Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Tristan
I make the decision before I can talk myself out of it.
Not in some big, dramatic way.
No speech. No moment.
Just… a quiet shift.
A line I draw in my own head.
Enough.
I came here for basketball.
For my degree.
To build something real—not chase ghosts from high school or get tangled in something that’s already burned once.
Stella made her choice.
Now I make mine.
It starts small.
That afternoon, I text Isa first.
Dinner? Somewhere that doesn’t serve protein shakes.
Three dots.
Then—
Isa: Finally. I thought I was gonna have to kidnap you.
I smirk.
Yeah.
This is easier.
We go off campus.
Not a party. Not the athlete dining hall.
A real place.
Soft lighting. Warm wood. The kind of restaurant where the music hums low and no one’s yelling over beer pong.
Isa shows up ten minutes late.
On purpose.
I know that the second I see her.
She walks in like she owns the room—long tan legs, fitted white dress that hugs everything it should, hair blown out smooth and glossy like she just stepped out of a campaign shoot.
Gold hoops.
Glossy lips.
Texas confidence.
Every head turns.
Including mine.
She spots me and smiles like she expected that reaction.
“Hey, stranger.”
Her voice is warm, that soft Southern lilt wrapping around the words.
“Hey.”
I stand, pull out her chair.
She notices.
“Look at you,” she says, sliding into her seat. “Being all… gentlemanly.”
“I have layers.”
“Mmm,” she hums. “I’m starting to see that.”
The waiter comes.
We order.
She doesn’t even look at the menu long—like she’s used to places like this.
Used to this kind of life.
On paper?
She fits.
Perfectly.
Conversation is easy.
That’s the thing.
Effortless.
She tells me about Texas—debutante balls, big family holidays, Friday night lights that feel like religion.
I tell her about growing up bouncing between expectations.
We laugh.
We lean in.
At one point, her foot brushes mine under the table.
Doesn’t move away.
Neither do I.
This is what it’s supposed to feel like, right?
Smooth.
Light.
No sharp edges.
No history.
No ghosts.
Halfway through dinner, she tilts her head, studying me.
“You’re trying.”
I pause.
“What?”
“With me.”
She says it like it’s not an accusation.
Just… truth.
I lean back slightly.
“Is that a problem?”
Her lips curve.
“No,” she says softly. “I like it.”
Then, quieter—
“I just wanna make sure I’m not a distraction.”
That hits.
Because that’s exactly what she started as.
And now—
I’m not sure what she is.
“You’re not,” I say.
Not a lie.
Not fully the truth either.
Dessert comes.
We share it.
One spoon.
Back and forth.
Her lipstick leaves a faint mark on the edge of the glass.
I notice it.
The same way I notice everything about her.
How she touches my wrist when she laughs.
How her eyes stay on mine a second longer than necessary.
How she chooses me.
Openly.
Without hesitation.
No games.
No walls.
No running.
When we leave, the air is cooler.
Night settling over campus.
Streetlights flicker on.
She steps closer as we walk.
Not dramatic.
Just… natural.
Like she belongs there.
At my side.
“You’re quiet,” she says.
“Thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
I huff a laugh.
“Yeah.”
She stops walking.
So I do too.
She turns to face me fully.
“You don’t have to overthink this, you know.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She steps closer. “I like you. You like me. It’s not that complicated.”
God.
If only that were true.
Her hand comes up, fingers brushing the back of my neck.
Warm.
Soft.
Inviting.
“This?” she says quietly. “This could be easy.”
Easy.
Safe.
Right.
Everything Stella isn’t.
And there it is.
The comparison.
Uninvited.
Unwanted.
Constant.
I swallow.
“Isa…”
Her eyes flicker.
She hears the hesitation.
She’s not stupid.
But she doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t retreat.
She steps in.
Closes the distance.
Her hand slides into my hair.
And then—
She kisses me.
Not like before.
Not claiming.
Not for show.
This is slower.
Deeper.
Intentional.
Her body presses into mine, warmth and softness and heat.
Her lips move against mine like she’s trying to prove something.
Or maybe… give me something.
My hand comes up automatically—rests at her waist.
Pulls her closer.
And for a second—
I let myself fall into it.
Because it’s good.
She’s good.
This could be good.
But it’s not—
Fire.
Not the kind that knocks the air out of your lungs.
Not the kind that makes your chest feel like it’s splitting open.
Not the kind that ruins you.
We break apart slowly.
Her forehead rests against mine.
“See?” she whispers. “That wasn’t so hard.”
I let out a breath.
“Yeah.”
She smiles.
Satisfied.
Like she’s winning.
And maybe she is.
We walk back to campus like that.
Closer now.
Connected.
People see us.
Phones are out.
Whispers starting again.
T&T.
The perfect pair.
The right match.
Later, in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed.
Stare at my phone.
Her name isn’t on the screen.
Stella.
No texts.
No missed calls.
Nothing.
I should feel settled.
I made a choice.
I tried.
I’m doing what makes sense.
So why does it feel like I just traded something real…
for something that fits?
I fall back onto the mattress.
Stare at the ceiling.
And for the first time since I got here—
I understand something I didn’t before.
Isa makes my life easier.
Stella makes me feel alive.
And I don’t know which one I’m supposed to choose.
But I know this—
Trying with Isa?
That wasn’t fake.
But it also wasn’t enough.
And the worst part?
She deserves someone who doesn’t have to try this hard.
And Stella?
She’s not even here.
