9
Hannah
The next morning, I decide I am going to be normal.
Not fake normal. Not aggressively normal. Not the kind of normal where I overthink the exact angle of my shoulders and end up looking like I’m being held together by dental floss.
Real normal. Casual normal. The *girl from dinner* normal.
This resolution lasts for approximately eleven minutes.
Then I spot Ethan Cross outside Briarwood Coffee Co., and my entire nervous system throws itself into oncoming traffic.
He’s standing near the bike rack, one hand wrapped around a coffee, the other holding his phone.
He’s wearing a forest-green sweater pushed up at the sleeves and dark jeans—hair doing that clean, effortless thing where it looks soft but not messy, styled but not vain.
He looks exactly like what he is: an academically gifted, future-doctor-adjacent dream.
The kind of guy who probably smells like expensive laundry detergent and makes intentional eye contact with professors when he asks questions.
I immediately look away.
Because that is what the girl from dinner would do.
Probably. Maybe. I don’t actually know; the girl from dinner had candlelight, garlic knots, and Nate Wilder acting as a human shield against my own panic.
This version of me has a half-zipped backpack, an iced coffee order I haven’t placed yet, and a heartbeat trying to exit through my throat.
I pull open the café door and step inside.
The warm, familiar scent of espresso and cinnamon hits me, settling some of the static under my skin.
Briarwood is already crowded, a sea of students in oversized hoodies and leggings agreeing that eight-thirty is too early to survive without caffeine.
I take my place in line and pull out my phone, mostly so I have something to look at besides the door.
Ella texted me twenty minutes ago.
**Ella:** *Remember: Do not stare at Ethan. Do not look like a haunted Victorian doll. Be hot and busy.*
I’d replied: *I regret giving you access to my life.*
She sent back: *Wear lip gloss.*
Which I did. Not for Ethan. Not for Nate. For myself. And because the tube was already in my bag. And because Ella’s fashion advice usually carries the weight of a court order.
I check my reflection in the darkened screen of my phone. My blonde hair is loose today, brushed into soft waves because I actually woke up with enough time to use heat tools—a minor miracle I’m choosing to view as personal growth.
The little bell above the door jingles.
I do not look. I am normal. I am busy. I am—
“Hannah Reed.”
My spine reacts before the rest of me does.
Nate Wilder is standing just inside the café, looking like Monday morning had the nerve to show up and he decided to make it look underdressed.
Dark Northwood Hockey hoodie. Black joggers.
Hair messy and damp at the ends like he showered and then committed violence against a towel.
There’s a faint red scrape along his jaw, likely from practice or shaving or whichever activity men like Nate do that results in minor injuries and better cheekbones.
He has a coffee already in his hand. Which means he wasn't in line. Which means he came over here on purpose.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice from pitching up.
His eyes move over my face, brief but focused. “You look awake.”
“That’s what every girl wants to hear.”
His mouth curves. “You also look pretty, but I didn’t want to overwhelm you before caffeine.”
Heat rushes up my neck. *Absolutely not.* Too early. Too public. Too Nate.
I glance toward the counter, pretending to study the muffin selection. “I see your humility survived the night.”
“Barely. It was touch and go.”
“I’m observing my fake girlfriend in the wild,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that I can smell the fresh, woodsy scent of his soap.
I glare at him. “Do not call me that so loudly.”
His eyes sharpen with amusement. Behind him, through the front windows, I catch a glimpse of Ethan still standing outside. He’s still on his phone. Still not looking in here.
A tiny tug of disappointment pulls at me. Nate’s gaze follows mine before I can stop him. He doesn’t say anything right away; he just looks back at me, one brow lifting.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I’m smug about most things,” he admits, stepping closer. Not enough to crowd me, but enough that his shoulder brushes mine. It’s a deliberate contact that sends a jolt through my sweater. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you look like you’re waiting for someone to accuse you of fraud. Relax, Hannah. You’re just drinking coffee with me.”
“You already *have* coffee.”
“I’m emotionally drinking coffee with you.”
I snort, then immediately press my lips together. The girl from dinner doesn't treat every good mood like contraband. Nate looks down at me, pleased. “Better. You smiled.”
The line moves forward, and I step up to the counter. I order an iced vanilla latte with oat milk and a blueberry scone. Nate makes a sound beside me.
