Chapter 10
Ten
Blair
The door to Meadow View clicks shut behind me, and I step into the morning light, still half-dazed from the movie night with Kinsley.
My routines are fraying, my planner feels foreign, and my pillow still smells like him.
I haven’t said anything. Not out loud. But it’s there.
In my chest. In my throat. On the way, I keep checking my phone like it might explain something.
And then I see him.
Kane.
Leaning against the railing like he’s been there forever.
Hands in his pockets.
Eyes already on me.
I stop mid-step, heart thudding. He’s wearing black again, a hoodie, jeans, that quiet confidence that makes people stare without knowing why.
I look him up and down, trying to mask the jolt in my stomach.
He doesn’t smile. He just tilts his head and says, “Come on, sunflower. I thought I’d walk you to class. ”
Sunflower.
The nickname lands like a fingerprint. Soft. Intentional. Possessive.
I hesitate. I should say no. I should ask why. I should demand answers. But I don’t. I nod. Small. Quiet. And fall into step beside him.
We walk in silence for a few beats, the campus buzzing around us. I feel his presence like gravity, pulling, steady, impossible to ignore. Then I glance sideways and say, “My room smells like you.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pretend. Just smirks, slow and deliberate. “Does it?”
I shrug. “Weird. I don’t remember inviting you in.”
He laughs under his breath. “You didn’t. But you didn’t lock me out either.”
I don’t respond. I can’t. Because he’s right. And because part of me doesn’t want to push him away.
Halfway down the path, he slides his arm around my shoulders. Casual. Confident. Like it’s always been there.
We reach the edge of the humanities building, and I slow my steps, heart thudding louder than it should.
Kane’s arm is still draped over my shoulders, warm and heavy, like it belongs there.
Like I belong there. Students pass us, glancing, whispering, watching.
I feel their eyes like static against my skin.
I hate being seen.
I hate being noticed.
But I don’t pull away.
Kane doesn’t seem to care. He walks like the world bends around him, like attention is currency he never has to spend. And now he’s spending it on me.
We stop just short of the entrance, and he turns to face me, eyes scanning my face like he’s memorizing it. “You good?”
I nod, but it’s not convincing. “I guess.”
He leans in slightly, voice low. “You smell like me.”
My breath catches. I look up at him, pulse skipping. “Funny. I was going to say the same thing about my pillow.”
His smile is slow, deliberate, and dangerous. “Guess we’re syncing.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s weak. Because he’s right. Because I feel it. Because something in me is already shifting to match his rhythm.
He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear like it’s nothing. Like it’s his to touch. “I’ll see you after.”
I nod again, quieter this time. “Okay.”
He steps back, but not far. Just enough to let me go. Just enough to remind me he could follow me in. That he might. That he’s already inside more than I ever let anyone be.
As I step into my classroom, something in me stutters.
Not because of Kane’s lingering scent on my skin or the phantom weight of his arm still wrapped around my shoulders, but because I hadn’t counted.
Not the sidewalk cracks. Not the steps. Not the seconds between breaths.
The walk from Meadow View to the humanities building was long enough to count.
I always count. It’s how I stay upright, how I keep the chaos from swallowing me whole.
But this time, I didn’t. Kane had been there, his presence loud enough to drown out the numbers, his voice threading through my thoughts, his touch anchoring me in a way that made me forget the rituals I’ve built my sanity around.
And now, standing alone in the quiet room, I don’t know what scares me more—that I broke my routine… or that I didn’t miss it.
He’s there again. Waiting outside the building like he’s part of the architecture now, leaning against the column, hoodie pulled up, eyes already locked on me before I even step out. It’s becoming a pattern. A rhythm. He’s at every class, every exit, like he’s syncing himself to my schedule.
I pause, heart thudding. “Why are you always here?”
He shrugs, casual. “I wanted to give you something.”
His smirk is slow, deliberate, and when the dimple appears, my stomach flips. Butterflies. Real ones. Not the anxious kind. The dangerous kind.
I nod, tentative. “Okay.”
We walk in silence to his dorm, the air between us thick with something I don’t have words for. When he opens the door and gestures for me to go in, I hesitate but only for a second. Then I step inside.
It’s clean. Surprisingly clean. Not sterile like mine, not neurotic, but intentional. His bed is perfectly made, corners tucked, sheets smooth. It makes me feel safer than I expected. He doesn’t have a roommate. The space is quiet. Private. His.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the bed.
I do. Carefully. Like I’m stepping into something sacred.
He walks to the closet, pulls something from a hanger, and tosses it to me. A jersey. His number. His name. I catch it, fingers gliding over the smooth fabric, and without thinking, I pull it to my nose.