And she still owns space in my chest like she never left.
I drag a hand over my face.
Exhale hard.
Because this?
This is going to get messy.
And I’m right in the middle of it.
She doesn’t let me walk her all the way up.
“I can manage,” Isa says, shifting slightly on the crutches, chin tipped up like she’s daring me to argue. “I want to make an entrance, remember?”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you like it.”
Yeah.
I do.
I watch her make her way toward the building anyway—slow, controlled, every movement deliberate. Even injured, she carries herself like she’s stepping onto a stage.
Heads turn.
They always do.
She glances back once over her shoulder, eyes finding mine.
“Don’t take too long, Vale.”
Not a question.
An expectation.
I give her ten minutes.
Then I’m inside.
Her place is… exactly what I should expect.
Spotless.
Not a thing out of place.
Neutral tones, expensive textures, soft lighting that makes everything look like a magazine spread.
It doesn’t feel like a dorm.
It feels curated.
Like her.
Controlled. Polished. Intentional.
She’s not in the living room.
I hear her from down the hall.
“Give me a second!”
I lean against the kitchen counter, glancing around, hands sliding into my pockets.
This is good.
This is right.
This is—
She walks back in.
And whatever thought I had?
Gone.
Tight yoga top.
No bra.
Soft, thin fabric that doesn’t hide anything.
Loose, wide-leg sweats hanging low on her hips.
Her hair’s down now, slightly messy, like she ran her fingers through it after taking it out of whatever perfect style she had earlier.
Comfortable.
Unfiltered.
Still stunning.
I swallow.
Hard.
A slow, satisfied smile curves her mouth.
“Hi again.”
“Hey.”
My voice is rougher than I want it to be.
She moves toward the couch, and I’m there before she can even try to sit on her own.
“Careful,” I mutter, one hand steadying her waist, the other guiding her down.
She lets me.
That’s the thing.
She lets me take care of her.
I prop pillows under her leg, adjusting them until she’s comfortable.
She watches me the whole time.
Soft.
Warm.
Like I’m doing exactly what she hoped I would.
“You’re good at this,” she says quietly.
“At what?”
“Taking care of someone.”
I shrug it off. “Basic human decency.”
“Mmm,” she hums, like she doesn’t believe that for a second.
We put something on.
I don’t even know what.
Some movie neither of us is really watching.
She shifts closer.
Then closer.
Until she’s practically tucked into my side.
And then—
She just… lays down.
Right across me.
Head in my lap.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I freeze for half a second.
Then my hand moves on instinct.
Slides into her hair.
Slow.
Gentle.
I start brushing my fingers through it.
She melts.
Actually melts.
A soft sigh leaves her lips, eyes drifting shut for a moment.
“Don’t stop,” she murmurs.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
This is dangerous.
Not because it’s intense.
But because it’s… easy.
Comfortable.
She fits here.
Too well.
The movie plays on.
Background noise.
My hand keeps moving through her hair.
Her fingers trace absentminded patterns against my wrist.
We don’t talk.
We don’t need to.
And for a second—
I understand the appeal.
Why someone would choose this.
Stay here.
Build something here.
She shifts suddenly.
Turns.
Pushes up just enough to look at me.
Her eyes are darker now.
Focused.
Intent.
Before I can react—
Her hand comes up, sliding behind my neck.
She pulls me down.
And kisses me.
Not hesitant.
Not testing.
Certain.
Her lips move against mine, warm and soft and wanting.
My hand tightens slightly in her hair before I catch myself.
My other hand slides to her side, steadying her, keeping her from twisting her leg the wrong way.
She presses closer.
And for a second—
I let myself get lost in it.
But my brain catches up.
My chest tightens.
Not because I don’t want this.
But because—
I don’t want it enough.
I pull back.
Not abruptly.
Not cold.
Just enough to break it.
Her lips follow for half a second before she realizes.
Her brows knit slightly.
“Hey…”
I rest my forehead against hers, breathing out slowly.
“You need to sleep,” I murmur.
She searches my face.
Trying to read it.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
My thumb brushes lightly along her jaw.
Gentle.
Careful.
“You’ve had a day.”
There’s a pause.
Then—
She smiles.
Soft.
Warm.
Satisfied.
“You’re not like the others,” she says quietly.
That lands heavier than anything else tonight.
“You’re not a player.”
I swallow.
Because if she only knew.
“I know we’re doing this right,” she continues, settling back down against me, her head returning to my chest this time. “Slow. Real.”
Her fingers curl lightly into my shirt.
“This is… long haul energy.”
Long haul.
God.
I stare at the TV.
Don’t see a single thing.
My hand moves in her hair again automatically.
Same rhythm.
Same softness.
Because I don’t know what else to do.
Because I don’t want to hurt her.
Because she deserves this version of me.
The one that stays.
The one that’s steady.
The one that chooses her fully.
But that’s not the version sitting here.
Not completely.
Because even with her in my arms—
Warm.
Beautiful.
Trusting—
There’s a part of me that’s somewhere else.
On a beach.
In a gym.
In a hallway.
Chasing a girl who told me to leave her alone.
Isa shifts slightly, already drifting off.
Safe.
Content.
Certain.
She thinks this means something.
That we’re building something.
That I’m all in.
And I wish—
I really wish—
I could be the guy she thinks I am.
I stare down at her as her breathing evens out.
My hand still in her hair.
My chest tight.
Because I made the right choice.
Did everything right.
So why does it feel like I’m lying to both of us?