38. CORA
CORA
I tell myself I’m just walking, but my pulse keeps arguing. Lane’s last text is still on my screen, two stupid words that feel like a decision: You coming? I could turn around. I don’t.
It feels different when you know you’re crossing a line. Not loud. Not dramatic. Quieter than that. Like stepping just past where you’re supposed to stop and hoping no one notices the shift in your balance.
Every rule I’ve ever lived by shows up at once—my dad, the team, the careful version of me that’s always known how to stay on the right side of things.
Lane is a secret. One I’m not supposed to even consider. The kind you keep folded up in your chest and pretend isn’t there until it starts pressing on your ribs.
This is a bad idea. It’s like I’m walking up to a clear, bold line. One I shouldn’t put a toe over—that’s not what Cora Banks does, right?
My feet cross it anyway.
The night air bites at my cheeks as I walk up to Lane’s door, dry leaves skittering across the walkway like they were in a hurry to get somewhere warmer.
October in Michigan has a way of sinking into your bones.
I pull my jacket tighter around me and climb the steps to Lane’s apartment, trying to quiet the nervous flutter in my stomach.
I’ve been here before—not that I remember much about the apartment. Lane, on the other hand? Yeah, I can recall a detail or two.
Lane opens the door a moment after I knock. His hair is damp from his shower, a few strands falling onto his forehead, and a soft old T-shirt—the kind you want to run your hands over—covers his chest. He gave me a quick, almost self-conscious smile.
“Hey.” He gestures for me to come inside.
The apartment still feels like it’s never been lived in. The lack of personality hasn’t changed—bare walls, new coffee table, nothing on the shelves—but on the table sit two cans of sparkling water in my go-to flavor and some peanut M&M’s.
I look at the snacks and back to him, just in time for him to say, “I pay attention.” He shrugs his shoulders and a bit of his softness comes through.
“That’s very… prepared of you,” I murmur with a small grin, shaking the chill off my hands.
“Ah, forgot something.” He moves to a cupboard in the kitchen, grabbing a bag of something and tossing it on the table.
Sour peach rings.
I remember that first night, him calling me Peaches. It feels like an inside joke between the two of us. And I sort of love it.
“Care to elaborate?” I press as I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of a chair.
Shaking his head, Lane asks, “Do I need to?”
I can’t help but throw my arms around his shoulders and kiss him. Smiling into it, it’s lighter than any time we’ve been together. His hands rest on my lower back and move to my hips before pulling away.
“Have to study. That was the deal.” He wags his finger at me like I'm breaking a rule.
We settle on the couch, the glow from our laptop screens lighting up the room. One of the windows is cracked, letting the cool air fill the space. I kind of love being cold—you can always add layers.
I see a blanket folded on the arm of the couch, and grab it to throw across our laps. A tag sticks out—it’s new.
I say nothing but look to Lane, watching his ears turn a little pink as he scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Thought it was time to get something for the apartment.”
The simple gesture warms something in my chest. It’s small, simple, and practical but I can’t help but marvel at how it feels to know he thought about me.
Quietly, we sit next to each other and work on our laptops. After the first ten minutes or so, where we kept stealing looks of the other and sometimes getting caught in the process, my heartbeat settled. It’s like my body knows what happened the last time I was here, even though it was months ago.
My timer goes off once I’ve hit forty-five minutes of work. Lane jumps next to me, startled by the unexpected sound.
“Sorry, it’s a habit. I always set an alarm. That way I don’t spend too much time on one task,” I explain. Why is it so embarrassing to talk about my study or work habits? I will the heat to leave my cheeks.
“Too much time on a task?” he asks while I pull out my planner from my bag. Flipping to today’s entry, I mark the box next to this work sprint before looking at the few boxes remaining for tonight.
Lane leans over, eyes drifting across my week, color coordinated and written with only approved pens.
Left-handed individuals don’t have the luxury of grabbing any type of pen and using it, so I’ve spent a decent chunk of time testing and approving pens.
I truly can’t deal when I’m smearing ink all over with my hand.
Cora, do not tell him about your pen obsession right now.
“Wow. This is… I’ve never seen something like this.” He squints, probably trying to read the words next to the many checkboxes. “You’re the ‘get good grades’ girl, right?”
I nod, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’m trying to graduate with a 4.0.”
At the mentions of my goal, his eyes go wide and his draw drops. “Wait. Are you telling me you have a 4.0? Right now? In your senior year?” He sits back and I love the way his gaze feels on me.
“Yes?” I don’t know why I answer with a question.
Lane hits his thighs with his hands. “That’s fucking amazing. You do… like, everything? Classes. Work. Hockey stuff. Research.”
“Certified nerd. I get it.” I close my planner, knowing what I need to complete next. I laugh as I do it, because it always makes me uncomfortable when people compliment my capacity.
How do you keep up with everything? You never forget a thing! Well, you see, I have crippling anxiety that makes it impossible to not have the capacity. Sometimes I’m on the verge of burnout, more frequently than most people know, but I still find a way.
It’s how I’ve always been.
Lane’s hand squeezes my thigh, “No. That’s not what I meant. I don’t think you’re a nerd…well, from what I know so far.” He looks at me as he pauses and quickly pulls his hand away.
Like he’s nervous.
I’m going to fucking melt into this couch. The surprising compliment washes over me and makes the room spin for a second. The broody transfer—who loves to trade barbs, build up the walls surrounding him—is casually complimenting my brain. I never would’ve guessed.
Instead of reaching for my laptop from the table, I lightly take Lane’s from his lap and set it next to mine.
When I look at him, his eyes make me catch my breath. Pushing his shoulders back, he follows the instruction, and I stand—only to straddle him. My knees push into the cushions and his hands immediately press into the side of my thighs, pushing up to my hips.
“All because I said I liked your brain, huh?” He smirks and I can’t wait another second. I put my lips on his. He kisses me back and something flutters in my chest. This feels so good. Like, an immediate lift to my mood.
Kissing Lane Maxwell is like my own serotonin booster.
“Not just that. This.” I gesture around his apartment. The invite to spend time together. “All of it.”
My lips dance in front of his and we’re a breath apart. He’s the one who closes the space this time. Lane’s hands move up my back and he leans forward, letting his hands hold me up. His strength has me moaning into it, moving my hips on him.
I sweep his lip with my tongue and deepen our kiss. My hands squeeze his shoulders and glide to his forearms—just wanting more contact. It’s like the alarm in my head is ringing with more, more, more.
His mouth moves from my lips to my neck. He kisses down my skin and I tip my head back, giving him more of me. I swear he’s going to lick back up where his lips just grazed my skin but instead pulls back.
“I promised we’d get work done.” I press my forehead to his and he says, “I know you have more empty check boxes.”
He refers to my planner and I think I’m a goner. Like, who is this man? He’s trying to keep his promise.
“You’re right,” I say and I go to lift my leg up and over so I can get back to my side of the couch. Lane holds me in place, kissing me again.
“But when we’re finished…” He raises his brows and the heat starts to pool in my low belly.
Good god.