Chapter 30
DELILAH
Ialready regret coming.
The frat house smells like beer, Axe body spray, and every bad decision ever made on a Thursday night.
The music is too loud. The lights are too bright. The carpet is sticky. Why is frat carpet always sticky?
Lacey’s somewhere behind me, holding a red solo cup and trying to convince Brianna that Clide isn’t “emotionally avoidant,” he’s just “focused on work.” Chloe’s already disappeared upstairs with someone I didn’t catch the name of.
I’m leaning against a wall, sipping a flat Sprite, wondering how long I have to stay before I can make a graceful exit. Or any exit.
I pull out my phone and check the time, noticing a couple messages from Troy. He and his friends were heading to a different party on a different side of campus.
Hawkins
you’d hate this party, all loud music and dumb hats, I say 0 egg mayos, 0 interest
I bite back a smile. I do hate dumb hats. I text him back before I can overthink it.
Sounds like hell. how are you surviving princess?
Hawkins
left five minutes ago, already in sweats. thinking about that face you make when you’re about to orgasm.
My stomach flips.
“Who are you texting?” Lacey leans over my shoulder, tipsy and nosy and glittery as ever. I tilt my screen away. “No one.”
She smirks. “No one wouldn’t make you smile like that.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. It’s Troy.”
Lacey’s eyes go cartoon-wide. “Oh my god. You really like him.”
“I might like him,” I admit, slow, careful, like saying it too loud will make it real. “A little.”
Things between us have been good. They’ve been more than good. We’ve been hooking up whenever we get a spare moment and making really good progress on our Future Innovators Project.
Her mouth drops open. “Delilah Greer.”
“I know.”
“You like him.”
“I said maybe.”
She grabs my arm and spins me around like we’re in a teen rom-com. “You’ve never admitted liking anyone. Ever.”
I laugh, embarrassed and already half-regretting saying anything. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“It is absolutely a thing,” she squeals. “Are you seeing him again?”
I shrug. “We’ve been… hanging out.”
“Hanging out,” she repeats, dramatic as hell. “God, you’re so cagey.”
I glance down at my phone again. Another text from him.
Hawkins
what are you doing after the world’s worst frat party?
and can I see you?
I tuck my phone to my chest and try to bite down the smile. Too late. Lacey’s already clocked it.
“Delilah,” she whispers, “you look happy.” She smiles softly at me. “You deserve it.”
I’m standing in a party I don’t want to be at, surrounded by people who wouldn’t notice if I left but my heart is lighter. There’s a guy out there who sees me, all my edges and flaws and still wants to know more. I might like him. A little. I might even more than like him.
I pull Lacey aside before Brianna can drag us into some drama, and tell her I’m heading out early. She grins like she knows exactly why.
And for once, I don’t care.
The guard is down. The door is open.
And when his name lights up my phone again, I don’t hesitate.
I’m on my way over
When Troy opens the door, he’s in grey sweatpants and a worn UMS hoodie, barefoot, and smiling like I’m the only thing he’s been waiting for all night.
Like warmth or a hug, or the part in the book where the heroine finally exhales.
“Hey, Greer,” he says, voice low and soft.
God help me, I think my panties are soaked already. What does this man do to me.
“Hey.”
His eyes sweep over me. Not in a gross way. Not in the typical Troy Hawkins ‘I’m a walking thirst trap’ way. Just gentle. Checking in.
Then he steps aside to let me in, and I catch the smell first.
Garlic. Butter. Herbs.
“You cooked?” My stomach is already rumbling.
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “You didn’t eat dinner, right? Figured you might want something real after whatever horror snacks frat parties offer these days.”
I step inside and blink.
There are two plates already out on the counter. Pasta—simple, cheesy, perfect. Steam curling into the air.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs again and grabs forks. “I wanted to.”
We head up to his room first, he says he’s got a gift for me. For me.
That’s when I see it. Folded neatly on the back of his chair. A hoodie. Not his. A brand new one. Still has the tag on it. And on the draw beside his desk, an open drawer, empty, but labeled.
With a piece of masking tape that says.
Delilah’s Stuff. Hands off, Ethan.
My heart stutters, then races. A designated drawer. A labeled drawer.
The cardinal rule of Delilah Greer's relationship survival guide.
Never leave anything at his place. Not a hair tie. Not a bobby pin. Not a forgotten sweater that gives him an excuse to text you later.
I mean, just last year that guy left those slippers at my place and I freaked out.
I'd seen them as a claim, an invasion of my carefully protected space.
I'd told Lacey it was about maintaining my independence, but really, it was about controlling the inevitable end.
You can't be left behind if you never fully arrive.
Yet here's Troy, offering me not just space in his room, but an identity within it. A permanence I've spent years avoiding. And instead of panic, I feel...warm.
“What…” My voice wavers. “What is all this?”
Troy sets the forks down, then leans against the counter, arms crossed casually—but his eyes are locked on mine, careful, like he knows this is a minefield.
“I figured you’d be here more. You always steal my hoodie anyway, so I got you one that actually fits. Thought you might want your own space for stuff. Toothbrush. Hair clips. Whatever. Girl shit. Tampons?”
My throat tightens. He says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s no big deal. But it is. It’s everything.
I’m not used to being cared for. Not like this.
“I actually prefer wearing yours. It smells like you,” I admit. He grins easily. “No problem. You can keep wearing it, baby.”
“Troy…”
His brow furrows. “Is it too much?”
I swallow. “It’s—”
Too much.
Too soon.
Too perfect.
Too terrifying.
“I don’t know what to do with it,” I whisper.
“With what?”
“This.” I gesture—helplessly. “All of it. You. Being… like this.”
He steps closer, slowly, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. His voice lowers.
“Like what?”
“Kind,” I admit, voice thin. “Like I matter.” My voice cracks.
Troy’s expression softens. His hand finds mine.
“You do matter,” he says. “You’ve always mattered. You just need help seeing it.”
And it’s that, more than the food, more than the hoodie, more than the drawer. That undoes me.
Because I’ve always been good at keeping it together. Always held everything up, even when it hurt. But right now, I let myself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough.
We head downstairs and he just holds my hand and watches me eat while we put on a movie, like it’s the most important thing he could possibly be doing.