It smells like him.
Of course it does.
“I want you to wear this to the game tomorrow night,” he says, voice low.
I look up, startled. “Really?”
He nods once. “Yeah. I want people to know.”
My breath catches.
Because this isn’t just a gift.
It’s a signal.
A claim.
A beginning.
I’m still holding the jersey, fingers curled around the fabric like it might anchor me.
The scent of him clings to it—cedar, clean sweat, something sharp and masculine that makes my stomach twist. I don’t know what I expected when he brought me here, but it wasn’t this.
It wasn’t him looking at me like I’m already his.
He steps closer, gaze steady, voice low. “I want to look up into the stands and see my number on you.”
My breath catches. He reaches out and tilts my chin up, gentle but firm, until I’m looking him straight in the eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I feel the heat of his touch, the weight of his attention, the way the air between us seems to hum.
He leans in, his breath mingling with mine, and the world narrows to this moment. “You’re mine, sunflower,” he says, voice rough, intimate. “And I want the whole fucking world to see it.”
My breathing picks up. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.
“Yours?” I whisper, the word barely audible.
He doesn’t answer with words. He kisses my forehead, soft, reverent, like he’s sealing something. Like he’s claiming something.
Then he pulls back just enough to speak.
“I want you, Blair. I’ve waited because I didn’t want to scare you away…
” His voice drops, eyes lock on mine, breath brushing my lips.
“But I think you feel it too. You’re not just something I want.
You’re the only thing I can’t unsee. You’re in my blood now. And I don’t share what’s mine.”
And I do feel it.
God help me, I do.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just moves slow and deliberate as he climbs onto the bed beside me. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. Then his hands find my waist, and he pulls me gently into his lap.
My legs fold over his, my front settling against his chest, and the jersey still clutched in my hands feels suddenly heavier. His arms wrap around me like they were always meant to, and the warmth of him, his body, his breath, his presence, presses into every inch of me.
“You’re quiet,” he says softly.
“I’m thinking,” I whisper.
“About what?”
I hesitate. “About how I ended up here. In your room. In your lap. Holding your number.”
He smirks, but it’s gentler this time. “You didn’t end up here, Blair. You chose it.”
I swallow hard. “I don’t usually choose things like this.”
“I know,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along my jaw. “That’s why it matters.”
I look down, then back up. “You’re not what I expected.”
He leans in, forehead nearly touching mine. “Good. I don’t want to be.”
My breath catches. “You scare me.”
His voice drops. “Do I?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But not in the way I thought I’d be scared.”
He tilts his head. “Then how?”
“Like you see things I don’t want anyone to see.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I do. And I’m not looking away.”
I blink, heart thudding. “Why me?”
He smiles, slow and devastating. “Because you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep.”
I look at him, heart thudding, the jersey still clutched in my lap. “You could have anyone on this campus,” I say quietly. “Girls are fawning over you every day.”
His expression doesn’t shift. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t deny it. He just leans in, eyes locked on mine, voice low and deliberate.
“I don’t want anyone else.”
I swallow hard, but he’s not done.
“They want the version of me I let them see,” he says, thumb brushing my jaw. “The charm. The body. The game-day smile. But you—“ His voice drops, almost reverent. “You saw me when I wasn’t performing. You looked at me like I was real. And now I can’t fucking breathe without thinking about you.”
My breath catches.
“I don’t chase,” he murmurs. “I claim. And I’ve already decided—you’re mine.”
“You’ve derailed me,” I whisper.
His brow lifts, but he doesn’t speak.
“You’ve inserted yourself into my life like you belong there. Like you’ve always belonged there. And I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t count on it.”
He watches me, silent, unreadable.
“My routines are how I survive,” I say, voice trembling. “They’re how I stay upright. And now I’m forgetting steps. I’m skipping counts. I’m changing because of you.”
He leans in, eyes dark, voice low. “Good.”
I blink, stunned.
“I don’t want to be another number in your life,” he whispers. “I want to be the reason you stop counting.”
His eyes are locked on mine, dark and unflinching, and then, without warning, he closes the distance.
His lips crash down on mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s not tentative. It’s claiming. His hands are firm at my waist, anchoring me in place, and for a split second, I freeze. My breath halts. My body goes still. The world narrows to the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his grip, the pulse roaring in my ears.
Then I lean in. Slowly. Willingly. Like something inside me has been waiting for this exact moment to break open, and maybe it has. I’ve had a crush on him for years.
My fingers drop the jersey, and I clutch his toned arms.
The kiss deepens, and I feel it everywhere. In my chest. In my spine. In the way my routines fall silent. He’s not just touching me. He’s rewriting me.