Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Camille
Never Underestimate Chemistry
Oh my God. Is this even real? I mean, this guy. He’s definitely not my Charles, but can we all take a moment to appreciate the view?
He’s tall—taller than most of the guys here—and moves with that effortless kind of confidence that makes you wonder if he was born knowing he’d be the most interesting person in any room. His dark brown hair is slightly tousled, it has that just-rolled-out-of-bed-but-make-it-fashion look that somehow works for him. It’s cropped short on the sides, with just enough length on top to give him something to rake his hand through—and he does, casually, as if he’s forgotten how unfairly good it makes him look.
Then there are his eyes. Blue eyes, or maybe gray. It’s hard to say with the dim light in this place. But they’re deep and thoughtful but with just enough edge to keep you guessing. When they land on me, it’s like he’s peeling back my carefully constructed layers one by one, leaving me standing here, trying not to look as ridiculous as I feel.
His jawline can cut glass, his cheekbones belong in a museum, and there’s a hint of stubble that makes him look like he’s stepped straight out of some “athlete with depth” magazine spread. He’s not smiling, but the way his expression shifts—subtle, deliberate—says more than words ever could.
He’s . . . delicious. The kind of guy you’d want to lick like a popsicle and maybe, you know, test his proficiency in kissing. For research purposes, obviously. After all, I’m a scientist and everything has to be tested and replicable.
But no. Focus. I can’t afford to lose brain cells over a guy when my last midterm is on Monday. Priorities, Camille. Priorities .
“So,” he says, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. His voice is low and smooth. There’s just enough gravel in it to make your knees a little weak and make you have a little orgasm in your ears. “You have to be honest. Do you always bring a textbook to a party, or is tonight special?”
“I like to be prepared,” I say, hoping my tone comes off as casual and not completely flustered by your existence.
“For what? A pop quiz during a keg stand?” His mouth curves just enough to show he knows how funny he is.
I laugh before I can stop myself. It’s easier than I expected. “Something like that.”
His gaze still on me, but not in an intimidating way. It’s more like he’s genuinely curious, and somehow, that’s even worse. “What’s your major?”
“Biochemistry,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. Then add, “But I’m planning on going into med school. I’m a freshman. You?”
“Football,” he replies with zero hesitation.
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s not a major.”
“Depends on who you ask,” he says, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “I’m training for the draft. Quarterback. I’m a junior but I stopped going to school last semester.”
“Did you even declare a major before dropping out of college?” I ask, unable to resist poking a little fun .
“Judgy much?” he counters, but there’s amusement in his voice.
“Not judging,” I clarify, shrugging. “Just curious. Me and athletes don’t exactly run in the same circles. I don’t know how all that works.”
“But you know Luc,” he says, tilting his head slightly.
“Luc?” I repeat, blinking.
“Lucian Crawford,” he clarifies, like it should be obvious.
“Oh, Crawford. Ugh, everyone knows him,” I say with a wave of my hand. “He doesn’t blend in. You two don’t look much alike, though.”
I don’t tell him that he’s slept with a few of my friends—not Zindy, who swears he’s a walking STI.
“Nope. He looks more like Dad, and I look more like Pops—same egg donor, different fathers,” he says casually, like he’s explained this a hundred times before.
“Oh. So, your mom married your?—”
“No,” he cuts in smoothly. “We don’t have a mom. Our fathers used an egg donor and a surrogate to have their six children.”
“There’s more than two of you?” I ask, but without waiting for him to answer, I blurt out, “So, are you any good at football?”
“Decent,” he replies, though his tone is self- deprecating.
“Decent doesn’t get you into the draft,” I say, tilting my head knowingly.
“Touché,” he says.
There’s a beat of silence, and I half expect him to make an excuse and walk away. But instead, he straightens, pushing off the wall. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“What?” I blink, caught off guard.
“This place is too loud, and I’m too tired,” he says, glancing around the room like he can’t believe anyone would willingly stay. “And if you’re going to read a textbook, you might as well do it somewhere quieter. There’s a spot I like—not far from here—best hamburgers in town. Great dessert, I think you’ll like it.”
“How are their fries?” I ask, narrowing my eyes slightly.
“You’ll never eat fries as good as theirs,” he promises, his tone completely serious.
I hesitate, the practical part of my brain screaming no. But another part—the part that’s been running on autopilot since I got here—whispers, why not?
“Okay,” I say finally, setting my drink on the windowsill. “Lead the way.”
His smile widens, and I’m already wondering if this is the best or worst decision I’ll make all semester.
Probably both.
The restaurant is the exact opposite of the party: quiet, unassuming, and tucked into a strip mall that’s seen better days. It’s one of those places you’d drive past a hundred times and never notice. Vinyl booths with cracks patched up by duct tape line the walls, and the air carries the comforting smell of coffee, grease, and fried potatoes.
“This is the spot?” I ask, sliding into the booth across from him, my eyebrow quirking in mild skepticism.
“Don’t judge it by the duct tape,” he says, already scanning the menu like it’s an old friend. “They have the best pie you’ll ever taste. Trust me.”
The waitress comes by, a no-nonsense woman who looks like she’s been here since the place opened and probably knows every customer’s life story. Killion orders coffee and apple pie without hesitation, and after a moment, I do the same—though I add a side of fries. Because priorities.
