Chapter 5
Sam
Ifucking hate that I have to go to his house.
The sun hangs low, burning gold against the rooftops as I walk the cracked pavement, my backpack digging into one shoulder.
Every house I pass looks the same kind of perfect.
Trim lawns. White fences. Garden gnomes smile as if they know nothing bad ever happens here.
Wind chimes softly tinkle, the kind that sound as if fairies really live behind those front doors.
Reece lives at the end of the cul-de-sac, where the road curves and rules no longer seem to matter. His house feels isolated from the rest of the neighborhood, as if it never truly belonged here.
The front yard is cluttered. Overgrown grass blocks the path to the door, weeds scraping at my ankles as I walk closer.
An old couch sits half-buried in the dirt next to a torn-apart engine block that looks abandoned.
Rusted tools are scattered in a milk crate on the steps.
I wonder if he’s the one who works on it.
If those hands that scribble dirty notes know how to fix things or if they only know how to take them apart piece by piece.
That makes sense.
It has a poetic quality, in a way.
Reece is good at breaking shit. The rules, people, anything that gets too close.
And me most of all.
I stop at the bottom of the steps, irritation creeping under my skin because I hate how he dragged me here. I hate how my grades matter more than my pride.
I stare at the door a moment longer than I should, my heart pounding in my chest. I take a deep breath and knock before I can chicken out.
If he pulls another stunt like he did in class with those filthy words and notes, I swear to God I’ll lose my shit. Completely. No filter. No restraint. I’ll tell him exactly where he can shove his mouth, his cock, and every smug little thought in his head.
Even if reading them made my thighs tighten under the desk.
Even if my body betrayed me in ways, I’m still pissed off about it.
I still remember every word. Every promise, as if he already had me spread out beneath him. As if he knew exactly how I would sound when I stopped pretending I hated him.
And the worst part is that he meant them.
I clutch the strap of my bag, trying to stay grounded. I am not here for Reece. I am not here for his smart mouth, his hands, or the way he looks at me as if I am something he intends to take his time with.
I’m here for the assessment. That’s all. Because I’m not that girl. And he’s not the kind of guy you survive.
The door swings open, and I immediately regret every decision that brought me here.
He’s shirtless. Of course he is.
It feels intentional. Calculated. Like he knew exactly how much this would mess with me and twisted the knife before I even stepped inside. His jeans sit low on his hips, worn and loose, with the waistband cutting a sharp line across skin I absolutely shouldn’t be staring at.
A new scar cuts across his ribcage, angry and pink, as if it’s fresh. His hair is wet, with darker curls than usual, water still clinging to the ends. The faint smell of soap drifts toward me, and my stomach flips in a way I refuse to admit.
His eyes flick to mine, slow and assessing.
His mouth twitches, just slightly. He knows exactly what he looks like and how it’s affecting me.
I hate how my body responds before my brain can catch up.
“Sam,” he drawls, voice low, filled with that cocky confidence. “You showed.”
There it is. That tone. The smug satisfaction that shows he never doubted I would.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and refuse to give him anything more. I am not here for this. Not for his chest, the scar. Not for the way his eyes scan over me as if he’s undressing me in his mind.
I grit my teeth. “Put on a shirt.”
I push past him and into the house because it’s the only thing I can still control. If I stop moving, if I hesitate, I’ll bolt. Or worse, I’ll stand there staring at his chest and that scar and forget why I came at all.
The door closes behind me with a dull thud.
Inside smells harsh. Smoke. Sweat. Old energy drinks gone stale.
The old heat trapped in walls that have seen too much and been cleaned too little.
Something hums faintly nearby, a low electrical buzz that crawls under my skin.
The carpet beneath my shoes is worn thin and frayed, fibers flattened by too many footsteps and too little care.
This place feels tired.
I follow him down the narrow hallway, keeping my eyes forward even though every instinct tells me to watch his back, his shoulders, the way he moves with that lazy confidence that never quite slips.
We pass a cracked mirror hanging crooked on the wall. I catch my reflection for a moment and see the cracks beginning to surface.
Then we get to his room, and chaos doesn’t even begin to describe it.
Dirty laundry is strewn across the floor in careless piles.
A mattress sits directly on the ground instead of a bedframe, with sheets twisted and half hanging off the sides.
