8
Hannah
I make it all the way to the second floor of my dorm before I realize I’m still thinking about the kiss.
Not in a life-changing way. Not in a swoony, cinematic, my-heart-has-left-my-body way. More in a mortifying, clinical, I-wish-my-brain-had-an-off-switch way.
Because it was my first real kiss in a long time.
Maybe my first real kiss ever, depending on how generous we’re being with the definition.
There had been an awkward encounter in high school with a boy named Ryan Mercer behind the bleachers after homecoming, but that had mostly involved teeth, mutual panic, and the distinct smell of stadium nachos.
Nate Wilder, unfortunately, knew exactly what he was doing.
That was the only explanation. If a concert pianist sat down at a keyboard and performed a flawless concerto, no one would call it destiny; they’d call it practice.
Skill. Muscle memory. Nate was experienced.
Annoyingly, heart-stoppingly experienced.
It didn't mean anything beyond the fact that he’d spent a lot of time on the ice and, evidently, a lot of time in hallways like that one.
By the time I reach my door, I’ve repeated this to myself enough times that it almost sounds like a fact.
Almost.
I unlock my room and step inside, only to find Ella sitting cross-legged on my bed like she pays half the rent.
She has my pink throw blanket draped around her shoulders, a bag of sour gummy worms in her hand, and the expression of a woman who has been waiting hours to become a professional nuisance.
I stop in the doorway. "Why are you in my room?"
"Because my roommate is on FaceTime with her boyfriend and they keep calling each other 'muffin.'" She shuddered. "I had to flee for my mental health. I have a gluten sensitivity."
"That sounds horrific."
"It was." Her eyes narrowed, scanning my face with the precision of a jeweler looking for flaws. "Why do you look like that?"
I shut the door, dropping my bag onto my desk chair. "Like what?"
"Like you saw a ghost. Or like you committed a crime. Or like you made out with a hockey player under a streetlamp."
I froze, one hand still on the strap of my tote bag.
Ella’s mouth dropped open. "Oh my God."
"No," I said immediately.
"Oh my God, Hannah. You did."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. Your face just filed a formal confession with the court."
I turned away, tugging off my coat and hanging it up with more care than it deserved. "It wasn't making out."
Ella flung the blanket off her shoulders and sat up straighter, the gummy worms forgotten. "Define 'wasn't.'"
"It was one kiss."
"One kiss can start a revolution."
"It did not start a revolution. It was... tactical."
Ella stared at me. "You were kissed by Nate Wilder, and you’re calling it tactical? Who are you, Sun Tzu?"
"It was for the fake dating," I said, kicking off my boots. "He said if we’re going to do this, we’ll probably have to kiss in public eventually. He thought it would be better if we got the first one out of the way so it wouldn't look awkward or forced in front of people."
"So he turned kissing into a dress rehearsal?" Ella’s mouth curved. "That is either the stupidest excuse I’ve ever heard or the most brilliant. Was it good?"
I closed my eyes. That was the problem. It wasn't just good; it was the kind of good that made me realize I’d been playing checkers while Nate was playing three-dimensional chess.
"It was fine," I said, my voice too thin.
"Fine. Right." Ella leaned back against my pillows. "You came home looking like your skeleton was currently being held together by hope and high-end spit, but sure. Fine."
"It was good, okay?" I admitted, finally looking at her. "He’s obviously had a lot of practice. It makes sense that he’d be good at it. It’s just... physical awareness."
"Uh-huh. Transactional, mutually beneficial physical awareness."
I narrowed my eyes. "You’re agreeing with a lot of sarcasm."
"I’m agreeing with the level of belief this situation warrants." She popped a gummy worm into her mouth. "So, did the plan work? Did the 'Safe Choice' text you?"
I checked my phone. It was silent. No notifications from Ethan. No little blue bubbles of hope. Just a weather update and a reminder that I had a lab report due.
The little drop in my stomach was predictable, but still annoying.
"Not yet," I said.
"Not yet isn't no."
"It feels like a no when Nate Wilder is currently the most exciting thing in my notifications."
Ella nudged my shoulder. "Give it time. Ethan is the type of guy who needs to process data before he makes a move. Right now, he’s probably cross-referencing your sudden association with the hockey team against his own perceived value."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is. That’s why people like Nate are more fun. They just jump."
I didn't want to think about Nate jumping. I wanted to think about my psychology notes. I wanted to think about how I was going to look Ethan in the eye tomorrow without wondering if he’d seen the blurry Snapchats that were undoubtedly circulating by now.
I reached for my phone again. No Ethan. But there was a text from Nate.
**Nate:** *You alive?*
I stared at it. It was such a simple, casual check-in. No pressure. No "wasn't that kiss amazing." Just a guy making sure his business partner hadn't spontaneously combusted.
**Hannah:** *Barely. Ella is currently interrogating me.*
**Nate:** *Good. That means you survived the dinner. One point for Wilder.*
I felt a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I fought it, but it was a losing battle.
**Nate:** *Tomorrow, don't chase him. If you see Cross, be busy. Be the girl from dinner—the one who didn't look like she was waiting for a crumb of attention.*
I read the message twice. *The girl from dinner.*
I thought of the photo that was currently haunting my social media. I looked relaxed in it. Happy. I didn't look like the girl who spent her anatomy lectures memorizing the back of a guy's head.
"What did he say?" Ella asked, peering over my shoulder.
"He told me not to chase Ethan tomorrow."
Ella hummed in approval. "He’s right. The second you stop looking for him is the second he starts looking for you. It’s the law of the collegiate jungle."
"I hate the jungle."
"Me too, but you’re already in it. Might as well be the lioness."
I set my phone facedown on the bed. The kiss had been practice. The dinner had been strategy. The plan was still about Ethan.
But as I turned off the lamp and let the room sink into shadows, I didn't think about Ethan's polite smile. I thought about Nate’s voice, low and serious, telling me I wasn't 'behind' anyone. I thought about the weight of his hand on my waist.
And for the first time, the "Safe Choice" felt a little bit like settling.