Chapter 20
PIPER
The party has dissolved into that hazy, late-night quiet where only the determinedly drunk or hopelessly stubborn remain.
Ethan and I escaped to his room an hour ago after he went on a stealth mission to steal popcorn and rescue a half-empty bottle of wine from the kitchen chaos.
We’re on his bed now, backs against the wall, my fairy lights abandoned on his desk chair because they kept tangling.
I’m down to my tank top and the shorts I wore underneath, curled against his side while he shows me YouTube videos on his laptop.
His leaf garland is draped over us like the world’s most ridiculous blanket.
I’m hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch—his thigh against mine, his arm behind my shoulders, the warmth radiating through his bare chest.
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” Ethan says, clicking on another video. “It’s basically required viewing for—”
“I need to pee,” I announce, the wine making everything feel urgent and immediate.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says, pausing the video. “Don’t get lost. Freddie might be passed out in the hallway.”
I carefully extract myself from his warmth, trying not to wobble as I stand. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, send a search party.”
“I’ll send Greg,” he promises solemnly.
The hallway is thankfully Freddie-free, and I manage the bathroom without incident. But on the way back, I pause in his doorway. He’s leaning over to grab more popcorn from the floor, and I notice his desk for the first time—really notice it.
Sketches everywhere. Beautiful, detailed drawings of characters I recognize even through my wine haze. An archmage with flowing robes and a stern expression. An apprentice clutching a staff, hope and determination in every line.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
The sketches are for Fault Line. The game I’ve been beta testing. The game I spent six hours playing and then wrote a scathing review of.
GuildMaster42. GM42. Of course, it’s Ethan. Who else would create a game about mentorship and loss and trying to live up to impossible expectations? Who else would name themselves after the answer to life, the universe, and everything?
I’m ButterBoi69 and he’s GM42 and we’ve been messaging about his game for days and oh god, I told him his ending was like being emotionally carpet-bombed.
A giggle escapes before I can stop it. Then another. This is insane. We’re pen pals who don’t know we’re pen pals. I’ve been helping him fix the game I criticized while he helps me with my narrative assignments.
“You okay in there?” Ethan calls.
“Fine!” I squeak, trying to compose myself.
This is not drunk Piper’s problem to solve. This is very much a sober Piper situation. Future Piper, with her full cognitive abilities and decision-making skills intact, can figure out how to tell him that I accidentally destroyed his game before we even properly met.
Right now, drunk Piper needs to go back in there and pretend she didn’t just have a revelation that changes everything.
I slip back into his room, slide onto the bed beside him like nothing has happened.
“You were gone for like thirty seconds,” he observes. “That’s not enough time to get lost.”
“I'm very efficient,” I say, curling back into his side. My voice sounds mostly normal. Good job, drunk Piper.
“You sure you're okay? You look... giggly.”
“Wine makes me giggly,” I say, which isn't a lie. “What were we watching?”
He eyes me suspiciously but starts the video again. I try to focus on the screen, but my mind is racing, connecting dots that make my stomach churn.
GuildMaster42. GM42. Of course—42, the answer to life, the universe, and everything.
Such an Ethan reference.
How did I miss this?
I'd been so sure it was Zarah's. She's the one with the 4.0 GPA, the one who leads the Women in Gaming club, the one whose code is always pristine. The game was too polished, too sophisticated, too good to be anyone else's.
But it's Ethan's.
The guy who’s told me about his dad watching his grades, who confessed if he doesn’t get his grades up this year, his dad will make him work in a hardware store. Who shared with me his fears about failing this year.
My harsh review. My 2 out of 5 stars.
The beta scores count towards his final grade.
If his average drops below a B, if his GPA tanks...
Oh god. My review could literally be the thing that sends him home. That destroys his game design dreams. That proves his father right about this being a waste of time.
The room spins slightly, and not from the wine. I feel sick. Actually, physically sick.
“You're tensing up,” Ethan murmurs, his hand rubbing gentle circles on my arm. “You okay?”
“Just... processing the plot,” I manage, gesturing vaguely at his laptop screen where the YouTube video continues playing.
He chuckles. “It's a compilation of epic game wins, Pip. There's no plot.”
Right.
I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my drunk ears.
I should tell him. Right now. Just rip off the band-aid.
Hey, so funny story, I accidentally destroyed your future because I thought your game was made by someone more talented than you.
No. That's horrible. And I'm drunk. And he's so warm and happy right now, laughing at the video, his whole body relaxed. Tomorrow. When I'm sober, when I can find the right words, when I can maybe fix my review score first, bump it up to at least a 3 to help his average...
“You're going to like this one...” Ethan murmurs against my hair, switching to funny cat fails, pulling me from my spiral.
Tomorrow. I'll deal with this tomorrow when my brain is working properly and I can form sentences that don't start with “So I may have accidentally ruined your life...”
For tonight, I'll pretend everything is fine. I’m just a girl watching YouTube with a boy.
Even though I know I'm holding a secret that can destroy everything we're building.
A rhythmic thumping starts from the room next door, followed by a very distinctive moan.
We both freeze.
“Is that—”
“Troy and Delilah,” Ethan confirms, slowly closing the laptop. “They’re, uh, enthusiastic.”
Another moan, louder this time, and then Troy’s voice carrying clearly through the wall. “Fuck, Del, just like that—”
I press my face into Ethan’s shoulder, torn between mortification and hysterical laughter. “Oh my god.”
“Welcome to my world,” he says, but I can feel him shaking with suppressed laughter. “Wait for it...”