“What?”
“That tracks. A very Hannah Reed order.”
“I support your scone,” he adds when I glare at him.
Before I can pull out my card, Nate reaches around me and taps his phone against the reader.
“Nate, I can pay for my own—”
“Next time,” he says easily.
*Next time.* The phrase makes my skin feel too warm. It implies a series. A sequel. A continuation of this ridiculous play we’re starring in.
We move toward the pickup area. Ethan walks in just as the barista calls my name. He stands near the opposite end of the counter, close enough to hear us, far enough to pretend he isn't listening. His eyes flick from Nate to me.
Then, he smiles. “Hannah.”
My chest lifts. A little. Enough.
“Hey,” I say, keeping it casual.
His gaze touches Nate’s shoulder, which is still mere inches from mine. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Nate says. No warmth, but not rude. Just… the immovable object to Ethan’s polite force.
Ethan looks back at me. “You going to the review session later?”
“Yes. Planning to.”
“Cool. Maybe I’ll see you there.”
*Maybe.* The most frustrating word in the English language. He takes his coffee and leaves. No lingering look. No visible jealousy.
I stare at the door as the bell jingles. The disappointment is sharp.
Nate doesn’t tease me. He’s watching me, but his expression is surprisingly careful.
“Give it time,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“It’s been one dinner. He noticed you were here. That’s different than ignoring you.”
I glance up, and for a second, I see the version of Nate that apologized last night. The one who isn't trying to win a game, but trying to keep me from bruising. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay, I’ll give it time.”
He shifts his coffee, then places his free hand lightly at the small of my back to guide me away from the counter as someone squeezes past. His palm is warm through my sweater. He leaves it there a second longer than necessary before dropping it.
We walk outside, the quad bright with morning sun. Ethan is already gone.
“I can walk you,” Nate says.
“To Langford? No. I don’t need an escort.”
“Trying to get rid of me, Hannah Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Ouch. And here I am, being very solid.”
I stop walking and point my straw at him. “Do not.”
“You’re getting better at reading me,” he grins. “You’ll adapt.”
The path splits—left for my lecture hall, right for the athletic center. I adjust my backpack, feeling the weight of his gaze.
“What are you doing?” I whisper as he steps closer.
“Selling it.”
His hand comes up, fingers brushing lightly beneath my chin, guiding my face toward his. My breath catches.
“Quick and soft, okay?”
Before I can process the request, his mouth is on mine. It’s not like the streetlamp kiss; that one had time to grow teeth. This is brief—a touch of warmth, a ghost of pressure, over before my brain can even signal a reaction.
He pulls back, his hazel eyes holding mine. “See? Not awkward.”
I blink, my pulse drumming in my ears. “No. Not awkward.”
He lifts his coffee in a lazy salute. “Good luck at the review session.”
I watch him walk away for exactly one second too long before turning toward Langford.
The review session is forty minutes of Professor Hale dealing out terrifying academic truths. Ethan sits two rows over. At one point, he asks if he can see my notes, and our shoulders brush. My stomach flutters, but the feeling is… familiar. Expected. Comfortable.
When it’s over, we walk out together.
“So,” Ethan says. “Are you going to the hockey game Friday? Northwood against Briarwick.”
“I’m not sure.”
His gaze flickers away. “Figured you might be. Because of Nate.”
My phone buzzes in my lap as I stand on the steps.
**Nate:** *Did he see the kiss?*
I type back: *No. But Ethan just asked if I’m coming to the game Friday.*
**Nate:** *Then you’re coming. Fake girlfriend duties. Very serious.*
I bite my lip. **Hannah:** *Do fake girlfriends get snacks?*
**Nate:** *Mine does. You did good today, Hannah.*
My chest warms in a way that has nothing to do with Ethan. It feels like relief. Like I’m learning how to be looked at without shrinking.
I get halfway across the quad before one final text arrives.
**Nate:** *Also, next time you call me ‘occasionally funny,’ I’m kissing you again.*
I stop walking, my face bursting into a heat that could power the library. I shake my head, but I’m smiling.
The plan is still about Ethan. It has to be. But as I cross the campus, I have to admit one small thing.
Fake dating might be a disaster. But at least it isn’t boring.