27
Nate
House parties are worse than field parties.
I know this because field parties at least give you room to walk away from bad decisions.
House parties trap them in hallways and add sticky floors.
By eleven, the place on Briar Street is packed shoulder-to-shoulder with half the student body, three-quarters of the hockey team, and enough noise to qualify as a weather system.
And Hannah Reed is next to me in the kitchen wearing black jeans, knee-high boots, and a soft white sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder like it knows exactly what it’s doing. I am trying not to look at it. I am failing politely.
“You’re staring,” she says without looking at me.
“I’m observing. I’m your fake boyfriend. Observation is part of the role.”
She turns her head, blonde hair sliding over her shoulder, mouth fighting a smile. “You just made that up.”
“Most boyfriend duties are made up.”
“Fake boyfriend duties.”
“Right.” I lift my cup of water. “Fake.”
The word lands a little flatter than I mean it to.
Hannah notices; she always notices now. We ended up here because Ethan is supposed to be here.
That is the official, strategic reason. The reason I gave myself when I saw her standing under the streetlight, looking like she had no idea half the party would forget how to speak when she walked in.
Across the kitchen, Carter catches my eye. He lifts two fingers to his eyes and points them at me. I mouth, *Stop.* He mouths back, *Be smart.*
I am smart. I have been smart all night. Controlled. Responsible. Boyfriend-shaped.
“Ethan just walked in,” Carter says as he passes us, way too casually.
Hannah’s spine straightens beside me. Ethan Cross steps through the crowd, scanning the room. Then he sees Hannah. Then he sees me. His expression shifts—barely, but I catch it.
“Nervous?” I murmur.
“A little.”
“Game face? Color?”
Her eyes flash to mine. That word belongs to us now. Private language in a public room. “Green,” she says softly.
My hand slides to her waist. Her breath catches. I step closer, turning my body toward hers so anyone watching sees the shape of us: Nate Wilder crowding Hannah Reed against the kitchen counter. Ethan sees. Good. Great.
So why does the satisfaction feel sharp?
“Eyes here,” I say, catching her chin lightly when she tries to look at him. I pull her toward the living room to dance. I let my hand fall to her lower back, pulling her closer. Not grinding, but close. Her hands land on my chest.
“He’s watching,” I whisper into her ear.
I brush my lips against her temple. She shivers. Then she lifts her face to mine, and for a second, I know she’s not thinking about Ethan. I know because her gaze drops to my mouth. I kiss her—soft at first, then harder when she grips my shirt. The crowd fades into a blur. I pull back first, barely.
Ethan is still watching. His expression isn't neutral anymore. Plan working.
He starts toward us. Hannah’s shoulders pull back.
“You two seem… pretty close,” Ethan says, his gaze cutting to me.
I smile. Lazy. Easy. “She’s hard to stay away from.”
Hannah looks at me, pink blooming across her cheeks, and for one second I forget we are performing because the look on her face is real. Ethan clears his throat. “Maybe we can still hang out sometime. I’ll text you.”
He leaves. Hannah’s eyes are bright. “He asked. But I said maybe. I don't know why.”
I do. I think I do. But I don't say it. The air feels thinner.
“Want some air?” I ask.
She nods. We head to the back deck. The cold air is sharp and clean. Hannah stands in front of me, hair falling around her face. I want to take her home. Not for the plan. Just because I want her in my apartment where I can ask for her color without shouting over music.
“Hannah. Do you want to come home with me?”
Her breath catches. “Whatever we talk about first,” I add. “No assumptions.”
She steps closer. “Green.”
The drive is quiet. Charged. At my apartment, I lock the door after she nods. We sit on the couch.
“I don’t want to sit far away,” she says, shifting closer. She swallows hard. “I want kissing. Touching. And... I think I want to take my shirt off. Bra stays on.”
My lungs stop for a beat. “Color?”
“Green.”
I pull the sweater over her head. Hannah sits in front of me in just her bra and jeans. She is gorgeous. Fuller than I realized, her chest rising with every nervous breath. I have to force myself not to stare like an animal.
“You’re beautiful,” I say. It comes out before I can stop it.
“That sounds boyfriend-y,” she whispers.
“Fake boyfriend. Very committed to realism.”
Wrong answer. I see the flicker in her eyes. She leans in and kisses me hard. We move through the rules. Jeans off. Underwear stays on. Direct touch only, outside, over the fabric. She arches into my hand, her voice turning breathy.
“More,” she whispers. “More than over.”
I pull back. “Talk first. You’re asking for under? Direct touch?”
“Yes.”
I move my hand beneath the waistband of her underwear. I touch her directly, and she falls apart on a breath.
Not an orgasm. Not yet. Just the shock of the first skin-to-skin contact. Her hand tightens around my wrist.
“Green,” she whispers, voice muffled against my shoulder. “Just new.”
I move my fingers gently, learning her. Her hips roll against me. I keep the pressure slow, consistent. I want her out of her head.
“Still green?”
“Green. Nate... I think I want more.” Her eyes are heavy-lidded. “Inside.”
I still. “Are you sure? I’ll start with one finger. Slow. Red means stop, no questions.”
She nods. “Green.”
I move with almost painful care. When I add a second finger, she tenses, then softens. I can see the moment it stops being scary. Her mouth falls open. Her body starts chasing pleasure instead of bracing against it.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
She moans, her hips rocking into my hand. She is so unguarded it hits me somewhere deeper than lust. She is gorgeous.
“You’re close, Hannah. Let it happen.”
Her body goes taut. One suspended second. Then she breaks. She comes around my fingers with a shocked cry, head falling back, clenching hard. I watch her face to make sure she's okay. The pleasure hits her so hard her eyes shine when they open.
I ease my hand away and drape a blanket over her. “You okay? Words, baby.”
“Green. Very green.”
She looks at me, scarlet-faced. “You’re... suffering heroically?”
“Kind of.”
She laughs, and I do too. The pride in her eyes gets me every time.
I drive her home later. At her dorm, she leans over and kisses my cheek.
“Goodnight, Nate.”
“Goodnight, Hannah Reed.”
I watch her walk inside. My phone buzzes. *Inside. Still okay.*
I type back: *Good. Sleep. Proud of you.*
*Weapon,* she replies. *But green.*
I lean my head back and close my eyes. Tonight, I kept the line. But I’m starting to think my heart is the one I don't trust at all.