Chapter 3 Lia
LIA
It's been a week since Vane Blackwood forced his lips on mine, and I still can't shake the memory. I've replayed that moment in the bedroom over and over—the pressure of his hand on my waist, the heat of his breath against my skin, the split second where I...
No. I'm not going there.
I've been meticulous about avoiding him.
Switching lab partners wasn't an option mid-semester, but I've perfected the art of working beside him without actually acknowledging his existence.
I arrive at class exactly when the bell rings and leave the moment we're dismissed.
No coffee runs. No study sessions at the library.
Nothing that puts me in his orbit longer than absolutely necessary.
As I pack up my laptop after debate club, I check the time. Perfect—late enough that the hallways should be empty. Most students cleared out an hour ago.
I swing my backpack over my shoulder and step into the corridor, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. My footsteps echo as I head toward the exit.
“Running away again, Morgan?”
I freeze at the sound of his voice. Vane leans against the wall at the intersection of hallways, arms crossed over his chest. He looks unfairly good in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, his hair falling across his forehead.
“What are you doing here?” I clutch my backpack strap tighter.
“Waiting for you.” He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us. “You've been avoiding me.”
“I've been busy.”
“Bullshit.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You practically sprint out of chemistry every day.”
I take a step back. “What do you want, Vane?”
“I want to know why you're acting like I have the plague.”
“Are you serious?” I let out a humorless laugh. “You dragged me into a bedroom and kissed me without permission. Then got angry when I didn't fall at your feet.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. “You're overreacting.”
“And you're delusional if you think I owe you my time or attention.”
“We're lab partners.”
“We're not friends,” I snap. “So why exactly do I need to see you outside of class?”
Vane takes another step toward me, close enough that I catch the scent of his woodsy cologne, which has no business making my pulse quicken.
“You sure about that, Morgan? Because friends or not, I've seen the way you look at me in class.”
“With contempt?”
“With interest.” His voice drops. “When you think I'm not paying attention.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Your ego is truly astronomical.”
“It's not ego if it's true.” He leans closer, and I refuse to back away despite every instinct screaming at me to create distance. “You're curious. About me. About what would have happened if you hadn't stopped us that night.”
“I'm curious about lots of things. Nuclear physics. Deep-sea creatures. The cultural impact of reality television.” I tilt my chin up. “You don't make the list.”
His laugh is low and genuine, catching me off guard. “God, you're something else.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The hallway feels too small, too warm. I notice the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. My gaze drops briefly to his lips before I catch myself.
“You're doing it right now,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you want to slap me and kiss me all at the same time.”
I step back, needing air that doesn't smell like him. “You're confusing disgust with desire.”
“Am I?” He reaches out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face before I can react. “Because I don't think I'm the only one feeling this... whatever it is.”
I take another step back, trying to regain some control over this situation. “Are we done here? I have places to be.”
“Actually,” Vane says, his posture shifting as he slides his hands into his pockets, “I wanted to ask you something.”
I raise an eyebrow, waiting.
“Prom.” He says it like it's obvious. “You going?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Prom,” he repeats, his gaze steady on mine. “I want you on my arm.”
I let out a surprised laugh. “Are you serious right now? After everything I just said, you think I'd go to prom with you?”
“Why not?” His confidence is infuriating. “We'd look good together.”
“That's your pitch? We'd look good together?” I roll my eyes, ignoring the flutter in my stomach. “Wow. Compelling argument.”
“You know there's more to it than that.” His voice softens. “Come on, Lia. One night. What's the worst that could happen?”
I wrinkle my nose, feigning disgust even as I consider it. “I'll think about it.”
“You will?” He looks genuinely surprised.
“I said I'll think about it. That's not a yes.”
I move to walk past him, but his hand shoots out, catching my wrist. Before I can protest, his other hand dips into my jacket pocket.
“What are you—” I start, but he's already pulled out my phone.
“Passcode?” he demands, holding it just out of my reach.
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine.” He shrugs, then starts typing combinations. To my horror, the screen unlocks after his third attempt.
“How did you—”
“0422. Your birthday. Not exactly Fort Knox security.” His fingers move quickly across the screen. “There. My number's in your contacts now.”
Before I can snatch my phone back, he presses call on his own contact. A second later, a ringtone sounds from his pocket.
“And now I have yours.” He hands my phone back, a triumphant grin on his face. “I'll be in touch.”
“I won't be answering your texts, you know that, right?” I call after him as he walks away, sounding more confident than I feel.
Vane turns, walking backward. “We'll see about that.”
I roll my eyes and turn toward the exit. Once I push through the double doors into the cool evening air, I finally release the breath I've been holding. My fingers tighten around my phone, the device feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I glance down at the screen, where his contact information now sits. Vane Blackwood with a green heart emoji he must have added. The absolute audacity.
“Delete it,” I mutter to myself, thumb hovering over his name. “Just delete it and be done with it.”
But I don't. Instead, I shove my phone deep into my pocket and start walking toward the parking lot.
The truth burns in my chest—a truth I'm not ready to admit even to myself.
As much as Vane infuriates me, as much as I want to hate him for that forced kiss at the party, there's something magnetic about him.
The way he looks at me, like he's seeing parts of me no one else notices.
The way he challenges me when everyone else just agrees with whatever I say.
Our exchanges used to be pure academic rivalry, barbed comments about test scores.
Now there's an electric chemistry that crackles in the air between us when we're close.
I can't help but notice the shape of his mouth when he argues with me, or the way his hands move when he's explaining a concept in class.
I hate that I notice these things. Hate that part of me wonders what would have happened if I hadn't pushed him away that night.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, heart skipping despite myself.
You look good today. But I bet you'll look better on prom night with your dress on my bedroom floor.
My cheeks burn hot as I read the message, a strange tingling sensation spreading across my skin. My heart hammers against my ribs. I quickly lock my phone, shoving it back into my pocket without responding. The message sits there, unanswered, as I quicken my pace toward the parking lot.
By the time I reach my car, my hands are still shaking. I fumble with my keys, dropping them once before managing to unlock the door. The entire drive home, I'm hyperaware of my phone burning a hole in my pocket, but I refuse to look at it again.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into our driveway, a modest two-story house with my mom's carefully tended flower beds lining the front walk. The porch light is on, welcoming me home. I take a deep breath before heading inside, willing the flush to fade from my cheeks.
“There she is!” Dad calls from the kitchen as I step through the front door. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce fills the house. “Just in time for dinner.”
I drop my backpack by the stairs and make my way to the kitchen, where Dad stands at the stove, wooden spoon in hand. He's still in his dress shirt from work, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie long abandoned.
“How was debate club, sweetheart?” Mom asks, looking up from the salad she's preparing. Her smile is warm, genuine.
“Fine. The usual,” I say, reaching for a cherry tomato from the cutting board.
Mom gently swats my hand away. “Wash your hands first, you heathen.”
“Sorry,” I laugh, the tension from earlier beginning to ease from my shoulders. I wash my hands as instructed and then pop the cherry tomato into my mouth.
Dad wraps an arm around me in a quick side hug. “Set the table? Dinner's almost ready.”
As I grab plates from the cabinet, the weight of my phone seems lighter. Here, in the warmth of our kitchen with the easy banter of my parents, Vane Blackwood's world feels very far away.