Chapter 15 #2
I toy with the edge of my flashcard pile, flipping one between my fingers without reading it. “And what, I’ll see you, in what, three weeks? There’s no way you and Josh can go longer than that without hanging out.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll only be about thirty minutes from his place. So you’re not getting rid of me yet.”
And when his knee bumps mine under the table, I don’t move it. I could shift. Pretend I didn’t feel it. Act too focused to notice.
But I don’t. It’s steady. Familiar in a way I haven’t allowed myself to think too hard about.
Suddenly, five minutes doesn’t feel like enough.
I lean deeper into the quiet between us, eyes flicking back to my notes. I try to focus, sit up straighter, and grab my highlighter, pretending I mean business. My eyes scan the same three sentences twice. The words blur.
The hypothalamus regulates hunger, thirst, body temperature…
My brain fills in the rest, but I can’t seem to retain it.
Rhett doesn’t speak. He just stays where he is, arms folded.
He watches me study for nearly thirty minutes. No scrolling. No checking his phone. Just… there.
And I let him. Because right now, I don’t have it in me to tell him to go.
“Alright, Sunny,” he says quietly, “how about we move this somewhere quieter? My roommates are out for the week, so it’s just me at the house. I’ll quiz you until you get it all down.”
I glance up, unsure if he is joking. “You want to quiz me? I thought all that ‘senior spring’ and ‘done with academics’ talk was just showing off your free time. You sure you want to waste it studying with me?”
He smirks and shrugs. “Yeah. I might be done with finals, but I’m not done helping you.”
“Wouldn’t you rather hang out with Josh?” I raise an eyebrow.
He starts gathering my scattered pens. “Josh is over at your dorm helping Margo with her marketing final.”
I groan and sink back in my chair. “Oh, great. So now I need a new place to crash tonight, too.”
“Just stay with me,” he says, like it is no big deal.
I gulp.
I don’t have many options. And I definitely don’t want to listen to Josh and Margo make out or complain about not being able to. Rhett twirls his keys on his finger like it’s just any other Thursday, not caring whether I say yes.
I sigh. “Fine. I guess you’re the lesser evil.”
His mouth twitches.
“I mean, you do have better snacks than Josh. And marginally fewer emotional breakdowns.”
“Marginally?”
“Let’s not get cocky.”
I pack up my books and notebooks, sliding the last flashcard into my bag with a sigh. Rhett grabs a couple of bags without being asked, and we head out together.
The evening air is cool against my skin. We walk down the library steps in silence.
Rhett’s house sits just past the edge of campus. Typical senior-guy digs: single-story, peeling paint, creaky screen door, just enough charm to keep it from feeling completely like a frat house.
Inside, it’s quiet. The low hum of traffic drifts through the windows. The living room feels lived-in. A worn couch sags in the middle of the room. Their coffee table is crowded with mugs and a few empty beer cans.
Photos line the walls. One shows him and Josh, arms slung around each other at a party, red Solo cups in hand, grins too wide to be sober. Another shows him, Josh, and their other roommates, Daniel and Noah.
“All right, test time,” Rhett announces, flopping onto the couch across from me. He gives me a mock-serious look and pulls a few index cards from his pocket, shuffling them.
He reads the first card, tone exaggerated. “Explain synaptic plasticity.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Wow, jumping right in with a tough one, huh?” Still, I inhale and let the answer rise from the murky exhaustion in my brain.
“It’s the ability of synapses to strengthen or weaken over time in response to increases or decreases in their activity.
It’s a key mechanism in learning and memory. ”
Rhett nods, mouth twitching into a smile. “Looks like you don’t need to be eased into it, Sunny.” He draws another card. “Okay. What’s the difference between long-term potentiation and long-term depression in synaptic activity?”
I roll my eyes, already answering. “Long-term potentiation strengthens synaptic connections, making transmission more effective. Long-term depression weakens them, reducing efficiency.”
“Exactly.” His grin widens, genuine pride in his expression. “See? You’ve got this.”
He keeps going—neurotransmitters, brain regions, neural pathways.
His voice settles into a steady rhythm. He goes from asking questions to listening to giving me genuine reactions.
I sink into the questions, and with each correct answer, a little of my panic eases.
I feel the weight of the day lift, inch by inch.
Eventually, my eyelids start to dip. I blink hard, stretch my legs and cross my ankles on the floor. The warm glow of the table lamp casts soft shadows across the walls. The steady hum of traffic outside turns into a lullaby. And I swear, Rhett’s voice softens with each card.
He pauses, catching the way my head dips again. “You’re not a machine, Sunny,” he says, nudging my shin with his socked foot.
I smile weakly while letting my head tip to the side, resting against the arm of the couch. “Could’ve fooled me.”
But it’s no use fighting anymore. The edges of my vision blur. The ache behind my eyes dulls into something slow and thick.
I hear Rhett shift on the couch. He’s quiet for a few seconds, then he murmurs, “Why don’t we take a quick break? I’m grabbing you some water.”
I hum, maybe a yes, maybe a thank you. I’m not sure. I’m beyond tired.
His footsteps creak across the wooden floor. The soft clink of a glass accompanies water filling it.
When he returns, I’m already gone. Or mostly. What happens next is all pretty hazy. So hazy, I’m not sure if I’m dreaming or if I’m actually living it out.
The couch dips as he kneels beside me. Gently, his arms slide beneath me—one behind my knees, the other at my back.
Warmth from his hands filters through my clothes. I stir slightly, barely aware of being lifted until I rest my head on his chest. The steady thud of his heartbeat grounds me more than any lecture ever could.
“Hey,” he whispers, brushing a loose strand of hair from my cheek. His voice hovers right at the edge of sleep. “I’ve got you.”
And I believe him when he says it.
He lays me down on his bed, his movements slow and deliberate. The sheets are cool against my skin, the scent of his detergent, something clean and manly, settling around me. He pulls the blanket up over my shoulders, tucking it in lightly at the edge as if he has done this before.
And then, I swear, the softest thing happens. I feel the brush of his lips on my forehead.
So light, I might have dreamt it.
I hear him step back, his footsteps padding away. The couch creaks again in the living room.
And then it’s just me. The dark. The smell of him in the sheets. The steady rise and fall of my own breath.
And the sinking realization that I think I might be in love with my brother’s best friend.