Chapter 25
brANDON
Ishouldn’t have followed Tatum; I know that.
She’s not mine to protect, and she’s made it very clear she wants me to keep my distance, but the second I saw Ethan grab her arm and yank her toward the front of the bar, my stomach sank.
A fist formed inside my chest, clenching tight beneath my sternum, and the only way I knew how to release it was to make sure she was okay.
When I found them lingering by the exit, I hung back, trying to hear what they were saying over the music. Their voices were raised, clearly arguing. I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t need to.
The second Ethan laid his hands on her and she tried to break free from his grip, I saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, and I was done. Cooked. Because I knew if he didn’t let go of her, I was going to do something stupid—something far worse than breaking his nose.
I step forward, feeling the pulse of adrenaline in my veins as my shadow falls over him. “Let. Her. Go.” When he doesn’t move, I add, “Now.”
Ethan’s eyes dart between us, his grip still tight on Tatum’s arm. I can see him calculating—weighing his options and measuring his consequences.
I stand my ground, my body tensed and ready. If he’s looking for a fight, he’ll get one. And for a heartbeat, I think he might actually take a swing at me. And I hope he does, because I want nothing more than to put him on his ass, and this time, I’ll make sure he doesn’t get back up.
His jaw works, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he stares me down. But then his eyes flick to something over my shoulder—probably his friends watching from the bar—and the fight seems to drain out of him.
He releases Tatum’s arm with a dismissive flick of his wrist, as if he was never holding it in the first place. “This isn’t over,” he spits at her, venom lacing every word before he shoves past me, deliberately ramming his shoulder into mine as he staggers away.
I watch him for a moment to make sure he’s really leaving before turning my attention to what matters most. Or, rather, who matters most.
Tatum stands there, trembling like a shaking leaf, and the sight of it makes my blood boil all over again.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to calm myself down as I gently brush a strand of hair from her face and duck my head to catch her gaze. “Hey,” I say softly. “You okay?”
She nods, but it’s not convincing with the way she circles her arms around herself as if it’s the only thing holding her together. “I just want to go back to my room,” she whispers, her voice so small and tired, I can barely make out the words.
“Okay,” I agree. “Let me just send the guys a quick text I’m leaving.”
“No. You don’t have to do that,” she says, taking a step back. “You’re with your friends, having fun. I can just walk back by myself.”
I cock my head, sure she must be joking, but when it’s clear she’s not, I tip her chin up with my hand and say, “I’d rather be with you any day of the week, and even if that weren’t the case, I’m sure as hell not letting you walk back alone.”
I release her chin without waiting for a response, then fire off a text to the guys, and shove the phone back in my pocket. “Come on,” I say, my tone gentle as I place a hand on the small of her back and guide her toward the exit.
The cool night air wraps around us as we step outside, and she shivers. Without thinking, I slip off my hoodie and ease it over her head, my fingers brushing her hair as she tugs it closer, burying herself in its warmth. “Thanks,” she whispers, her voice soft enough to disappear into the wind.
I glance down at her ridiculous boots—the kind that look like they were designed by someone who’s never walked more than ten feet—and make a split-second decision. Before she can protest, I crouch, hook an arm behind her knees, and sweep her up in one smooth motion.
She lets out a startled yelp, her hands flying to my neck. “Brandon! What are you doing?”
“Carrying you,” I say, adjusting her easily against my chest as I start walking, “before those torture devices finish the job.”
“You can’t carry me all the way back to the dorms. It’s a ten-minute walk,” she protests.
“So?”
“So . . . that’s too far.”
My grip on her tightens as I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Tate, I’m not having you walk back to your dorm in those shoes when I know your feet are killing you.”
“Okay, but I can walk,” she says with a lack of conviction that makes me chuckle.
“I like it better this way,” I say, not giving a damn if she reads into it or not.
She falls quiet, her body gradually melting against mine as I carry her across campus.
The weight of her against me feels right—like she was meant to fit here, in my arms, where the world finally makes a little sense.
Her head finds my shoulder, and with each step, I feel the tension drain from her, her breathing evening out against my chest.
We’re silent as I carry her back, and it’s the kind of silence that hums with things I’m not brave enough to say.
I can’t stop wondering what this means—her fighting with Ethan, letting me carry her, not pulling away.
Is she finally seeing what’s been right in front of her? Or am I just fooling myself again?
