Chapter 25
TROY
Ican’t move. I literally cannot move.
My arm is under Delilah’s shoulders. My other hand is sort of… hovering. Like it fell asleep in midair and forgot to land. My back is flat against her tiny-ass couch, and there’s a woman, a terrifying, brilliant woman, sleeping on my chest.
And I swear to god, if I even breathe too hard and wake her up, I’m going to die.
Not from embarrassment. From her murdering me.
So I stay still. So still that I can feel my muscles starting to cramp.
My spine’s like, “Bro, what are we doing?” and my knees are like, “You betrayed us.” But I ignore them.
I ignore everything. And, to make matters even worse, I’ve got a raging hard on.
Not just a casual, “oh I rolled over weird” situation. No. This is a full-blown, absolutely rock-hard, traitorous gray sweatpants moment.
Because of course. Of course, I wore the damn sweatpants today. The light gray ones with the UMS logo on the thigh, because I wasn’t planning on leaving the house. Until the Ethan situation happened. And now I’m lying here with a half-naked panic attack in my pants like a Greek statue of shame.
These sweatpants hide nothing. If she wakes up right now, it’s game over. I will have to fake my own death and transfer schools and possibly countries. Who gets hard watching Twilight?!
I’m trying to focus on anything else. Anything else.
Like the ceiling or that weird buzzing from the mini fridge. Or the way her chest moves up and down as she breathes deeply.
I stare at the ceiling more. Interesting. Wow.
This is fine. This is just cuddling. People cuddle all the time. Ethan once spooned me on a camping trip and tried to blame it on “body heat redistribution.” This is not that different.
Except it is, because this is Delilah.
And Delilah isn’t just anyone.
She’s got one hand curled into the collar of my hoodie like she forgot she was touching me.
Her breath keeps fanning out across my chest in these soft little sighs, and I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more like a human shield in my entire life.
Like I’m protecting something I shouldn’t even be allowed to look at.
God, she smells like shampoo and old books and a little bit of cinnamon.
How does she smell interesting? She fascinates me and honestly, it’s stupid how much she fascinates me.
I’ve never met someone who can make me feel this off-balance with just a look.
Or a sigh. Or a sarcastic comment about my sandwich-making technique.
And there’s this…whole world behind her eyes.
Like she’s been carrying a storm inside her since she was a kid, and she’s still trying to keep it contained.
I recognize it in me. We’ve both always had to be independent, we just go about it differently.
She doesn’t let people in. She doesn’t want to need anyone. That’s obvious.
But holy shit—I want to be the person she lets in.
I want to know what makes her laugh when no one’s looking. I want to know what she dreamed about when she was nine and life was hard. I want to know who hurt her, and why she still doesn’t let people hug her for longer than three seconds unless they trick her into it.
I want to know everything about Delilah Greer.
Fuck. I’m not supposed to be the guy who catches feelings for the one person who clearly doesn’t want to give them. But here I am, lying on a couch that’s way too small, not moving a damn muscle, because this girl—this beautiful, confusing, guarded girl—fell asleep in my arms.
I’m still. Still as a damn statue.
Which would be fine, if I wasn’t also starting to lose feeling in my left leg. And my lower back, I need to check the time. Not for any logical reason. Just because my body is begging for some sense of control over this situation.
Slowly—very slowly—I inch my hand toward the armrest where I’m pretty sure I left my phone. One wrong move and this whole carefully balanced cuddle ecosystem is going to implode. My fingertips find the corner of the phone case. Victory. I wiggle it forward like I'm defusing a bomb.
Finally, I pull it into view and squint at the screen.
3:07 AM.
Awesome.
Just a casual middle-of-the-night emotional crisis with a side of oh yeah, I have class tomorrow. A real one. With a quiz. That I haven’t studied for because I spent the day making grilled sandwiches and comforting a crying Ethan. And then accidentally falling in love with my project partner.
Cool.
Cool cool cool.
I should get up. Go home. Get in my own bed. Reset. Regroup. Ice my shoulder.
But… I don’t.
Because she’s still here. Still breathing steady against me. Still gripping my hoodie like I might disappear if she lets go.
And maybe I’m an idiot, or sleep-deprived, or both, but I’m not ready to move.
At some point, I must’ve dozed off. Not deeply—just one of those half-conscious, couch-induced naps where your neck is at the wrong angle and you’re vaguely aware your arm might never work properly again.
I wake up to movement. Soft. Shifting. Then a stretch.
She’s definitely awake now, adjusting her arm with a low, sleepy sigh as she starts to turn onto her side—
And then, Disaster. Her hand stretches out across my stomach, seeking balance or warmth or god knows what.
And lands directly on my raging boner.
Oh no.
Her hand retracts so fast it’s like I was made of fire. She flinches back like she’s touched an electric fence, sitting upright with wide eyes, her sleep-mussed hair all over the place and her cheeks flaming red in the dim light of the TV screen.
I open one eye, the rest of me still pretending to be asleep like maybe if I don’t move, we can both pretend that did not just happen.
Spoiler: We can’t.
“Oh my god,” she whispers.
I am…idiotically still playing dead. Still hoping for a miracle.
She clears her throat. “You awake?”
Nope. Never been less awake in my life.
“You have… a situation,” she says carefully, like she’s narrating a wildlife documentary.
I groan into the pillow behind me. “You touched it, Greer.”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“You touched it.”
“I thought it was—” she cuts herself off. “I don’t know what I thought it was! A knee?”
“A knee?”
“Look, I was half-asleep and you were just—there and warm and I didn’t mean to grope your…” She makes a vague, mortified gesture in the air. “I’m going to die. I’m literally going to self-combust right here.”
I finally sit up, pushing a hand through my hair, trying to keep my voice light even as my entire soul tries to crawl under the couch. “Well… I guess we’re even now.”
