Chapter 15
fifteen
MAYA
“Your hair looks like you’ve just been fucked.”
Sophie’s observation cuts through my hangover like a scalpel.
I pause mid-sip of coffee, the ceramic mug warm against my palms, and resist the urge to smooth down what I’m sure is an absolute disaster of tangled black strands.
Because, this morning, I want to wear the mess atop my head like a trophy.
“I was,” I say instead, letting a slow, satisfied smile curve my lips. “Extremely.”
Sophie’s apartment is everything mine isn’t right now—clean floors, organized surfaces, and a scent that isn’t beer and body odor.
It’s a sanctuary of adult responsibility, the kind of place that people with relationships and with their shit together like to inhabit.
Where people don’t sleep with their emotionally complicated roommates because he had a bad day and because I was feeling lonely.
Not that I’m going to tell her that last part.
“So.” Sophie tucks her legs underneath her on the opposite end of the couch, her mug cradled between her hands. She’s wearing her Saturday morning uniform: yoga pants and an oversized Pine Barren Hockey sweatshirt that belongs to Mike. “Are you going to tell me, or do I need to drag it out of you?”
“There’s nothing to drag.” I take another sip of coffee, buying time to arrange my thoughts into something presentable. “Maine and I hooked up. It was fun.”
The words come out exactly as rehearsed.
Casual. Confident. The same tone I’d use to describe trying a new restaurant or buying a pair of shoes.
But, deep down, I’m not sure if they’re true.
Because as much as I’ve spent the last few hours telling myself it was transactional, I still can’t shake the look of him with Chloe, or how good it felt to have him inside me, connected, blowing his mind as someone finally took care of him for once.
Sophie’s eyebrows lift infinitesimally. “Fun,” she repeats, the word hanging in the air between us like a challenge.
“Yes, fun.” I smirk. “You know, that thing people have when they’re not overthinking everything?”
She doesn’t take the bait. She just sits there with her knowing brown eyes and her perfect posture, waiting.
I hate when she does this. The silence stretches, filled only by the distant sound of Mike’s shower running and the tick of her kitchen clock.
Fine. If she wants details, I’ll give her details. The sanitized version.
“Look, it was exactly what I expected.” I set my mug on the coaster on the coffee table, because Sophie’s the kind of person who has coasters. “Maine’s hot, he’s good in bed, and most importantly, he understands the rules. No strings, no complications.”
The lie slides out smooth as silk. I don’t mention the way he’d surrendered control completely, letting me take what I needed.
I don’t mention how different he looked without his performer’s mask, raw and exhausted and achingly real.
I definitely don’t mention the way he’d said my name like a prayer when he came.
Because none of that matters.
What matters is the narrative, the story I’m telling Sophie and myself.
The one where I’m totally in control.
“No feelings,” I add for emphasis, the words tasting like chalk. “Just good, uncomplicated sex.”
Sophie’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in her eyes. Concern, maybe. Or, worse, pity. “Maya…”
“What?” The defensiveness in my voice surprises even me. “Don’t give me that look. I know what I’m doing.”
“I’m sure you do.” She takes a measured sip of her coffee. “I’m just wondering if Maine knows what you’re doing.”
Heat flashes through my chest, quick and angry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just…” She shrugs, the gesture too careful to be casual. “How he was looking at you last night didn’t look casual.”
The memories slam into me before I can stop them. I remember catching Maine looking at me through the night. The hunger there had been real, desperate, tinged with something that went deeper than simple want, like I was something valuable and precious.
I shove the image away. “He pervs on every girl on campus.”
“If you say so.”
God, I hate when she does that. The two-word dismissal that says everything without saying anything. The non-judgment that judges harder than any lecture could. Because she’s the only other person on Earth who knows about the shit with my family, and how their rejection has fueled every rebellion.
I grab my mug again, needing something to do with my hands. “Trust me, Soph. I know exactly what this is. Maine’s a player, I’m not looking for anything serious and he certainly isn’t, so we both just blew off steam after a few too many drinks. It’s perfect.”
“Perfect,” she echoes, and there it is again—that note of skepticism that makes me want to throw something.
“Yes, perfect. He won’t get clingy, I won’t get attached, and we can coexist without all the sexual tension making things weird.” I lean back against the cushions, projecting a confidence I’m not entirely feeling. “Honestly, we probably should have done it weeks ago.”
Sophie’s quiet for a long moment, studying me with those too-perceptive eyes. I can practically see the gears turning in her head, weighing whether to push or let it go. Part of me hopes she’ll push, but part of me is terrified she will, because the truth is, I don’t know what last night was.
I know what it was supposed to be—a reclamation of power after my family’s rejection, a fuck-you to the universe that tried to make me feel small, and some comfort for him after I realized the whole world takes from this guy and never gives, so much so he’s made it his whole persona.
And it worked, mostly.
Taking control, making Maine beg, feeling his body surrender to mine—it was exactly the validation I’d needed, and exactly the care and tenderness he’d needed, and exactly the explosive orgasm we’d both needed after a tough semester and weeks of flirting.
But there were other moments. Quiet ones I can’t quite categorize.
How, after, in those drowsy minutes before I’d retreated to my room, he’d pulled me against his chest. Not possessive, not demanding. Just… holding. Like he needed the contact as much as the sex. And I’d lapped it up like a cat with milk, because nobody has ever held me like that before.
“So what’s the plan now?” Sophie asks, breaking through my spiraling thoughts.
