Violet’s POV
Study sessions become something I refuse to name but can't stop reaching for.
Marvin appears in my life with the steady persistence of someone who's decided I'm worth pursuing, and despite every reminder that we're just friends, the line between friendship and something else grows thinner each day. He texts good morning. He saves me seats in the library. He remembers how I take my coffee and shows up with it before I've even asked.
I tell myself this is what friendship looks like. Normal, uncomplicated friendship between two people who happen to share classes and compatible schedules.
The lie gets harder to maintain every time his eyes find mine across a crowded room.
Thursday afternoon, Gemma corners me while I'm getting ready for the chapter meeting.
"So the mixer's tomorrow." She's sprawled across her bed, watching me apply mascara with the particular intensity of someone building toward a question. "Mandatory attendance. Plus ones encouraged."
"I'm aware." I focus on my reflection, avoiding her gaze. "It's been in the group chat for two weeks."
"Are you bringing anyone?"
The question carries weight I pretend not to notice. I cap the mascara and turn to face her.
"I hadn't thought about it."
"Liar." Gemma sits up, her expression shifting into something knowing. "You've thought about it. You've just been avoiding the conclusion."
She's not wrong. I've been avoiding a lot of conclusions lately.
"I might mention it to Marvin." The words leave my mouth carefully, testing how they feel in the air. "Casually. As a friend thing."
"A friend thing." Gemma's eyebrows rise in a way that communicates entire paragraphs of skepticism. "Right. Because Marvin Westley definitely thinks of you as just a friend."
I don't have a response that won't prove her point, so I grab my bag and leave for the chapter meeting without one.
Friday morning, I find Marvin between classes and mention the mixer with calculated nonchalance. I expect him to have other plans. Other options. Other women eager to stand beside him in public—women who don't come with complications and history and a heart that's still bleeding in places he can't see.
Instead, he says yes immediately.
"I'd love to come." His smile reaches his eyes, genuine and warm. "What time should I pick you up?"
"Seven." The word escapes before I can reconsider. "It starts at eight, but fashionably late is expected."
"Seven it is." He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face, the gesture casual and devastating. "I'm looking forward to it."
Walking away, I feel like I've unlocked a door I didn't mean to open. The question now is what waits on the other side.
Friday evening, I stand in front of my mirror and tell myself this is just a mixer. Just two friends attending a mandatory sorority event. Just a night that will end with handshakes and homework and the comfortable distance I've been maintaining for months.
The lies taste familiar. I've gotten good at lying to myself about what I actually want.
Marvin arrives at exactly seven, and he looks like every fantasy the sorority girls have whispered about in shared bathrooms. Dark jeans that fit perfectly. A button-down that emphasizes shoulders built for athletics. That golden smile that makes people stop mid-sentence when he walks by.
"You look incredible." His eyes travel down my dress with appreciation he doesn't bother hiding. "Seriously. Stunning."
"You clean up okay yourself." I grab my bag, deflecting the compliment before it can settle too deep. "Ready?"
The walk to the sorority house takes ten minutes, and his hand finds the small of my back within the first thirty seconds. The touch is light—barely there—but it brands my skin through the fabric of my dress.
Inside, the mixer is already pulsing with music and conversation and the particular energy of people performing happiness for each other. I watch my sisters' faces as Marvin walks straight to me after getting us drinks, watch the way their expressions shift from curiosity to envy to the particular assessment women make when cataloging competition.
The attention should feel validating. Instead, it feels like pressure—like being seen with him comes with expectations I haven't agreed to meet.
"You okay?" Marvin hands me a drink, his brow furrowing slightly. "You look tense."
"Just adjusting." I take a sip of something fruity and too sweet. "Lots of people."
"We can leave whenever you want." His hand finds my back again, warm and steady. "Just say the word."
The offer is sincere, and that sincerity makes everything harder.
He's attentive all evening in ways that draw attention, I can feel like heat on my skin. Fetching drinks before mine empties. Introducing himself to my sisters with charm that leaves them slightly dazed. Standing close enough that everyone watching understands we came together, that I'm with him, that whatever this is carries weight I haven't fully authorized.
His hand on the small of my back becomes a constant—casual possession that makes my skin burn and my mind spin with implications I'm not ready to examine.
By ten o'clock, the noise has become unbearable. I touch his arm and gesture toward the back door.
"I need air. Come with me?"
"Of course."
The backyard is quieter, strung with lights that cast everything in soft gold. We find a corner away from the few other couples scattered across the lawn, and the relative silence feels like relief and danger in equal measure.
"Can I tell you something?" Marvin turns to face me, his expression more serious than I've seen it.
"That depends on what it is."
"You're different from anyone I've met." The words come slow and deliberate. "I've known a lot of girls, Violet. Dated plenty. But none of them make me think the way you do. None of them make me want to be patient."
My chest tightens. "Marvin—"
"I know you want to keep things uncomplicated." He steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. "I know you're not ready for whatever this could become. And I'm okay with that."
"You are?"
"I'm willing to wait." His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with gentle certainty. "Until you're ready for more. However long that takes."
The promise sounds patient. But underneath the patience, I hear hope—the assumption that eventually I'll choose him the way everyone expects me to. That time and proximity will erode whatever resistance I've been maintaining.
I should correct him. Should explain that waiting implies an eventual destination, and I'm not sure I know where I'm heading. Should tell him about the man who still occupies space in my chest, the one whose sheets I can still smell when I close my eyes, the one whose absence feels more present than Marvin's hand in mine.
I don't say any of it.
Just let the silence carry implications I'm not brave enough to voice.
"We should go back inside." I squeeze his hand once before releasing it. "People will talk."
"Let them talk." His smile returns, softer now. "I don't mind being seen with you, Violet. I want to be seen with you."
The declaration lands somewhere between flattery and warning.
I walk back inside with Marvin's hand on my back and the weight of his patience pressing against my ribs, wondering how long I can keep standing in doorways without choosing which room to enter.