25
Hannah
The strange thing about having an orgasm on Nate Wilder’s lap is that campus looks exactly the same the next day.
It feels deeply rude, honestly. The sidewalks do not crack open. The bell tower does not ring in scandalized warning. The oak trees do not lean down and whisper, *Hannah Reed, you are no longer the same girl who once Googled whether kissing with tongue was supposed to feel awkward.*
Nothing happens. The world simply keeps turning.
Students hurry across the quad with coffees and backpacks.
A guy on a skateboard nearly takes out two freshmen near the library.
Everything is normal. Except me. I feel like I am walking around with a secret hum under my skin.
Not a bad secret, or even a dirty one—just a warm, private, glowing thing tucked beneath my ribs.
Every time I remember Nate’s hands on my hips, his voice rough in my ear saying, *There you go.
That’s it,* my stomach does a slow, lazy roll.
I trip on absolutely nothing.
“Careful,” Ella says beside me, catching my elbow before I can face-plant on the brick path.
“I’m fine.”
“You almost lost a fight with air.” She gives me a sidelong look. “Your body is here, but your soul is still on Nate Wilder’s couch.”
I choke on my own breath. Several people glance over. Ella smiles brightly at them. “She’s fine! Just academically overwhelmed!”
I grab her arm and drag her faster toward the student center. “Do not say things like that in public.”
“Fine. Your soul is in Nate Wilder’s apartment. On his lap?”
“I will push you into a bush, Ella. I swear to God.”
She laughs, delighted. “You’re glowing, Han. You look... sexually literate.”
“Never say those words in that order again.”
“I’ve waited my entire life to say them.”
I pull open the student center door, greeted by the smell of espresso and fried food. We find a table near the window. Strategy time. Tonight is a public fake date—Bellamy’s.
Nate texted this morning: *Dinner tonight?
Somewhere people can see us.* It’s exactly what the plan requires.
Ethan has been noticing more lately. Nate’s reputation is shifting from "campus menace" to "reformed boyfriend material."
It’s working. But the problem is, I know what Nate's hands feel like now. That part isn't fake.
Tonight, he’ll probably put his hand on my back. He might call me *baby* where people can hear. And I have to act like it doesn't make me remember the way he looked at me when I came apart in his lap.
Wonderful. I am a doomed academic.
By the time Nate picks me up at seven, I’ve changed outfits twice and officially decided that sweaters are a tool of the devil. I settle on dark jeans, ankle boots, and a tan jacket.
When Nate’s truck pulls up, I’m already waiting. I don't want him coming up to the room; Ella would probably answer the door wearing sunglasses and holding a clipboard for "data collection."
The passenger window rolls down. Nate leans across the seat, one hand on the wheel. He’s wearing a black jacket over a gray shirt, hair messy, jaw freshly shaved. His eyes move over me—quick, subtle, but enough to make my pulse jump.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
“You wore a jacket.”
“You told me to.”
His mouth curves. “Good girl.”
My face warms instantly. He sees it, of course.
“Nate,” I warn, opening the door. “You can’t just say that in public.”
“No one heard.”
“I heard.”
“That was the point.”
I climb in, hiding my face. The truck smells like him—clean laundry and leather. The seat is already warm. Nate pulls away from the curb. “Still good after last night?”
I look out the windshield. “Yes. Still green. Still proud. Still embarrassed.”
“Two out of three are progress,” he says, his voice low and steady.
Bellamy’s is packed, which is the goal. We get a booth near the window—highly visible. The second we sit, Nate slides in beside me instead of across from me.
“Really?” I ask.
“Couples sit together, Hannah. It’s the law of the fake-dating jungle.”
He rests his arm along the back of the booth behind me. His fingers brush the back of my shoulder—a touch so light it shouldn't matter, yet I feel it in my toes.
“Green?” he murmurs, leaning in close.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Green.”
The server brings our pizza. For a while, the banter is easy. We talk about my anatomy professor, whom I've dubbed "The Villain with a Syllabus." Nate shares his garlic knots. It feels almost normal.
Then the bell over the door jingles.
I see Nate’s smile change—settling into something smoother, sharper. I turn my head. Ethan Cross is walking in with his friends.
My heart gives a little jump. It’s smaller than it used to be, but it’s there. Ethan’s gaze moves across the restaurant and lands on us. On me. On Nate’s arm stretched behind my shoulders. He actually pauses.
Nate leans in, his mouth near my ear. “There’s our audience. Game face, Hannah Reed.”
“I have a game face.”
“You have a test-taking face. Relax.”
His lips brush my temple—quick, soft, and devastatingly public. I relax into his side, and I see Ethan’s expression shift. He looks... bothered.
Victory. This is exactly what I wanted. I should feel thrilled. But I’m mostly just aware that Nate’s thigh is pressed against mine under the table, and I don’t want him to move.
After dinner, we walk toward the river path. The air is cold, the water running dark and reflecting the streetlamps. It’s quiet enough that I can hear the crunch of leaves beneath our boots.
“You did good in there,” Nate says.
“At eating pizza?”
“At not looking like you wanted to throw up when Cross walked in.”
I laugh lightly, but Nate is being quiet. Weirdly quiet.
“Are you being weird?” I ask, stopping.
He turns back to me, jaw flexing. “I don’t like that I know what happened last night and he doesn't.”
My breath catches.
“Not like that,” Nate says, stepping closer.
“Not because I think he deserves to know. He doesn't. But he’s looking at you like he’s finally interested, and I’m standing there knowing the only reason you’re more confident is because of what we’re doing in private. He doesn't get to own that part of you. He didn't earn it.”
My chest tightens. It’s not jealousy—it’s something more protective. Something that feels like a match near gasoline.
“This is confusing,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”
He looks down at my mouth, and for a second, I think he might kiss me. Just because. Not for an audience. I want him to. My heart is hammering against my ribs.
Nate’s hand lifts toward my face, then stops. He grits his teeth and drops it. “We should get you home.”
The drive back is silent. When we pull up to my dorm, I don't get out right away.
“I’m still green, Nate,” I say, looking at my hands. “I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted to say it.”
He stays quiet for a long moment, his hand tightening on the steering wheel. “Next time we talk about him, we talk about you too. Cross noticing isn't the only thing that matters, Hannah.”
I look at him, confused.
“I’m not helping you find your confidence just so you can hand it to a guy who doesn't know what it cost you,” he says, his eyes dark and intense.
The words hit me like a physical blow. It’s not a confession, but it feels like an opening in my chest. I lean over and kiss his cheek, my lips lingering for a heartbeat longer than they should.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
“Goodnight, Hannah Reed.”
I walk into my dorm with my head spinning. The plan worked. Ethan noticed. Nate’s image is better. Everything is perfect.
Except somewhere between the pizza and the river, I started to wonder if the plan is the only thing about us that's still fake.