Chapter 11 #2
I glance over. He’s right. It’s basically a foot-traffic highway. I hate that I didn’t clock it before he did.
“Good call,” I mumble.
“Thanks, Greer,” he says with mock sincerity. “Your validation means everything to me.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already sketching an idea in my head. “What about a covered structure? Something modular. A study space that opens up in summer, closes off in winter.”
He lights up like I just offered him front row seats to the Super Bowl. “Add solar panels. A rainwater collection system. Charging ports.”
“Green wall on the north side,” I say, almost without thinking.
His grin widens. “Oh my god. Are we agreeing on something? Mark the date.”
I shake my head, biting back a smile. I hate how easy this is. How natural. I do not like working with other people. And I especially don’t like that this person is actually... helpful.
We keep going—measuring, timing foot traffic, identifying utilities. He doesn’t complain once. Doesn’t make a single dumb joke about toilets. He’s quiet. Focused. Hands dirty from checking utility lines like he’s not above crawling through the dirt.
And for a moment, I forget I don’t trust him.
Then I catch him watching me.
“What?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.
He blinks. “Nothing. Just... you’re really in your element.”
I frown. “That supposed to be a compliment?”
“Maybe,” he says, casually. “You look intense. In a good way.”
I ignore the tiny flutter in my chest and write something down just to look busy.
It’s almost an hour before we’re finished. The sun’s getting lower. My boots are muddy. My nose is cold. But I’m happy with what we’ve got.
“This place has potential,” I say, stepping back to take it in. “The bones are solid.”
“It’s a literal shithole,” Troy replies.
“With good bones,” I snap. “And decent sun exposure. And existing structure we can build on.”
He grins. “God, you’re such an architect.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s kind of hot,” he says under his breath.
I turn to glare at him, and that’s when it happens—I step back and catch my heel on a broken bit of concrete.
I stumble, flailing slightly—
And Troy’s hand is there. Fast. Steadying me by the waist like it’s nothing. His palm is warm through my jacket. His fingers curl slightly.
I freeze. So does he. For a second, we just… stand there. His hand on me. My pulse rocketing to unhelpful levels.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
“I’m fine.” My voice is not fine. It’s sharp. Too fast. I step out of his hold like I’ve been electrocuted.
Which, frankly, is not far off.
“Careful,” he says, smirking. “We haven’t even poured the concrete yet.”
I don’t respond. I’m too busy trying not to think about the way his hand felt. The way it didn’t take much effort to steady me. Like I weighed nothing. Like he didn’t even think about it.
We start packing up. I keep my eyes on the ground.
“Coffee?” he asks suddenly. “We should go over the site notes before we forget everything.”
I hesitate. Every part of me says don’t. Keep the boundary up. Don’t blur the lines.
But the other part—the tired, slightly cold, slightly buzzing-from-contact part—says why not?
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I swear to God, if you steal my pastry again, I’ll break your fingers.”
He grins. “Deal.”
We start walking. Side by side.
And I’m not thinking about his hand on my waist.
Not at all.
Nope.
Not even a little.
We start walking toward our stuff, Troy still smirking like I didn’t just almost face-plant in front of him and then physically leap out of his arms like he was contagious.
I’m mid-eye-roll when a voice cuts through the air—loud, obnoxious, and echoing across the concrete like a damn war cry.
“WELL, WELL, WELL. Weirdo spotted in D4! Everyone back off; he bites!”
I freeze.
Troy groans softly. “Oh god.”
A red-haired guy is striding toward us, all cheeky grin and zero shame, arms spread like he’s about to stage-dive onto the abandoned toilet block. He’s in a UMS hoodie with baggy shorts.
“Who the hell is that?” I mutter.
“Ethan.” Troy sighs. “Ignore him and maybe he’ll go away.”
But Ethan doesn’t go away. He practically skids to a stop beside us, tossing an arm around Troy’s shoulders like they’re in a romcom montage.
“What are you doing here?” Ethan asks, eyeing the rotting building like it personally betrayed him.
“Project,” Troy says. “It’s for the FIDIC competition.”
Ethan pulls a face. “Fi-dick? Feed the dick? That the one where nerds fight to the death over solar panels?”
I raise a brow. “Something like that.”
He finally turns to look at me. Blinks once. Then grins wider. “And who’s this? She doesn’t look like someone who willingly hangs out in a condemned piss palace.”
“Delilah,” I say flatly.
“Delilah,” he repeats, longing out the—lilahhh. “Cool name. Slightly intimidating. You guys hooking up, or...?”
I sputter. “What—absolutely not!”
Ethan looks like someone who was born to crash parties. Red hair, smirky mouth, tall in that lanky, athletic way. He’s... objectively good-looking. That easy, natural kind of hot that comes with knowing everyone in every room likes you.
Not that I care.
Also, not as handsome as Troy.
Not that Troy’s handsome.
He's just... symmetrical.
Which isn’t the same thing.
Troy smacks his arm. “Jesus, Ethan.” He’s just standing there, perfectly relaxed, sunlight catching in his hair like some cinematic mistake. Shirt sleeves pushed up. Smudge of dirt still on his cheek. He looks… fine.
Fine in a way that is absolutely not relevant to this conversation.
Ethan, meanwhile, is looking between us with far too much interest. “What? Just trying to set the scene.” He steps back, dramatically gesturing to the broken walls, the cracked pavement. “Beautiful ruins. Subtext. Tension. Feels like a moment.”
“There is no moment,” I say quickly.
“Sure,” Ethan winks. “Just ignore the chemistry. I do it all the time. I’m actually sensing some here, Delilah. Are you?”
Before I can come up with a sufficiently scathing response, Ethan turns to me and gives my shoulder a light, solemn pat.
“Shh. No need to explain yourself,” he says kindly. “I’m taken, anyway.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“By a woman named Paige,” he adds, then glances at Troy. “Who is way too good for me, by the way.”
Troy rolls his eyes. “You’ve known her for two months.”
“And it’s been the best two months of my life,” Ethan fires back. He turns back to me, still grinning. “Anyway. Carry on with your sexy public-urinal flirtation. I’ll leave you to it.”
Then he points down at the concrete.
“Oh, and that?” He nods at something near my boot. “Probably mine. Sophomore year. Great night.”
I follow his gaze—and yep. There it is. One very sad, very sun-bleached condom lying in the dirt like a cautionary tale.
“God, this place is cursed,” I mutter.
Troy drags a hand down his face. “Can you not tell that story right now?”
“I didn’t even start it!” Ethan grins, unfazed. “But since you’re already sweating—”
“Nope.” Troy turns him by the shoulders and starts nudging him away. “You’re done.”
Ethan’s already strolling backward down the path, waving like he’s been asked to give a farewell speech. “Have fun with your weird little toilet project!”
Then, louder—just to make sure half the quad hears:
“Make good choices, Troy! And stop falling for girls who could definitely beat you in a fight!”
Troy mutters something under his breath.
I look at him, unimpressed. “Good friend of yours?”
He exhales. “Unfortunately.”
My gaze drops to the sad little condom again, then back up to him. “You sure that’s not yours? I hear you’ve got a bit of a... reputation.”
He smirks. “Nope. Wrong size.”
I tilt my head. “Too big, huh?”
His grin widens, smug and infuriating. “Let’s just say... that thing wouldn’t make it past the tip.”
I make the mistake of picturing what that even means.
“Okay,” I say quickly, turning on my heel. “And that’s my cue to never think again.”
Behind me, he laughs—low and delighted.
And I officially need a lobotomy.