A football is wedged near the corner as if it was dropped and never picked up again.
I know he played back in the day. He was good too.
I remember watching him. But chasing girls to score seems more his sport now.
There’s a guitar in the corner missing two strings, neglected but not forgotten. A pack of cigarettes sits on top of a speaker, crushed and half empty.
The desk is a mess of crumpled paper, scattered everywhere as if he tried to write something and got pissed when it wouldn’t come out right. Pens tossed aside. Ink smudges on the surface.
I glance at the crumpled notes before I can stop myself.
I wonder if they’re just more of the same crap he handed me in class. Filthy. Provocative. Built to get under someone’s skin and stay there. The thought makes heat crawl up my neck even as I scowl.
This room makes sense in a way I dislike.
Messy, angry, half-finished.
Just like him.
“Are you coming in or just judging from the doorway?”
His voice drifts over my shoulder. I step inside without answering, because engaging him on his terms is a mistake. I drop my bag to the floor and pull out my notes, stacking them neatly on my lap as if order might keep him from getting into my head.
“I don’t have time to waste,” I say. “So keep your comments to yourself.”
“Relax,” he says. “I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
He grabs a hoodie off the bed and pulls it on, as if he’s doing me a favor and knows exactly how much I hate that he gets under my skin without even trying.
We sit on the floor, knees spaced carefully apart. Just worn carpet beneath us and the scent of his cologne cutting through.
“Don’t fuck this up,” I say, meeting his eyes. “This is worth almost half our final grade.”
“I got it.”
“No,” I say flatly. “You don’t. You don’t care about any of this.”
He shrugs easily, unbothered. “Maybe I care about some things.”
“Not school.”
His eyes lock onto mine. “You care enough for both of us.”
The audacity of it makes my jaw tighten. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He leans back on his elbows, stretching out with a relaxed posture, watching me as I pull my laptop from my bag and place it between us. I sense his eyes on me, following every movement of my hands.
“Are you always this angry?” he asks. “Or is it just me?”
“It’s you,” I say without hesitation.
The corner of his mouth lifts, and the fact that he’s smirking like he enjoys that answer just makes me more pissed off.
Because even sitting here, surrounded by his mess and trying to focus on what truly matters, I’m painfully aware of how close he is. Of how easily this could go wrong. Of how much I want to prove I’m immune to him.
I open my laptop and remind myself that this is just work.
I repeat it to myself even as his gaze burns into my skin, and I know deep down that nothing about this will stay simple for long.
I don’t allow myself to look at him. I keep my eyes trained on my notes, the screen, or anything that isn’t his mouth, his hands, or the way he fills the room effortlessly.
Because if he wasn’t who he was, this arrogant, reckless fuck boy who thinks he can coast through life on a smile and a reputation, maybe I could like him.
But he is who he is.
And I won’t like him. Not now. Not ever.
“You can’t just wing this,” I snap, fingers moving as I pull up my outline. My voice is tight, clipped, already exhausted. “There’s a structure. If we don’t hit the criteria, it doesn’t matter how smart the content is.”
Reece leans back on his elbows, his long legs stretched out with boots still on the carpet, as if my grade isn’t on the line. “You worry too much.”
“I am not failing,” I shoot back, heat rising fast, “because you think school is optional.”
That does it.
He quickly sits up in one smooth motion, the laziness vanishing instantly. His eyes narrow, and his posture shifts to something alert. Dangerous. “You think I’m stupid.”
The room becomes silent in a tense way that makes my skin prickle.
“I think you don’t care,” I shoot back, the words sharp enough to cut. “There’s a difference.”
He lets out a laugh. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, bringing himself closer without actually touching me. His gaze remains fixed. It’s steady. Too steady. The kind that makes you feel seen in ways you didn’t agree to. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think I could do this.”
“I’m here," I snap, "because I don’t trust you not to mess it up.”
His mouth curves slowly. “Same thing.”
“No.”
We glare at each other, the air thick with it.
Heat buzzing in the small room, tension snapping tight between us.
His music plays from a speaker in the corner, the bass vibrating through the floor and into my bones.
I force my focus back to my screen: bullet points, sources, headings.
Anything that isn’t his eyes or the way he’s angled toward me like a challenge.
He moves closer.