As we wait, the conversation flows easily, almost unnervingly so. He tells me about training with his dad, a legendary quarterback whose name alone sends people’s expectations through the roof. I tell him about my parents and their not-so-subtle dream of having a doctor in the family. My sister is halfway through law school, and my brother is weighing options between architecture or dentistry. And yes, we’re all choosing safe careers. The kind parents can brag about and will have a guaranteed salary to keep a roof above us .
“Do I actually love science and medicine? Yes,” I say, stirring sugar into my coffee. “But knowing they’re depending on me makes it feel . . . like a chore more than a joy.”
“I get it,” he says, leaning back in the booth. “It’s like there’s this invisible pressure. Like you can’t mess up—not because of what it’ll mean for you, but because of what it’ll mean for them.”
“Exactly.” I nod, a surprising wave of relief washing over me. “Everyone says college is about finding yourself, but it feels more like . . . proving yourself. Like you have to earn the right to even be here.”
Before he can respond, the waitress slides plates in front of us. The pie is golden, flaky, and practically glowing under the dim diner lights. My fries arrive hot and crispy, the steam curling invitingly. I take one bite of the pie, and it’s everything he promised—sweet, buttery, and perfect.
But the fries? Oh, the fries. I ask for ranch, and when the waitress brings it over, I dip one in, dragging it through the creamy dressing before taking a bite. The tangy, salty combination hits my tongue, and I let out an involuntary moan.
Low, soft, but unfiltered.
Killion freezes, his fork halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes lock on me, and the air between us seems to shift. Suddenly, I’m aware—of the way his gaze drops to my lips, the slight clench of his jaw, and the way his chest rises a little faster, like he’s forgotten to breathe .
I set the fry down slowly, feeling my cheeks heat under his stare. “What?” I ask, trying for nonchalance but failing miserably.
His lips curl into a slow, almost dangerous smirk. “Nothing. Just didn’t realize fries could . . . do that to someone.” His voice is lower now, with a teasing edge that sends a shiver down my spine.
“Well,” I say, lifting another fry like it’s a weapon, “maybe you’re just eating them wrong.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, his eyes still locked on mine. “Maybe you should show me how it’s done.”
My heart skips a beat, but I keep my composure—or at least try to—as I dip the fry into the ranch again. This time, I take a slower, deliberate bite, my lips wrapping around it like I’m performing for an audience. His gaze doesn’t falter, fixed on me with an intensity that makes the air between us feel charged, alive.
“You’re killing me, Camille,” he mumbles.
This is definitely not how I pictured my night going. But I’m definitely not complaining.
“I . . . I don’t think I have the experience you do or anything to show you,” I say, the words coming out a little breathless, my nerves betraying me.
His smirk deepens, his dark eyes flickering with mischief. “We could test that theory,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down my spine .
“My theory?” I almost stammer, the words catching in my throat as I force myself to meet his gaze.
“No,” he says, tilting his head as though he’s about to deliver the most scandalous secret. “My theory. I don’t think it’s about experience. It’s about chemistry.” He pauses, letting the word linger, his grin edging toward devilish. “And you know chemistry, right?”
I blink, caught somewhere between a laugh and a gulp. “Uh . . . yeah?”
He leans back, completely at ease, his smirk turning downright sinful. “You mix the right elements together, and boom—magic. No prep, no practice. It just works. You don’t need to know in advance if it’s perfect . . . you feel it.”
The way he says “feel” sends heat curling in my stomach, and for a split second, I forget how to form words. I glance at my plate, breaking the moment just enough to remember how to breathe. “Umm . . . I guess you’re right, that’s chemistry,” I manage, my voice a little higher than I’d like.
He chuckles softly, and the sound is warm, almost reassuring, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is giving me just enough space to recover. “See? Told you I was good at theories.”
The tension breaks with a laugh—mine, this time—and the conversation shifts, mercifully, to safer territory. We talk about favorite TV shows, weird family traditions, and, of course, the best way to reheat pizza. His method: stovetop, with a lid to trap the heat and keep the crust crisp. Mine: microwave, because seriously, who has the patience for oven or stovetop when you’re hungry?
The time slips by faster than I realize, and by the time we leave, the restaurant feels like a little bubble, separate from the rest of the world. Outside, the cool night air hits me, crisp and refreshing after the cozy warmth of the diner. I’m happy—happier than I’ve felt in a long time.
“Thanks for this,” I say softly, turning to him.
“Anytime,” he replies, his eyes catching mine in the kind of lingering way that makes your pulse stumble. There’s a quiet sincerity in his tone, like he means it.
We walk back to my dorm together, the easy conversation from earlier giving way to a comfortable silence. Every now and then, his shoulder brushes mine, and it’s enough to keep my thoughts racing.
When we reach my building, he stops, hands sliding into his pockets as he looks at me. “So . . . I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly shy but trying not to show it. “I’d like that.”
We exchange numbers, and as I tuck my phone away, he leans in. My pulse skyrockets, every nerve screaming for what’s about to happen. He’s going to kiss me—I know it, I can feel it in the way his gaze drops to my lips, the air between us buzzing like static. My breath catches, my lips part, anticipation clawing at me, needy and undeniable. But then his lips brush my cheek, warm and lingering, just enough to leave me spiraling, my heart pounding at what didn’t happen but damn well should have.
“Goodnight, Camille. It was nice meeting you,” he says, his voice low and just a little rough.
“Goodnight, Killion,” I reply, my cheeks flushing as I turn and head inside.
When I reach my room, I catch my reflection in the mirror. There’s a tiny smile on my face, one I can’t quite shake. And somehow this time I hope the guy calls me—he’s going to call, right?