Leia’s POV
College doesn't pause for emotional breakdowns. Shocking, I know.
Classes keep happening, assignments keep piling up, and the world keeps spinning like it doesn't give a shit about your personal psychological meltdown.
So I do what any rational person would do: I weaponize productivity.
Every minute gets scheduled within an inch of its life. Study groups where I actually study instead of scrolling through my phone.
Gym classes that leave me too exhausted to think. Club meetings for organizations I couldn't care less about—Environmental Action Committee, really?
I can barely manage my own ecosystem. But the real masterstroke? Tyler Morrison.
Senior, business major, arms that could probably bench press my entire emotional baggage collection.
He's got this easy grin that screams "I've never had a complicated thought in my life," which is exactly what I need right now.
"You've got dangerous eyes," he tells me during our third workout session together, his hand settling on my waist while I'm mid-squat. "Like you're plotting something."
I laugh—this bright, foreign sound that doesn't belong to me. "Maybe I am."
It's pathetic how good it feels to be someone else for a few hours. Someone who flirts without calculating every gesture, someone whose biggest problem is whether to get a protein shake or a smoothie.
Someone who definitely didn't spend her last summer learning exactly how her stepbrother's breathing changes when he's about to come.
But here's the thing about trying to outrun your own brain: it doesn't work. Not even a little bit.
Because Ezra's everywhere.
Not obviously—he's too smart for restraining orders. But he's there at the edge of every crowd, leaning against trees like some kind of brooding garden ornament. Outside the library when I'm leaving late-night study sessions. Sitting on the stone ledge across from my dorm like he's got nothing better to do than memorize my schedule.
He never approaches. Never speaks. Just... exists. Watching.
"That guy creeps me out," Chloe whispers one night, death-gripping her coffee mug like it's a weapon. "He's always just... there. Staring."
I focus on my textbook because if I look up, I might have to acknowledge that the crawling sensation under my skin isn't fear. It's something infinitely worse.
It's want.
The dreams start that same week. Not memories—I could handle memories. These are possibilities. Variations on a theme that my subconscious apparently finds endlessly fascinating.
Ezra's weight pressing me into my narrow dorm mattress. His voice in my ear, rough and filthy and saying things that would make Tyler's "dangerous eyes" comment sound like a children's book.
His hands everywhere, my legs shaking, begging for things I can't say out loud.
Tonight, Chloe's at some mixer, and the dorm is tomb-quiet. I'm sitting up in bed, heart hammering like I've been running sprints, already knowing what I'm going to do.
My fingers slide beneath my shorts. I tell myself to think about Tyler, about anyone else, about literally anything that isn't Ezra.
But my body's a traitor, and my mind's worse—serves up a highlight reel of everything I'm trying to forget.
Ezra's shoulders when he's tense, all hard lines and coiled energy. The way his mouth goes tight when he's pissed, like he's holding back words that could level buildings.
How he'd look at me if I stopped running, stopped pretending, stopped being such a goddamn coward about what we both know is inevitable.
I touch myself like I can somehow masturbate him out of my system. The slick heat between my legs is basically a signed confession—my body picked sides a long time ago, and it wasn't Team Sanity.
My breath comes faster, hips moving with their own agenda, chasing that edge where everything goes white and quiet and I can pretend I'm someone else for exactly thirty seconds.
Ezra's name builds behind my teeth like a prayer I'm not allowed to say.
Then the window creaks.
I freeze—completely, utterly freeze—because there's no way, absolutely no fucking way—
But there he is.
Ezra, climbing through my third-floor window like some kind of deranged Romeo, except Romeo probably didn't look like he'd been carved out of marble by someone with a serious appreciation for the male form.
Shirtless, hair damp with sweat, skin that catches the lamplight like he's been dipped in gold. His shorts hang low enough to be legally questionable, and his eyes lock onto mine with the focused intensity of a predator who's just spotted dinner.
He doesn't speak at first, just raises his hands: "It was open."
Right. Because that's the issue here. Window security.
I yank the blanket up like it's some kind of invisibility cloak, but we both know what I was doing.
My hand is still slick, still trapped between my thighs, and the evidence is written all over my face in shades of mortification.
His eyes don't leave mine. Not for a second when he actually spoke, out loud, voice low and steady.
“Do you moan my name when you fuck yourself, firefly?”
The question hits like a physical thing, low and rough and absolutely devastating.
My thighs clamp together involuntarily, which is basically a full confession, and his mouth does this thing—not quite a smirk, more like a dare wrapped in certainty.
He steps inside like he's done this a thousand times, closes the window with the kind of casual confidence that should come with a warning label.
Then he sits on the edge of my bed—not asking, not hesitating, just sits—like he's claiming territory that was never really mine to begin with.
“Keep going.”
Right. Because that's a totally reasonable request to make after breaking into someone's dorm room. My brain short-circuits somewhere between mortification and the kind of want that makes smart girls do catastrophically stupid things.
And I literally cannot move. Like, physically frozen, which is probably my body's last-ditch attempt at self-preservation.
His fingers find the blanket's edge, and I watch in slow-motion horror as he pulls it back just enough to expose my hand. My face goes supernova hot.
"I said keep going."
Apparently my body missed the memo about self-preservation, because my fingers start moving before my brain can file a formal objection.
Slow at first, like maybe if I do this quietly enough, reality will politely pretend it's not happening.
“You’re wet just from my voice alone, aren’t you?”
The question lands like a physical blow, and the whimper that escapes me should probably be classified as a war crime against my own dignity.
My back arches without permission, my hand working harder because apparently shame is the world's most fucked-up aphrodisiac. He doesn't move, doesn't touch me, just watches with the focused intensity of someone conducting a very personal science experiment.
And that's enough. Christ, it's more than enough.
I come quietly, biting my lip to trap the sound, but it escapes anyway—a broken gasp that sounds suspiciously like his name. Which is basically the cherry on top of this humiliation sundae.
Ezra stands, gives me one last look that feels like a brand, then raises his hand. "Soon."
One word. One fucking word that hits like a promise and a threat wrapped in inevitability.
He leaves through the window like some kind of reverse fairytale, and the latch clicks with the finality of a jail cell door.
I should stop. Any rational person would stop, would probably call campus security and report a break-in, would definitely not—
My hand moves again. Deeper, harder, like I'm chasing punishment for the first orgasm instead of pleasure for the second.
I moan into my pillow because at this point, why pretend I have any dignity left? The tears that come with the second climax aren't from shame anymore—they're from the devastating realization that I'm completely, utterly wrecked.
He's gone, but I can still feel him watching. Still hear that low voice promising things I shouldn't want.
And the worst part? I want him back.
Want him back so badly it makes my chest ache and my hands shake and my brain spin elaborate fantasies about what "soon" might actually mean.
I'm fucked. Literally and figuratively, completely fucked.