14 crossing lines
I should go to sleep.
That's the logical option.
It's almost two in the morning, I have practice tomorrow, and Everly is currently passed out across the room after spending the last hour verbally assaulting finance majors and accusing my eyebrows of having personal issues.
Any normal person would go to sleep.
Instead, I'm sitting on my bed staring at the wall while Kendrick Lamar plays quietly through my headphones, one ear uncovered because apparently part of my brain has decided I need to make sure she doesn't die in her sleep.
Which feels dramatic.
But also slightly realistic.
Across the room, Everly shifts under the blanket with a quiet groan before burying her face deeper into the pillow.
"Water," she mumbles.
"There's literally water next to you."
She blindly reaches toward the nightstand without opening her eyes, misses completely, and knocks the bottle onto the floor instead.
It hits the carpet with a dull thud.
I stare at it for a second, then at her, then back at the bottle.
"Impressive," I mutter.
She doesn't answer, because she's already asleep again.
I should leave it.
Seriously.
There's absolutely no reason for me to be dealing with this right now.
But instead I push myself off the bed with a sigh and walk over, grabbing the water bottle before it leaks everywhere. The room is quiet now without all the drunk nonsense from earlier, the only sound the faint music in my headphones and Everly's uneven breathing.
Up close, she looks exhausted.
Mascara smudged slightly under her eyes, hair everywhere, one shoe somehow still halfway on.
I snort quietly at that. "How do you even manage that, Coleman?"
No response.
I crouch slightly, untying the shoe before pulling it off carefully and setting it beside the bed.
Then I stop.
Because now I'm standing here at two in the morning staring at her face like a fucking creep.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter to myself, dragging a hand over my jaw.
I start turning away, then glance back again.
The mascara is bothering me now.
Not because I care, just because it looks uncomfortable.
That's it.
I stand there for a solid ten seconds arguing with myself before finally grabbing my towel and wetting part of it with warm water.
This is insane.
Actually insane.
If Scott saw me right now, I'd have to kill him.
Everly shifts slightly when I sit carefully on the edge of the bed, her face scrunching for a second before relaxing again.
"Relax," I mutter quietly. "You're fine."
I wipe carefully under one eye, then the other. Slow enough not to wake her.
For some reason that makes something uncomfortable settle in my chest.
Not bad, just unfamiliar, like I crossed into something softer without noticing.
I hate it immediately.
When I finish, I toss the towel onto my desk and grab the hoodie she left crumpled on the floor earlier, folding it automatically before stopping halfway through.
I stare down at it, then laugh quietly at myself. "What the fuck am I doing?"
No answer.
Probably for the best.
I leave the folded hoodie at the end of her bed anyway, put fresh water and painkillers on her nightstand, then finally sit back down on my own bed.
Everly shifts again across the room.
"Drywall," she mumbles half-asleep.
I stare at her for a second.
Then laugh before I can stop myself. "Go to sleep, Coleman."
-
I barely sleep.
Not because Everly's loud. For once, she's actually unconscious.
No, my brain just decides to be annoying instead.
Every time I start drifting off, I replay something stupid.
The way she laughed tonight.
The way she looked at me when she was drunk enough to stop guarding every thought before saying it.
The way she trusted me automatically when I helped her.
That one's the worst. Because she shouldn't, not automatically.
I finally fall asleep sometime after three.
Then wake up to sunlight directly in my eyes and the sound of movement across the room.
Everly's sitting up slowly in bed looking like death itself, one hand pressed dramatically against her forehead while she squints around the room like she's never seen it before.
"Morning, sunshine," I mutter.
She groans immediately. "Don't speak."
"You look terrible."
"You sound terrible."
"That's hurtful."
She narrows her eyes slightly before reaching toward the nightstand, stopping when she notices the water and painkillers sitting there.
Then the folded hoodie, then she frowns slightly.
I watch realization slowly hit her face.
Oh no.
There it is.
Her hand moves toward her face automatically, fingers brushing under her eyes before she freezes.
Then she looks over at me. "You-"
I immediately look away toward my phone because somehow this feels more awkward than bringing girls into the dorm.
"Don't make it weird," I mutter.
Her eyebrows pull together slightly. "Did you take my makeup off?"
I shrug like I don't care. "You looked like you lost a fight with a raccoon."
There's a pause. Then, quieter, "Oh."
I risk glancing over again.
She still looks confused. Not uncomfortable, just... surprised.
Which somehow feels worse.
"You didn't have to do that," she says after a second.
"Yeah, well," I mutter. "You also almost died trying to take your shoes off, so clearly somebody had to step in."
That earns the smallest laugh from her, tired and rough from the hangover.
Then silence settles for a second. Not awkward exactly, just different.
Eventually Everly clears her throat slightly. "Thank you."
The words hit harder than they should.
I immediately lean back against the wall, forcing myself into something easier, lighter.
"Don't thank me yet," I say. "You threatened a business major with psychological warfare last night."
"He deserved it."
"You called him emotionally drywall."
"He deserved that too."
I laugh before I can stop myself.
Then she smiles slightly.
And for some reason that completely ruins my ability to think normally for a second.
So I stand up immediately. "I'm getting coffee."
"Smart."
"You want anything?"
She groans dramatically, dropping backward onto her pillow again. "A new brain."
"Can't help you there, Coleman."
-
Practice later that afternoon feels hotter than usual.
Or maybe I'm just irritated already.
Probably both.
Coach has us running drills hard from the second we step onto the field, everyone sweating through shirts before we even fully settle in, and I throw myself into it harder than necessary because exhausting myself feels easier than thinking too much.
Scott notices immediately.
"You look homicidal," he says while adjusting his gloves beside me.
"Thanks."
"You okay?"
"Fantastic."
"That sounds fake."
"It is fake."
Scott snorts.
We rotate into another drill, routes running back-to-back, and I catch everything thrown my way mostly because I'm trying to outrun my own brain at this point.
It works for about ten minutes.
Then Logan calls my name. "Bennett."
I turn automatically.
He's standing near the sideline, arms crossed.
Calm.
Way too calm.
"Coach wants the receivers reviewing formations after practice," he says.
"Got it."
Everyone else jogs off once drills switch over.
Logan stays.
Of course he does.
I already know this conversation isn't about formations.
The second we're mostly alone, he looks at me steadily for a second before speaking. "You and Everly."
Straight to the point.
Interesting.
"What about her?"
His jaw tightens slightly. "Stay away from her."
I actually laugh once at that, mostly because of how serious he sounds. "Nothing's happening."
"Good," Logan replies immediately. "Keep it that way."
Something about that response irritates me instantly.
Maybe because he already decided who I am before talking to me.
Maybe because he's acting like Everly's something fragile that needs protecting from me specifically.
"She can make her own decisions," I say flatly.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is?"
Logan holds my gaze steadily. "I know your reputation."
I almost roll my eyes. "Do you?"
"Yeah," he says calmly. "Guys like you aren't hard to figure out."
Guys like you.
There it is.
I laugh again, but there's no humor in it now. "You don't know shit about me."
"I know enough."
The irritation in my chest sharpens immediately.
"Nothing is happening," I repeat, more serious this time.
Logan nods once. "Good."
Then he walks away like the conversation's over.
Which somehow pisses me off even more.
Scott jogs back over a minute later, glancing between me and Logan disappearing across the field.
"Oh," he says slowly. "That looked healthy."
"Shut up."
"Was it a murder threat or a protective brother speech?"
"Both."
Scott grins immediately. "Nice."
I grab my helmet from the bench harder than necessary.
Because the worst part is that Logan got into my head anyway.
And I fucking hate that.