“We’re roommates who occasionally hook up when the mood strikes. No drama, no expectations.” I pull out my phone, the weight of it familiar in my hand. “Actually, I should probably set some ground rules. Make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Ground rules,” Sophie murmurs.
The screen of my phone is bright in the soft morning light of her apartment. I stare at the blank message field, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What I want to say and what I probably should say are two different languages entirely.
What I want to message him:
Last night was incredible. The way you made me feel connected, the way you let me take care of you—it felt like something more than just sex. Did you feel it too?
What I should message him:
Good time last night. Repeat tonight?
Neither feels right. The first is too honest, too vulnerable, and Maya Hayes does not do vulnerable. The second risks continuing something that is dangerous, like agreeing to go back into a house fire you’ve just escaped from.
Feelings I don’t know how to handle.
Moments that blur the line between physical need and emotional want.
Fuck .
This is exactly why I don’t do complicated.
“You’re overthinking,” Sophie observes, and I realize I’ve been staring at my phone for a full minute without typing anything.
“I’m not overthinking. I’m trying to figure out how to communicate with a being who only understands single-syllable words…”
“Right.” She sets her empty mug on the side table. “Can I ask you something, Maya?”
I tense. Sophie’s ‘can I ask you something?’ questions are never simple. “Depends on what it is.”
“Why Maine?”
The question catches me off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you could have any guy on campus. Literally any guy. So why your boisterous, complicated, financially dependent roommate who you’ve been playing sexual chicken with for weeks?” She smirks. “Do you just love the drama so much? Or the fact that you’ve finally found your match?”
Found my match.
The way she says it, it’s all about the performance.
The Maine Show and the Wild Stallion.
But she doesn’t know that, once the lights go out, I do feel a connection. A match. He desperately needs someone to look after him for once, to tell him he doesn’t need to be OK all the time. And I need someone who’ll accept me for who I am—love me for who I am—even if that’s messy and complicated.
And the undercurrent of sizzling attraction and constant banter doesn’t hurt, either.
I saw him at his worst and wanted to make him feel better. I was drowning in family rejection and bone-deep loneliness, and he helped me remember I was worth something. He’s the only person who’s ever matched my energy, challenged me, and made me work for it.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I smile. “Because he’s hot, and when I’m with him, I feel like I’m finally playing against someone in my league,” I lie. “And, despite all his other flaws, Maine Hamilton definitely knows what he’s doing in bed.”
Sophie makes a noncommittal sound that suggests she’s not buying what I’m selling. But before she can probe deeper, I’m saved by Mike emerging from their bedroom, hair still damp from his shower, Sophie’s eyes tracking him and her face lighting up.
“Morning, ladies,” he says, heading straight for the coffee pot. “How’s the hangover situation?”
“Manageable,” I reply, grateful for the interruption.
“Good.” He glances between us, clearly sensing the tension but smart enough not to comment on it. “Still want brunch, Soph?”
“Yeah, we should head out soon,” Sophie says, but her eyes stay on me. “Are you coming?”
I shake my head. “Can’t. I have clinical prep to do,” I lie, again, because I’m not sure my flimsy story about Maine and I will hold up to any more scrutiny.
And because I’m not ready to have those conversations, even in my head.
“OK.” She stands, stretching. “But we’re talking more about this later.”
I flip her off with a smile that says love you too, bitch , and she laughs. This is why Sophie’s my best friend—she knows when to push and when to let me be—but Mike’s puttering in the kitchen gives me the cover I need to finally compose my message.
I stare at the screen, channeling every ounce of the control I’m desperately trying to maintain. No sweet morning-after messages. No acknowledgment of his family drama or my family drama or the way he fell apart in my arms. Just pure, uncomplicated directive.
Tonight. 9:00 p.m. Don’t be late.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The message delivers instantly, and I shove my phone into my pocket before I can obsess over read receipts.
“I should go,” I announce, standing abruptly. “Thanks for the coffee and the judgment-free zone.”
“Who said it was judgment-free?” Sophie snorts. But she hugs me anyway, tight and warm and understanding. “Just be careful, OK?”
“Always am.”
It’s another lie, but we both pretend it isn’t.
The walk back to my apartment—our apartment—takes twelve minutes. I know because I count every step, trying to figure out what I’ll say and how to play it if Maine’s there. Casual? Aloof? Pretend nothing happened until 9:00 p.m., when I summon him to my bed again?
But as I unlock our door and step into the apartment that still smells faintly of last night’s party and what we did after, I can’t shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted. He’s not home, but he fills the room—and my thoughts—in ways he didn’t twenty-four hours ago.
The living room is exactly as we left it. There are red cups on every surface, someone’s forgotten jacket draped over the couch, and the sticky residue of spilled drinks on the coffee table—all of it evidence of the chaos I orchestrated to make him feel better.
God, when did I become someone who throws parties to cheer up boys with sad eyes?
I should clean up. Be productive. Focus on anything except him . But even as I grab a trash bag and start collecting empties, Sophie’s knowing look haunts me. She sees too much, understands too much, and knows that my carefully constructed walls aren’t as solid as I pretend.
But they have to be.
Because the alternative—feeling something for Maine—isn’t an option.
Not when my family just reminded me that emotional investment is a luxury I can’t afford. Not when being vulnerable means risking rejection from someone who actually matters. So, instead, we’ll keep it casual, the boundary established.
Back to control. Back to safety.