She narrows her eyes. “Even?”
“You’ve mocked my fashion sense, insulted my intelligence, refused to let me drive you home most days, and now you’ve copped a feel. I think that’s fair.”
“Oh my god,” she mutters again, dragging a throw pillow over her face.
I watch her for a second—face flushed, wrapped in that ridiculous yellow blanket, hair sticking up in half a dozen directions—and despite everything, I grin.
“Look, you’ve felt it before, Greer,” I remind her casually.
Her eyes snap to mine. “Not properly!” she almost hisses.
I sigh dramatically. “I know. Many women are rendered speechless after I rock their world. There’s usually some crying. Some dramatic declarations. Occasionally fainting even, it’s smart to have a medic nearby.”
“Shut up!” she cries, but I can hear the laugh in her voice now.
I lean into her space just enough to make her squirm and gently nudge her back into the couch cushions. She giggles and shoves at my chest, weakly.
“I’m trapped!” she announces. “The most arrogant, annoying man on campus has me pinned! Please, someone call security!”
I raise a brow. “Delilah? Are you—joking? Is this… are you having fun right now?”
She grins up at me, cheeks pink, breath a little uneven. “I think I’m delirious.”
I don’t miss the way her gaze flicks down. Right to the problem still very much happening in my sweatpants. Her eyes widen and she bites her lip.
Thank you, gray sweatpants. I take back everything I said about you earlier. I’ve never been prouder to represent UMS in my entire life.
“This makes no sense,” she murmurs. “You are so not my type and yet…”
I lean in slightly, arms braced on either side of her, letting the pause stretch.
“And yet…?” I prompt.
She doesn’t answer.
“And yet you’re wildly, uncontrollably horny for me?” I offer. “And yet, you’re seconds away from begging me to absolutely destroy you right here on your couch?”
Her mouth drops open. “Troy—!”
I smirk. “Look, if you don’t fill in the gap, I will.”
She throws the pillow at my face. I catch it easily, grinning, but something in me shifts. Playtime’s over. Not because I’m done having fun—hell no.
But because the way she’s looking at me now is she’s trying not to want this and that’s got me curious.
I drop the pillow to the floor. Real slow. Then I lean in. Not touching her. Not yet. But close enough she can feel the heat coming off me. Close enough that I see her chest rise just a little too fast.
“Alright,” I murmur, voice lower now. “Let’s try something else.”
Her brows pinch. “What are you—”
I reach up and gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingertips graze her cheek. Her breath stutters. Her whole body freezes.
I smile.
“I’m just wondering,” I say softly, “what it would take to ruin you a second time.”
She swallows. Hard.
“The other night…” I continue, tone careful now, smooth. “I know we haven’t spoken about it.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“But you remember it, don’t you?” I ask, even quieter now, eyes locked on hers. “The way I touched you. The way you let me.”
She exhales, sharp and shaky.
”You have been thinking about it,” I say. “I know I have.”
She shakes her head, but it’s slow, uncertain.
And I lean closer still—barely a breath between us. “Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t. Her lips part just a little.
I watch her eyes flick from mine… to my mouth.
And I decide, right then—I want her to chase this. I always want this to be on her terms. Her lips are still parted, her eyes locked on mine. I could kiss her, I’m damn sure she’d let me. But I don’t.
Instead, I lean in just a breath closer—so close she has to tilt her chin to keep looking at me—and I let my lips hover near her ear.
“Tell me,” I murmur, low and rough, “that you haven’t thought about it.”
She sucks in a shaky breath.
“And I’ll stop. Right now. You say the word, Greer, and I’ll back off.”
She doesn’t say anything.
Her body’s gone still—except her fingers, which curl into the edge of the couch cushion like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered.
I pull back slowly, just enough to look at her again. Just enough to see what I'm doing to her.
Her eyes are glassy, caught between want and no, between “don’t kiss me” and “why the hell aren’t you kissing me”.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
I smile, slow and knowing. “You hate how much you want me.”
I lean closer again, my lips barely a breath from her ear. “You hate that I'm the one who makes you feel this way.” My hand slides up her arm, feeling goosebumps rise in its wake. “You hate that I noticed the way you watch me when you think I'm not looking.”
Her breathing quickens, but she doesn't move away. Doesn't tell me to stop.
“But mostly,” I continue, letting my lips brush against the shell of her ear, “you hate that I'm right. That I know exactly how wet you are right now just from me stroking you like this. All you have to do is ask, Mittens.”
She stands suddenly—too fast, like she needs the movement to keep from combusting. But her hands are shaking as she brushes imaginary lint off her thighs. “I’m going to bed,” she says.
I lean back against the couch, stretching my arms across the back in a deliberately casual pose. My shirt rides up just enough to show a sliver of skin above my sweatpants, and I don't miss how her eyes flick down before she catches herself.
“Sweet dreams, Greer,” I call after her, voice dripping with suggestion. “Try not to think about me too much.”
She pauses at the doorway, and for a second—just a flicker of a moment—I see her shoulders tense like she's considering turning around. Coming back to me.
Instead, she flips me off without looking back.
And God help me, it's the sexiest thing I've ever seen. Delilah Greer, brilliant and ferocious, telling me to fuck off without a word. My body tightens in response, and I have to shift on the couch.
I chuckle, low and satisfied.
But I don’t miss the way her hand lingers on the edge of the doorway.
And the way her voice—soft, dry, exhausted—floats back into the living room.
“Goodnight, Troy. Sleep well.”
She disappears down the hall, the sound of her bedroom door closing with just a little too much force echoing behind her.
I drop my head back against the couch, still smiling. Her lack of denial tells me everything I need to know.
You like me, Delilah Greer.