Chapter 29 Sophie
SOPHIE
The campus is still waking up when I spot him Monday morning, walking toward me across the quad, hair messy like he rolled out of bed a little late, but somehow still manages to look unfairly good.
Before I can say anything, he’s right there, his arms coming around me in a hug that’s quick but firm. My cheek brushes against his hoodie, and I breathe in his woodsy scent that’s only him, just as his lips graze the top of my head.
It shouldn’t make my heart skip, but it doesn’t get that memo.
“Morning, Soph,” he murmurs, his low morning voice sending even more shivers down my spine.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice a little breathier than intended.
When we start heading toward class, our hands brush once. Twice. A spark races up my arm each time. Then, without saying a word, he hooks his fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I feel like a teenager, but my stomach does a few backflips from the simple gesture.
When we reach the psych building, Beck lets go just long enough to open the door for me, his hand brushing the small of my back as I walk past. It’s such a small touch, but it lights me up from the inside out.
I can’t really explain the shift that’s happened between us since the other night after the game, but it’s there.
The hallway is buzzing with students, but walking next to him feels like being in our own little pocket of quiet. When we reach our usual row, he sets his bag down and tilts his head at me with that lopsided smile that’s starting to undo me more and more each day.
“You’re extra smiley this morning,” I tease as I slide into my seat.
He raises an eyebrow, dropping into the chair beside me. “Am I not allowed to be in a good mood?”
“Oh, you’re allowed,” I say, pretending to jot something down while my heart tries to beat out of my chest. “Just…noted for the record.”
His low chuckle rumbles next to me, and I have to bite back my own grin.
Professor Nelson starts the lecture, launching straight into today’s topic—personality disorders and treatment plans. I try to focus, I really do, but my brain keeps wandering back to the way Beck’s hand felt in mine. Warm. Certain.
Every now and then, he leans slightly toward me, either to read a note over my shoulder or whisper something quietly about the lecture, and each time, my stomach swoops just a little.
By the end of class, I’ve retained maybe sixty percent of what was said.
We pack up together, falling into step as we head for the doors.
“You’ve got your social work class next, right?” Beck asks, glancing down at me as we push through the building’s double doors, his hand once again finding mine.
I blink, surprised he remembered. “Yeah. How’d you—”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’ve mentioned it a few times. And cheer practice later this afternoon?”
My stomach does a tiny, unexpected flip. He pays attention.
“Right,” I say, trying not to sound as flustered as I suddenly feel.
He slows as we near the edge of the quad. “Want to meet at the library before practice? Get a head start on the project?”
It’s not a suggestion tossed out casually—it’s like he already built it into his day.
“Yeah,” I say, warmth blooming in my chest. “That works for me.”
“Cool,” he says with that quiet ease of his, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll grab us a table.”
We pause outside the building, caught in that small pocket of time where neither of us seems ready to walk away yet. The world hums on around us—students passing, skateboard wheels rattling over pavement—but for a second, it feels like just us.
He gives my hand a light squeeze before letting go. “See you later, Soph.”
“See you,” I reply, my voice softer than I intend.
As he walks away, I catch myself grinning like an idiot, my heart doing its now-familiar flip at his retreating back.
By the time I make it to the library, I’m one missed snack away from a full-on meltdown. My stomach growls loud enough to echo off the walls, earning me a side-eye from a passing grad student.
Figures. I skipped lunch to finish an assignment, and now I’m about to tackle Abnormal Psych with nothing but willpower and regret.
I scan the rows of tables, and there he is. Back corner. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Head bent over the packet like he’s game-planning for the Super Bowl instead of a group project.
When Beck looks up, one earbud still dangling around his neck, his whole face softens. That quiet smile hits me dead center.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
“Hey.” I drop into the seat across from him, tugging out my notebook. My stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a dramatic growl.
He raises a brow. “Let me guess. Lunch didn’t happen?”
I sigh. “Not even close.”
Without a word, he pushes a family-sized bag of Skittles across the table. “Emergency rations.”
I blink at him. “You carry candy like this on purpose?”
“Obviously.” His expression is dead serious, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Never know when someone’s going to need saving.”
I laugh, tearing the bag open. “You’re enabling terrible habits.”
“I’m keeping you from passing out mid-discussion,” he says, leaning back. “There’s a difference.”
I toss a red Skittle in my mouth, narrowing my eyes playfully. “Fine. Candy hero.”
His grin widens a little before he flips open the project packet. “Ready to get started?”
And just like that, we dive into the project.