There’s a crash, definitely furniture moving, and then Delilah’s voice. “If you break another bed frame, I swear to god—”
I lose it, giggling helplessly into his skin. He’s laughing too, and we’re both trying to be quiet but failing spectacularly. His hand comes up to muffle my laughter, fingers gentle against my mouth, and suddenly I’m aware of how intimate this is. How close we are.
“Another?” I manage against his palm. “How many have they—”
“Three this semester.” His voice is low, amused. “Freddie started a betting pool.”
The sounds next door intensify—rhythmic, primal, impossible to ignore. I'm still pressed against Ethan's side, my face hidden in the crook of his neck, and I'm suddenly very aware of his skin against my cheek. Of how long it's been since I've been this close to anyone.
“God,” I breathe without thinking, “I haven't been touched in so long.”
The words slip out, wine-honest and raw. I feel Ethan's whole body go still.
“How long?” His voice is careful, curious.
I sit up, needing distance to admit this. My skin feels too tight, too warm. “Since... a while. A long time.”
“That's not really an answer.”
“Since freshman year,” I say quickly, the half-truth easier than explaining. “The first few weeks, I hooked up with this guy from calc. Nothing serious, just... you know. Normal college stuff. But then I met Miles and that was it.”
I stop myself before adding except for last summer. Before admitting to those three months that I still can't fully process. The nights I don't talk about. The mistakes I made when I thought—
No. That's not a story for tonight. Maybe not ever.
The bed next door creaks ominously. We both pause, listening. It holds.
“That's a long time. So you didn’t have any sophomore flings? One-night stands?” Ethan says softly, and something in his tone makes me wonder if he heard the pause, the thing I'm not saying.
“I didn't want to risk it,” I continue, skipping over the complicated middle.
“What if Miles finally noticed me but then saw me with someone else?
What if that was the thing that made him realize he didn't want me? So I waited. And waited. And now...” I take a shaky breath.
“Now I'm terrified I've forgotten how to be touched. How to want. How to be wanted.”
“Piper—"
“It's pathetic, I know.”
“It's not.” His hand finds mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles. “And for what it's worth... you definitely haven't forgotten. That kiss tonight...”
Heat floods through me at the memory. The way he’d groaned into my mouth. The evidence of his desire pressed against me.
“I should tell you something,” I say, wine and proximity making me brave. “When I felt you... when you got hard during the kiss... I was excited.”
His breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I turn to face him fully, my knee brushing his thigh. “It made me feel powerful. Like I could affect someone like that. Like maybe I’m not completely broken.”
“You’re not broken.” His voice is rough. “You’re just... waiting for the right person to touch you.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Next door, Delilah makes a sound that should be illegal, but all I can focus on is the way Ethan’s looking at me. Like he wants to be that person. Like he’s barely holding himself back.
“I felt it too,” he admits suddenly. “When you kissed me. Not just the physical stuff, but... the way you grabbed me. Like you wanted to crawl inside my skin. Like you were starving for it.”
“I was,” I whisper. “I am.”
We’re so close now. His hand is still holding mine, and I can feel his pulse racing. Or maybe that’s mine. The moment stretches taut, like a string about to snap.
“Tell me to stop,” he says softly. “Tell me this is just the wine and pretending to be on a date and listening to other people fuck. Tell me to stop looking at you like—”
“Like what?”
“Like I want to be the one to remind you how good it feels to be touched.”
My whole body lights up at his words. “Ethan...”
“I know.” He releases my hand, pulls back slightly. “I know this is complicated. You’re dealing with Miles stuff, and we’re supposed to be pretending, and—”
I kiss him.
Not for show. Not for anyone else. Just because I want to know what Ethan tastes like when it’s real.
He makes a sound—surprise, desire, relief all tangled together—and then his hands are in my hair and he’s kissing me back like he’s been thinking about it all night. Maybe longer.
This kiss is different from the one downstairs.
Slower. Deeper. His tongue traces my bottom lip and I open for him, gasping when he takes the invitation.
His hand slides down to my waist, fingers skimming bare skin where my tank top has ridden up, and it’s such a simple touch but I feel it everywhere.
“Fuck,” he curses against my mouth. “Piper—”
Next door, something definitely breaks. Troy’s laughing, Delilah’s cursing, and we break apart, both breathing hard.
“We should—” I start.
“Yeah,” he agrees, but neither of us moves.
We’re still so close I can feel his breath on my lips. His hand is still on my waist, thumb stroking small circles that are definitely going to drive me insane.
“This doesn’t have to be anything,” he says carefully. “We can blame the wine. The party. Whatever you need.”
“What if I don’t want to blame anything?” The question surprises us both. “What if I just want...”
“What do you want?”
You, I think. To know what your hands feel like on my skin. To remember what it’s like to be desired. To stop waiting for someone who never wanted me and start exploring what it feels like to be wanted by someone who does.
But that’s too much, too fast, too real.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Is that okay?”
“That’s perfect,” he says, and I believe him.
We settle back against the wall, closer than before. His arm around me feels less casual now, more intentional. My whole body hums with awareness—of him, of possibilities, of the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once.
Next door, things have gone quiet. The party below has faded to distant murmurs.
“Can I stay?” I ask. “Just to sleep. I just... I don’t want to go home yet.”
“Stay,” he says immediately. “As long as you want.”
So I do, curled against his side, pretending to watch videos while my mind replays that kiss. The way he said my name. The promise in his touch.
I came here tonight to make Miles jealous.
But lying next to Ethan, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, I’m starting to think maybe I came here for something else entirely.