16
Hannah
By the time I get back to my dorm, I smell like bonfire smoke, cold air, and bad decisions.
Mostly bonfire smoke. Probably.
Ella is already in my room when I walk in, because apparently locks mean nothing to a best friend with an emergency key and zero respect for emotional privacy.
She’s sitting cross-legged on my bed in pajama shorts and a sweatshirt, eating pretzels from a bag she definitely stole from my secret stash.
I stop in the doorway. She looks up. I stare at her. She grins.
“No,” I say.
“Oh, absolutely yes.”
“I’m tired, Ella. My brain is currently eighty percent static.”
“You made out with Nate Wilder on the back of his truck while half the hockey team and your entire romantic target audience watched. You are not going to bed until I get a full report.”
I close the door behind me and lean back against it, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.
The space is dark except for the string lights above my bed and the soft, blueish glow of Ella’s phone.
My cheeks are still warm—half from the biting October wind and half from the memory of Nate standing between my legs, his hands firm on my waist.
I should not think about that. Thinking about that is exactly how this situation goes from "strategic" to "disaster."
“It was for the plan,” I say, my voice sounding unconvinced even to me.
Ella throws a pretzel at me. It bounces off the front of Nate’s jersey. Because I am still wearing Nate’s jersey. Which I had forgotten for one glorious, delusional second.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, looking down at the navy fabric.
Ella’s eyes widen. “You kept it on. You’re wearing his name like it’s your favorite sweater.”
“I forgot! It was a long night, and it’s cold out, and—can you please stop looking at me like I’ve joined a cult?”
“I’m looking at you like you’ve finally entered the plot.” Ella taps through her phone. “Relax. I haven’t seen any close-up videos on the gossip accounts yet.”
My stomach drops. “What? People were recording?”
“Hannah, it’s a field party. Everything is recorded. But there are only a few blurry silhouettes. And one photo of Nate looking like he’s about to devour you while he owns the entire field.”
I snatch the phone from her. The photo is orange-lit and grainy, taken from near the fire.
Nate is a dark, broad-shouldered shadow blocking most of the view, but the way I’m arched toward him, my hands bunched in his hoodie, is unmistakable.
You can’t see the kiss clearly, but you can feel the heat radiating off the screen.
The caption: *WILDER GIRLFRIEND ERA IS GETTING SERIOUS ??*
I hand the phone back with a dying sound. “I’m transferring to a different state. Maybe a different continent. Somewhere they don't have ice.”
“It’s working, Han,” Ella says, her voice softening. “I saw Ethan. He looked like someone had just told him the library was permanently closed. He was *bothered*.”
I should be thrilled. This was the goal. I should be celebrating the fact that the Safe Choice finally noticed I exist. But as I stand there, smelling the smoke on the jersey, the thought of Ethan feels oddly distant.
“He texted me,” I say, remembering the buzzing in my pocket during the drive.
Ella gasps. “What did he say?”
“He said I looked happy.”
“And?”
“And I told him I was.” I pull the jersey over my head, the air hitting my skin with a chill. I fold the navy fabric carefully, setting it on my desk chair. “But the thing is… I wasn't just acting, Ella. I *was* happy. And it had nothing to do with whether Ethan was watching.”
Ella stays quiet, letting the weight of that confession settle. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands. My fingers are still slightly red from the cold.
“Nate pulled back first,” I whisper.
“Because you were uncomfortable?”
“No. Because I *wasn't*. I think I got a little… carried away. I’ve never felt like that before. Like I was losing my grip on the ground.”
I look at her helplessly. “He noticed. He saw me losing it, and instead of taking advantage of it or making me feel silly, he just stopped. He made sure I was okay.”
“He’s a good guy, Hannah,” Ella says gently. “In his own messy, arrogant way.”
“He told me I didn’t do anything wrong. He said he’d always pull back unless he was sure I was sure.”
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I don’t even have to look to know who it is.
**Nate:** *Still alive?*
I pick it up, my heart doing that jerky, uncoordinated thud again.
**Hannah:** *Barely. My roommate is conducting a forensic analysis of my evening.*
**Nate:** *Tell her the evidence is inconclusive. You okay?*
I stare at the screen. Not *Did Ethan see?* or *Was that enough?* Just a question about me.
**Hannah:** *Yeah. Just a lot to process.*
**Nate:** *It was just a kiss, Hannah Reed. Don’t let it keep you up. Goodnight.*
I lock the phone and press it to my chest. He’s right. It was just a kiss. A part of a deal. A move in a game designed to get me the guy I’ve wanted for months.
But as I lie down and close my eyes, I don’t see Ethan’s polite smile or his organized notes. I see hazel eyes and the orange glow of a bonfire, and I feel the ghost of Nate’s hands on my waist.
The plan is working. I’m getting exactly what I wanted.
So why does it feel like I’m losing the one thing I didn't know I had?