He’s all focus, the kind that makes the rest of the room fade out.
His pen scratches across the margins, eyes narrowing every so often like he’s piecing something together.
I’m trying to match his energy, but my brain is mostly split between the content in front of me and the sound of him tapping his pen against the table.
“Okay,” he says, breaking the silence. “Do you want to handle the community support and stigma section? You’re the social work expert.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Expert is a strong word, but…yeah, that works. You’re taking the diagnostics?”
“Yep.” He flips through his notes like he’s already halfway done. “Symptoms, treatment options, the whole deal.”
I tilt my head. “You sound way too confident.”
He doesn’t look up. “That’s because I know my stuff.”
I smirk. “Show-off.”
He glances up, deadpan. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I roll my eyes and go back to highlighting. But he’s not wrong—he really does know this material. When I stumble over a section, I ask without thinking.
“Okay, explain the difference between positive and negative symptoms again. I always blank on that.”
He doesn’t even look at the page. “Positive symptoms are added behaviors—hallucinations, delusions, disorganized thinking. Negative symptoms are losses of function. Emotional flatness, reduced speech, stuff like that.”
I stare at him. “You didn’t even check.”
He shrugs, tapping his pen. “I remembered.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter, but it comes out softer than I intended.
We keep working, falling into this easy rhythm of teasing and explaining, passing the Skittles back and forth like some unspoken truce. The rest of the world disappears—just him, me, and the project between us.
Then it happens.
Beck shifts his chair closer to point something out on my notes. I lean in at the same time to ask a question, and suddenly—
Our noses are almost touching.
My breath catches. His does too. His gaze flicks down to my mouth for the quickest heartbeat before snapping back to my eyes.
The air between us goes sharp, warm, alive.
“Uh—” My voice is embarrassingly soft.
“Yeah?” His answer is just as quiet.
“What…what were you gonna show me?”
He clears his throat, turning his notebook toward me like nothing happened. “This part.” His voice is lower than usual, a little rough around the edges.
I try to focus, I really do, but all I can think about is how close he is. The faint stubble along his jaw. The way his lashes catch the light. The steady sound of his breathing right next to mine.
My heart thunders against my ribs.
When I glance up again, he’s already watching me. Not smug, but curious.
I freeze.
“You’re staring, Soph,” he murmurs.
“I—no, I wasn’t.”
His grin spreads slow, like he’s savoring the moment. “You totally were.”
I grab a Skittle and throw it at him. It bounces off his hoodie and lands in his lap.
He pops it into his mouth without missing a beat. “Thanks.”
I shake my head, heat creeping up my neck, but he looks way too pleased with himself.
After another half hour, the outlines are finished, my notes are a mess of highlights, and the Skittles bag is nearly empty.
Beck stretches in his chair, arms over his head, hoodie riding up just enough to make my brain short-circuit for a second before I snap my eyes back to my laptop.
He lets out a quiet sigh. “I hate to say this,” he says, dropping his arms, “but we should probably get going if we don’t want to be late to practice.”
My shoulders slump dramatically. “You mean we can’t just live here forever?”
He grins, shoving his notebook into his backpack. “Tempting. But Coach would actually end me.”
“Fair,” I say, closing my laptop.
We pack up and head outside, the late-afternoon sun dipping lower in the sky, streaking the quad in pink and orange. It’s quieter than usual between us—but not awkward. Just…warm. Familiar.
Halfway down the path, our hands brush. Once. Twice.
And then he just takes mine. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Fingers sliding through, palms fitting together, no hesitation.
My heart gives an unhelpful little lurch.
We walk like that toward the stadium, side by side, talking about nothing in particular—practice drills, the ridiculous amount of reading due next week, how he still refuses to try the pumpkin spice cold brew everyone’s been obsessing over.
When the stadium comes into view, I spot Ava up ahead with a couple of the other girls. She sees us first, and her eyes go wide before she breaks into a slow, knowing grin.
“Oh my God,” she mouths, barely holding back a squeal.
The other girls follow her gaze, and suddenly there’s a whole chorus of looks and whispers being exchanged.
I can feel my face heating, but Beck doesn’t flinch. He just gives my hand a light squeeze, like he’s steadying me, before letting go as we near the locker rooms and cheer tunnel.
“See you after,” he says, casual but soft.
“See you,” I reply, trying to ignore Ava’s very obvious eyebrow wiggle.
As he jogs off toward the locker room, I can’t help it—I smile. Big. Stupid. Uncontrollable.