Chapter 5
Dmitri
Soft light shines over the quad, bathing the space in that forgiving way that makes everything look a little more alive.
New grass glows green enough to sting the eyes, and dogwoods are beginning to bloom in pinks and whites.
The air carries the faint sweetness of cut grass, and a hint of sunscreen wafts over as someone walks past.
We’ve claimed our usual spot under the big oak near the music building. It’s far enough from the main paths that no one yells at us to move, but close enough to people watch as everyone comes out of hibernation.
Eric is stretched out on the blanket I laid out, with his head resting on the edge of my thigh and one arm flung over his eyes to block the sun. His hair is still damp from the shower he took after his morning lesson, and blond strands stick up at odd angles.
I can’t stop running my fingers through it. They comb the strands in slow, absent strokes, separating them and smoothing them back only for the breeze to muss them again. Every few passes I let my thumb brush the shell of his ear, light enough to make him shiver once and hum in protest.
He doesn’t complain or pull away, though. He never does.
I flip through the music history flashcards on my phone, keeping my voice low. “Okay. Seventeenth century. Who’s the big name in opera?”
Eric groans, but a smile tugs at his mouth. “Monteverdi. You’re killing me with the simple ones.”
“They’re only simple if you’re not half-asleep.” I tug lightly on a section of hair near his temple. “Next. What year did Handel write Messiah?”
“1741.” He cracks one eye open, peering up at me. “Are you taking it easy on me?”
“Maybe,” I answer as I slide my fingers along his scalp, scratching gently behind his ear the way I know he likes.
“Or maybe you’re just going to rock another quiz.
” He hums again, pleased, and shifts so his cheek presses more firmly against my thigh.
The small adjustment brings his forehead against my stomach, and I feel the warmth of his breath through my shirt.
I’d give anything for it to always be this way.
The two of us on the grass, with no stressful deadlines crowding in, no one else pulling us in different directions, and no questions we’re both too scared to voice.
Just this.
His head in my lap, my fingers in his hair, the sun warm on my shoulders, and his hand finding mine every few minutes like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I pull away to shift my weight, and he reaches up blindly to keep me there, fingers curling around my wrist. His thumb brushes the pulse point inside, then he lets go as if nothing happened.
I resume petting him with a breathy laugh.
I shouldn’t let myself fall into this. Shouldn’t enjoy it quite so much.
Eric’s lashes rest against his cheeks, and the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose are visible again now that he’s caught some sun.
His mouth is soft, relaxed in a way it rarely is when he’s awake and thinking too hard.
My chest carries that familiar, quiet ache…
one that’s been there so long I almost stop noticing it.
I’d freeze this moment if I could. Bottle it and keep it forever.
But time keeps moving. A group of runners charges past, kicking up gravel and dust. Someone’s phone blares nearby, then a cluster of students passes, laughing loudly.
I glance down at Eric again. He’s watching me now, eyes half-open.
“What?” he asks, voice sleepy.
“Nothing.” I smooth his hair back from his forehead. “Just thinking you look like you’re about to take a nap.”
“Not napping. Studying.” He yawns anyway, proving my point. “Keep going. Quiz me.”
I flip to the next question. “Baroque period. What’s the main difference between French and Italian overtures?”
He thinks for a second, idly picking at a stray thread on the hem of my shirt. “French ones start slow, then fast. Italian are fast-slow-fast.”
“Close. You got Italian, but French are slow-fast-slow.”
He groans. “Can you go back to the easy ones?”
“Your GPA will thank me,” I tease.
He flicks my stomach with his index finger and scowls. “You’re evil.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just grabs my wrist once more with a soft squeeze, then lets go.
I wish he’d keep holding on.
I wish he’d look up at me the way he does when he thinks I’m not watching… like I’m the only thing that makes sense.
I wish I could ask if he feels it too, this quiet thing that’s been growing between us for years.
But I don’t.
Instead I move on to the next question. I keep my voice steady, keep my fingers moving through his hair, keep pleading that my heart accepts this is enough.
That it has to be, because it might be all I’ll ever get.
Today has been perfect, and I find myself searching for a way to keep it from ending. A new pizza place opened on 12th, and I’ve heard it has an amazing rooftop patio and killer garlic knots. Would asking him to dinner under the sunset feel too much like asking him on a date?
Would that thought even cross his mind?
I’m about to ask when a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Eric!” A girl in a cropped hoodie and leggings waves and crosses the grass toward us, dark hair swinging in a high ponytail. One of the voice majors, I think. We’ve spoken a couple of times in passing, but she’s clearly here for him.
He sits up slowly, hair mussed from my fingers, and blinks against the sun. “Hey, Sophie.”
She stops a few feet away, smiling wide. “Hey! I was hoping I’d find you out here. Could I steal you for a few minutes?”
