Chapter Twelve What If?
Freshman Year
As he passed under a flickering lamppost, he spotted a bench beneath a cluster of trees, half-lit by the glow of campus lights. Without thinking, he veered toward it and dropped down with a sigh, tipping his head back toward the sky.
The air smelled faintly like damp leaves and coffee from the 24-hour café around the corner.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled sharply.
God, how many times had he done this?
Same script, same ending. Charm, laugh, touch, disappear. It was easy. It worked. But tonight, he didn't feel like the version of himself everyone else knew. Tonight, he felt... tired.
His gaze drifted down—and that's when he saw her.
She sat at the other end of the bench, a cup cradled in her hands, her legs tucked beneath her as she flipped a page in her book. She looked completely absorbed, untouched by the noise of the world, as if she'd built her own quiet in the middle of chaos.
Eli blinked.
She wasn't striking in an obvious way—no flashy outfit or dramatic hair. But something about her felt magnetic. There was a stillness to her, like she was rooted, not running.
He hadn't noticed her when he sat down. But now, he couldn't stop.
"Do you ever wonder why we do this to ourselves?" he asked, not even knowing what he meant until the words were already out.
She looked up from her book, brows raised slightly, mid-sip. She could've ignored him—and she almost did. But something in his voice, rough and honest, made her pause.
"Do what, exactly?"
Eli shrugged, shifting slightly to face her. "Keep making the same mistakes. Chasing people who don't matter. Ending up in the same place, again and again."
He expected her to laugh or roll her eyes. Instead, she met his gaze without flinching.
"Well," she said, closing her book, "did you ever think about just... not making the same mistakes?"
He let out a quiet laugh. "That easy, huh?"
"Not easy," she replied, sitting up straighter. "Just a choice. If something keeps hurting, maybe stop touching it."
Eli looked down, the toe of his sneaker drawing an invisible line against the concrete. "It's what I know. I guess part of me thinks if I keep doing it, maybe it'll feel different one day."
"It won't."
That earned a crooked smile from him. "You're a little judgy, aren't you?"
She smirked. "Only when someone's clearly smart enough to know better."
Eli tilted his head, studying her. "You seem like someone who's got her life together."
"Me?" she laughed. "God, no. But I don't make the same mistakes over and over again and then act surprised when they hurt. That's your thing, apparently."
He shook his head, amused. "You're different."
She extended her hand. "Claire."
He took it, warm and steady. "Eli."
"Nice to meet you, Eli. I'm not usually this forward, by the way."
"I'm not usually this honest," he admitted. "Maybe it's easier with strangers."
"Exactly."
There was a moment. A silent acknowledgment of something shared—just for tonight, maybe.
Claire stood, slipping her book into her bag. "Walk me to my dorm?"
He blinked. "Seriously?"
She turned with a sly smile. "You're clearly in the middle of a crisis. Might as well make it a productive one."
Eli laughed and fell into step beside her. "Fair enough."
They walked through campus slowly, talking about everything and nothing. Eli told her about his best friends, Leo and Zoey. Claire spoke about her roommate Natalie, and her own love for writing. She lit up when she described the way words could make people feel seen. He listened—really listened.
He couldn't remember the last time he did that.
***
Fifteen minutes passed like five.
When they reached the front steps of her dorm, she stopped and turned to him.
"Well. This is me."
He looked at the building, then back at her. "That went by fast."
"You talk a lot for someone who hates talking about himself."
He smiled, softer now. "You're... not what I expected."
She raised an eyebrow. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "But it wasn't you."
The way she looked at him then—half-curious, half-amused—made his heart twist in a way he didn't fully understand.
"Yeah. I had a great time talking to the resident fuckboy of campus," she said with a grin, clearly trying to lighten the moment.
Eli laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ouch. That's fair."
She looked at him for a long beat, and something shifted. Maybe it was the way the light hit his face. Or the way his eyes held hers. Or maybe it was just... timing.
Claire stepped in a little closer.
Eli didn't move back. If anything, he leaned in. Barely. Subtly.
"I don't usually talk like this," he murmured, voice low. "But with you, it's... easy."
There was only an inch between them now.
"Maybe," Claire said, her voice just as quiet, "you needed someone judgy to talk to."
He laughed, and that small laugh drifted right into her space. Their breath mingled.
Neither moved.
The air stretched between them, charged and waiting.
Claire's gaze flicked to his mouth—just once. Barely.
And in the next heartbeat, they kissed—soft, tentative, the kind of kiss that asked a question neither of them had the answer to. A quiet moment, sealed in warmth, in the kind of stillness that makes you remember.
When they broke apart, both laughing lightly, Claire shook her head.
"That's not why I asked you to walk me."
Eli grinned. "Yeah. No. Me neither. Totally not why I came."
They stood like that, two almost-strangers with something unspoken blooming between them.
"What's your last name?" she asked suddenly.
He blinked. "Dawson. Eli Dawson. Why?"
Claire curtsied playfully. "Claire Bennet."
He chuckled. "Well, Claire Bennet. Nice to meet you."
She pointed a finger at him. "If we keep talking—and I mean talking—this can't happen again. No kissing. No hookups. No becoming just another story you forget. Got it?"
Eli raised his hands in mock surrender. "Got it. No messing this up. No forgetting your name."
Then he paused, his voice dipping low again.
"To a lifetime of what ifs, Bennet."
Claire smiled.
"To a lifetime of what ifs, Dawson."
And just like that, they turned in opposite directions—walking into the night with something new behind them.
And maybe, just maybe, something bigger ahead.