[Serena’s POV]
Sleep won’t come.
In the dark I hear everything: his controlled breathing two feet away, the rustle of sheets when he shifts, heat reaching across the space we’ve left—an invisible barrier that doesn’t block him at all.
My skin feels too tight, my chest pinned, nerves firing with awareness I don’t want.
Sharing this bed was a mistake. This proximity strips away the distance I need to function.
At 2 a.m., I give up. I slide out quietly and pad to the kitchenette, pour a glass of tap water—something for my hands to do, anything besides feeling the ache lodged in my chest.
“Can’t sleep either?”
I turn. He’s sitting up, shirtless, hair mussed, city light silvering his skin.
“I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been awake,” he says, voice rough. “Listening to you breathe and pretending I wasn’t.”
The honesty cracks my resolve—I’ve been doing the same.
“I need air,” I blurt.
He’s already pulling on a shirt, following me to the balcony. October cold bites, but my skin still burns.
The city sprawls below—anonymous lights, ordinary lives. Not two people on a balcony at 2 a.m., undone by seven years of each other.
"I'm sorry about the prank." His voice cuts through the silence. "At Columbia. The presentation disaster."
I wasn't expecting this. Wasn't prepared for him to excavate the wound I've kept carefully bandaged. "That was years ago."
"It's haunted me for years." He moves closer to the railing, and suddenly we're standing side by side, shoulders nearly touching. "I should have stopped them. Should have warned you. But I was so busy pretending I didn't care about you that I let them hurt you."
The memory surfaces sharp and fresh: standing on stage, watching my slides transform into mockery. The laughter. The humiliation. And Caspian in the audience, not laughing but not stopping it either.
"You were there when they planned it." My voice sounds detached. Clinical. Hiding the hurt underneath.
"I was." No excuses. No justification. "I told myself it was just rivalry. Just competition. That you could handle it because you were strong enough to handle anything."
"I wasn't strong. I was surviving." The truth scrapes my throat raw. "Everything I had was built on terror that I didn't belong. That everyone would eventually see I was just a scholarship girl pretending to deserve Columbia."
"Serena—"
"And you—watching them plan to destroy me and doing nothing—you confirmed every fear I had. That I was alone. That no one would protect me when it mattered."
Tears are streaming down my face before I realize. Years of hurt spilling out unchecked. I try to turn away, to hide the breakdown, but his hand catches my arm. Gentle. Devastating.
"It's the biggest regret of my life." His voice cracks. "After leaving that hotel room. After leaving you. Those are the two things I'd undo if I could. The two moments where I was too much of a coward to do the right thing."
His thumb finds my cheek. Wipes away tears with a tenderness that undoes me further. Because this—this raw honesty, this acknowledgment of damage without excuse—is what I've needed for seven years.
"I see you, Serena." His voice drops to something barely audible. "I've always seen you. The brilliance. The terror underneath. The way you fight like your life depends on winning because for you, it did. I'm so sorry it took me this long to deserve you seeing me back."
Something in me breaks. The last wall I've been maintaining, the final protection against letting him close.
His mouth crashes into mine like a tidal wave, and I drown in it. Seven years of wanting, aching, needing him—this man who’s been a ghost in my life, haunting every decision, every touch that wasn’t his—all of it explodes between us.
His lips are rough, desperate, and everything gentle about them is gone. He’s not kissing me; he’s claiming me, devouring me, and I let him.
His hands rake through my hair, fingers tangling tight, pulling my head back just enough to deepen the kiss. It’s not sweet. It’s raw. Teeth and tongues and a hunger that feels like it’s been starving for lifetimes.
I moan into him, the sound swallowed by his mouth, and he growls—a low, feral noise that makes my hips jerk forward, seeking friction, seeking him.
We stumble back into the room, a mess of limbs and urgency. My hands claw at his shirt, yanking it up, desperate for skin. He doesn’t stop me. Instead, he tears it off himself, and then his hands are on me, slipping under my waistband, gripping my ass hard enough to bruise.
I gasp, arching into him, and his lips find my neck, biting, sucking, marking me as his. Fuck, it’s possessive. It’s everything I’ve been denying myself.
“Tell me,” he rasps against my skin, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you’ve wanted me as much as I’ve wanted you.”
“Yes,” I pant, my voice breaking. “God, yes. I’ve wanted you since Columbia. Since forever. I’ve been dying for you.”
He groans, a sound that vibrates through me, and then his hands are everywhere—tearing at my clothes, peeling away layers until there’s nothing between us but heat and want.
His body is a fucking masterpiece, all hard lines and lean muscle, and I can’t stop touching him. My nails drag down his chest, and he hisses, pressing closer, pinning me to the bed. His weight above me is heavy, intoxicating, and I wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him in.
“Look at me,” he demands, his voice rough, commanding. His hand cups my jaw, forcing my eyes to his. Those grey eyes—dark with need, with something deeper, something that mirrors the storm inside me—hold me captive. “Stay with me. Don’t disappear.”
“I’m here,” I whisper, and I mean it. Every inch of me is here, exposed, vulnerable, his.
His lips crash into mine again, and then he’s pushing inside me, slow, deliberate, filling me completely. I gasp, my nails digging into his back, and he pauses, his forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged.
“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice trembling. “You feel… you feel like home.”
The words break me. I arch into him, urging him to move, and he does, setting a rhythm that’s both punishing and perfect. Every thrust is a reminder of what we’ve been missing, what we’ve been denying ourselves. His hands roam my body, memorizing every curve, every breath, every shudder as he takes me apart piece by piece.
“Come for me,” he growls, his voice low and commanding. His thumb finds my clit, circling it with just the right pressure, and I shatter, crying out his name as pleasure rips through me. He follows moments later, his body tensing, his release spilling into me as he groans my name like it’s the only word he knows.
We collapse together, tangled and breathless, and for the first time in years, I feel… whole. Fuck the distance. Fuck the fear. This—him, us—is worth everything.
After, we lie tangled—his arm around me, my head on his chest. Same position as graduation night, but sober, unafraid. Just us, choosing this.
“I don’t know what this means,” I whisper. “For us. For Aria.”
“Neither do I,” he says, fingers tracing my shoulder. “I just know I don’t want to run anymore—or wake up without you.”
The words should scare me. Instead, they settle like something I’ve been waiting for.
“I’m still angry,” I warn.
“I know.”
“And scared. If I let you close and you leave again—”
“I know that too.” He pulls me closer. “I can’t promise perfect. I can promise I’ll stay. Even when it’s hard. Even when I’m terrified.”
I close my eyes, feel his heartbeat, the warmth that’s more than heat.
For the first time in seven years, I let myself believe I’m not alone. That being seen—and choosing to stay—isn’t weakness.
Maybe it’s the bravest thing we’ll ever do.