless. “Better than fine, apparently.”
“Glad I dragged you out of the textbooks, then.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with the smallest smile. “You’re the worst.”
“Uh-huh.” He kisses me again, an impulse at this point. “And you love it.”
I try to shift back to my side, but Mads only tightens his arm around my waist, like he has no intention of letting me move even an inch. I give in, readjusting myself and settling against him as he pulls a blanket over us.
“Comfortable?” I mutter.
“Extremely.” He nuzzles into my hair, shameless.
I roll my eyes, pretending the warmth spreading through my chest is irritation and not something much worse. “You’re ridiculous.”
He hums in agreement, unbothered.
I’m about to tell him he’s also kind of cute when the soundtrack spikes with the crash of a jump scare. I jolt, my fingers clamping around his arm.
Mads bursts out laughing, unfazed by the murderous glare I aim at him. “You really are terrible at horror, Blue.”
I shove at his chest, but not hard. I don’t think I actually want to push him away anymore, not physically and not in any other way either.