The campus is hushed at this hour, only the distant laughter of a few stragglers breaking the quiet. Tate’s warmth seeps through me, steady and real, and for a moment I let myself imagine this is something we can get back to—something we almost lost.
When we reach her dorm, she stirs, and the spell begins to break.
“You can put me down now,” she murmurs, reaching for her keys. “I can unlock it.”
I shake my head, feeling only a little selfish when I say, “No way. I’m not putting you on your feet until you’re out of those damn boots. Give me your keys.”
She hesitates, then hands them over, and I manage to unlock the door while still holding her. A few more steps, and I’m through the adjoining suite and into her bedroom, setting her gently on the bed, like she’s precious cargo.
Kneeling in front of her, I grip one boot in my hand and start to unzip it when she reaches out, stopping me. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
“But?”
“Tatum . . .” I glance up at her in silent permission, and when she removes her hand and nods, I take it as a win.
One by one, I ease the boots off her feet, and she lets out a low groan.
When I peel away the socks, the sight makes me suck in a breath.
“Dammit, Tate.” Blisters bloom angry and raw by her toes.
“You’ve got at least half a dozen of these.
Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you come back here sooner? ”
She bites her lip, her gaze darting anywhere but at me. “I wanted to, but . . .” She trails off with a little shrug, and it’s not hard to hear what she isn’t saying.
Fucking Ethan.
My jaw clenches so tight it pops. “Some of these have opened. They need ointment and bandages,” I say, rising to my feet.
I head to her bathroom, knowing exactly where she keeps her first-aid kit—top drawer, left side.
Some things never change.
I grab it along with a washcloth that I dampen with warm water, glad to see when I return that she’s still sitting exactly where I left her, looking small and vulnerable in my oversized hoodie.
“This might hurt a little,” I warn as I kneel in front of her again, gently cleaning the broken blisters.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers after a moment.
“For what?
“For pushing you away and choosing him. For being really, really stupid.”
“Hey.” I glance up and cup her cheek with my hand, hating the look of defeat in her eyes. “You’re not stupid.” I shake my head, my tone firm as I return my attention to her feet where I apply antibiotic ointment.
“That’s debatable,” she mutters under her breath. Then after a minute, she adds, “I broke up with him.”
My hands freeze, unsure of whether I heard her right, and it’s a full minute before I meet her eyes, searching for the truth in her words.
When I find it, my heart kicks.
I swallow, afraid to hope. “You did?”
She nods with a whispered, “Yes.”
“Are you . . . are you okay?” I ask, searching her expression and wondering if the relief I hear in her voice is real, or if she’s just putting on a brave face.
Tatum scoffs and shakes her head. “I don’t deserve you. Just weeks ago, I cut you from my life, and when I finally broke up with the man who’s partly to blame, the first thing out of your mouth is to ask whether or not I’m okay?”
I frown. “What else would I say?”
“I don’t know . . . I told you so?”
Rising to my feet, I throw the bandage wrappers in the trash, then return to her side where I sink down, taking her hand in mine. “There’s nothing satisfying in telling someone you love I told you so. At least, not when they’re hurting.”
She drops her chin to her chest, looking so sad and small, my body aches. I want to hold her, tell her how much I care and finally make her mine, but this isn’t about me. This is about her. She just broke up with her boyfriend, which means she needs to heal, and I can wait?my feelings can wait.
“You’re just too perfect,” she mumbles.
Perfect for you.
“You still haven’t answered the question,” I say.
She swallows, and her gaze tracks the lines of my face. “I’m okay.”
Satisfied, I lean forward and press a kiss to her temple, wishing more than anything it was her mouth, before I rise to my feet. “I’ll let you get some rest. Is there anything else I can do?”
Before I can finish, she blurts out, “You could stay.”
She looks up at me, her eyes catching the light—violet and glassy—and the quiet plea in them grips my chest like a fist.
She slips beneath the covers, then glances back, earnest and a little shy, patting the empty space beside her.
I hesitate for half a heartbeat before lying down, careful to leave a sliver of distance between us.
But when she turns, curling into me like she’s seeking warmth, that space disappears.
She’s small and soft against me, her body fitting perfectly with mine, and I feel every rise and fall of her breath.
My hand drifts to her back, tracing slow circles beneath the hem of my hoodie, trying not to think about how much I want her—or how badly I wish this moment belonged to another time, another version of us.
Her breathing steadies, warm against my neck, and when her body finally relaxes into mine, I whisper into the quiet, “Good night, Tatum.”