Chapter 7
Marcus
One week of dating Lilah Rodriguez and it’s nothing like I imagined.
It's messier. More chaotic. Completely unplanned.
It's perfect.
"Stop organizing my paintbrushes," she says Sunday morning, swatting my hand away.
"They're organized by color. It's efficient—"
"They're organized by how I use them. Your system makes no sense for my process."
"Your system is entropy."
"Your system is boring." She kisses me to stop my protest. "Leave my chaos alone."
We're in her studio, supposedly working. Actually, we've spent more time kissing than painting. I should feel guilty about the lost productivity.
I don't.
"We have five days," I remind her when we come up for air. "Six more pieces to complete."
"I know and we'll finish them. But right now, I need a break." She pulls me toward the door. "Come on. There's something I want to show you."
"Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise. You know, that thing you hate because you can't plan for it?"
"I don't hate surprises. I'm just... cautious about them."
"Same thing." She drags me across campus to the far side, to a building I've never entered. "The music building. Most people don't know about the rooftop access."
"Because it's probably restricted."
"Semantics." She produces a key. "One of my friends is a music major. She gave me her practice room key. The roof is technically part of the practice space."
"That's not how building codes work—"
"Marcus. Stop thinking and just experience."
We climb five flights of stairs and emerge onto a rooftop garden I didn't know existed. Plants everywhere, small trees, benches overlooking campus.
"It's beautiful," I admit.
"I come here when I'm stressed. When the studio feels too small and my head feels too loud." She sits on a bench, pulling me down next to her. "I wanted to share it with you."
"Why?"
"Because you're always helping everyone else. Solving their problems. Fixing their crises. But who helps you? Who gives you space to just exist without having to be perfect?"
I sit there in silence for a moment, thinking about her question. "I don't need help. I'm fine."
"Liar. You're stressed about your thesis. About Legacy Council expectations. About whatever your family wants from you that you're not talking about." She takes my hand. "I see you, Marcus. Not the perfect problem-solver everyone else sees. The real you, under all that control."
"The real me is boring."
"The real you is scared of being vulnerable. Of not having all the answers. Of letting people see you struggle." She squeezes my hand. "But you don't have to be perfect with me. You can be messy and confused and wrong. I'll love you anyway."
I freeze. "You'll what?"
She realizes what she said. "I mean…I didn't mean to…that came out wrong—"
"Say it again."
"Marcus—"
"Please. Say it again."
"I love you." Her voice is quiet but certain. "I've been falling for you all week. Maybe longer. Maybe since freshman year when you looked at my painting and tried to find words for feelings. I love you. The organized you, the helpful you, the secretly messy you that you try to hide. All of it."
I should be panicking. Should be calculating the risks of saying this back. Of admitting feelings I can't control.
Instead, I kiss her. Hard and desperate and honest.
"I love you too," I say against her lips. "Even though you're chaos and disorder and everything I thought I didn't want. I love you."
"Even though I'm impulsive and emotional?"
"Especially because of that. You make me feel things I've spent my whole life trying to avoid and it's terrifying. And I don't want it to stop."
I’m thinning something here sexy wise
For the first time in my life, I'm not planning the next move.
I'm just existing in the moment.
And it's perfect.