Eric glances at me, then back at her. “Yeah, sure. Give me a sec.”
He brushes grass off his jeans after he stands, then walks over to her. They step far enough away that I can’t hear, their heads bent close as they talk. She laughs at something he says then touches his arm, and he smiles back. It’s small and polite, but it’s real.
I’ve been cataloguing his expressions long enough to know.
I watch from the blanket, fingers still curled around the phone I forgot I was holding. My stomach twists, and a hot, ugly jealousy curls under my ribs. Her touches are cautious enough to pass as casual, but I don’t like her hands on him, and I don’t like that he doesn’t pull away.
She flips through a notebook while he leans in. They’re too close, but neither of them moves. They just keep smiling and talking in that easy way that looks so damned natural.
They look natural.
And why wouldn’t they?
She’s exactly what he’d look for in a partner.
Sophie holds her notebook out toward Eric and hands him a pen, and my heart sinks as he jots something on a page and passes it back. She takes it with a bright grin, says something I can’t hear, then tucks it into her bag like treasure.
It’s his number, or his email, or some way to reach him. He’s asking her out. He has to be.
I stare at him, handsome as ever in the golden light. She’d be an idiot to say no.
Eric has dated more girls than I care to count over the years, though I can picture all of their faces. Long-term a few times, short-term usually, and a handful of fleeting one-night stands. It always hurt, but I never blamed him for the pain when he never knew he caused it.
These last few weeks, things have felt different between us, though, and I was foolish enough to think he might be starting to feel the same.
Reality crashes in again until I’m dizzy with it. I was sitting here daydreaming about asking him to dinner, spinning magical what-ifs that will never happen.
Eric isn’t mine.
Not in the way he could be hers.
My throat closes. I stand mechanically as I shove my phone in my pocket, then fold the blanket into a jumbled, messy ball.
I don’t rush. I’m not even angry. I just can’t stand to watch him with someone else, because this time the hurt feels different.
Still, I lack the self-preservation to walk away from him, so I turn my back and wait.
After a few more minutes, familiar footsteps approach from behind me. “Hey… are we… done?”
I force a smile that feels wooden. “You looked busy, so I just…” I trail off, gesturing at the empty space where we were just studying like it explains anything.
“I wasn’t busy.” He steps in front of me, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Sophie needed notes.”
My laugh comes out harsh and brittle, nothing like it should. “Looked like more than notes.”
“What does that mean?”
“Listen, you don’t need my approval to ask someone out, okay? That doesn’t mean I want to be a third wheel and watch it happen.”
Eric’s brows draw together, but his voice stays unnervingly calm—missing his usual fire. “She missed class and asked for a copy of my notes.”
I finally meet his eyes. “She was flirting, and you know it. Half the girls on this campus have been hanging off you at some point, so don’t play dumb. Don’t fight me on this.”
His brows shoot even higher, and he reaches out tentatively to grip the edge of my shirt between his fingers. “I don’t want to fight.”
A quiet, sad laugh escapes me. “You always want to fight.”
“Not with you,” he says as he takes a half step closer. “Why can’t we get this right? We never used to argue like this.”
My posture loosens, surrendering at the same time he does. “Because we’re idiots,” I choke out.
“Yeah, well, I can’t argue with that.” He laughs under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. The motion is agitated, nothing like the gentle way I touched it minutes ago. “I don’t want her, D.”
My heart stutters with something that feels an awful lot like stupid, foolish hope. “Why not?”
His expression is unreadable for a long moment before he lifts a single shoulder in an evasive shrug. “Doesn’t matter. I just don’t.”
He sidesteps the question the way he always does when something gets too close. No explanation. No real answer. Just that quiet, stubborn wall.
I want to push. I want to ask what’s stopping him from pursuing a sweet, pretty girl who clearly wants him. Why he came back to me instead of staying with her, and why his hand is still on my shirt, fingers curled like he’s afraid I’ll walk away.
But I don’t leave, and I don’t push for answers. Pushing would mean naming the thing we’ve both been circling for so long, and neither of us is ready.
Instead I nod slowly. “Okay.”
He searches my face. “Okay, okay, or okay, I want you to shut up now?”
“Why not both?” I tease, and I’m rewarded with the tiniest tilt of his lips. “Are you hungry?”
He shakes his head at the abrupt shift, then pats his stomach. “I’m literally always hungry.”
“Feel like getting dinner?”
“Fuck yeah.” He bumps my shoulder. “Oh! There’s this new pizza place that’s supposed to be amazing.”
“The one on 12th?”
“That’s the one,” he agrees, nodding before glancing around at the gorgeous late afternoon. “I hear they have a really nice rooftop patio, too. Maybe we could eat up there? I bet it’d be nice under the sunset.”
My heart aches as he looks at me, waiting. “That sounds like a really great idea,” I finally manage.