I push myself up from Caleb's sticky floor, my knees screaming in protest, indentations from whatever was ground into the wood pressing into my skin. The humiliation burns so hot I think it might actually set me on fire. I was on my knees. Begging. And he said no.
Like I'm nothing. Like I'm just entertainment.
"Sit," he says, pointing at the couch covered in cigarette burns and God knows what else. "We're doing the Revolutionary War."
The casual command makes me want to scream. "You just... you made me..." My voice cracks, breaks, fails completely. "I did what you wanted."
He drops onto the couch, and when I don't move, he grabs my wrist and pulls me down beside him. Too close. His thigh pressed against mine, heat radiating through the denim.
"No, you didn't." His hand lands on my knee like we're just friends, like I wasn't just kneeling for him. "You said the word, but you didn't mean it."
"How would you even know—"
"When you really need it," he cuts me off, his fingers drawing lazy circles on my knee, "when you can't think about anything else, when you'd rather die than not have me touch you—then you'll beg properly. And I'll know."
We actually study. For an entire hour, he quizzes me on dates and battles while I try to stop shaking. The Treaty of Paris. Valley Forge. The Boston Tea Party. Every time our hands accidentally brush reaching for the textbook, electricity shoots through me. When his shoulder bumps mine as he leans over to read, I forget how to breathe.
"You're actually smart," I say, surprised when he rattles off the causes of the war perfectly.
"I just don't give a shit about proving it to anyone." He shrugs. "What's the point? I'm not going to Yale."
When I leave, he walks me to the door but doesn't try to kiss me goodbye. I hate how disappointed I am. Hate how I wait for three seconds, hoping he'll change his mind.
Thursday at school, I can't concentrate on anything. During AP Biology, while Mrs. Peterson draws the Krebs cycle on the board for our upcoming exam, my phone vibrates against my thigh.
Caleb: My locker. Now.
I stare at the screen, knowing I shouldn't. This is important material. I need this for my GPA, for Yale, for everything that matters.
Another buzz: Good news about the test. Unless you want to stay a good girl and miss it.
My hand shoots up before my brain catches up. "Mrs. Peterson, may I use the restroom?"
She turns from the board, frowning. "During my lecture? This will be on your exam, Evelyn."
"Please, it's an emergency." The lie burns my tongue. "Female emergency."
Her expression softens slightly with understanding, though disappointment lingers. "Be quick."
I've never asked to leave during a lecture. Never. But I'm practically running to Caleb's locker in the senior hallway, my heart pounding like I'm committing a crime.
He's leaning against it with a paper in his hand, that smirk already in place. "You came. Thought you'd pick cellular respiration over me."
"What's the good news? I have two minutes before she marks me absent."
"I passed." He holds up the history test—78% written in red at the top. "First passing grade all semester. Turns out your tutoring was very... effective."
The way he draws out 'effective' makes my stomach flip. "That's great. I knew you could do it if you actually tried."
"Maybe we should study together more often." He steps closer, the test forgotten. "You're such a good teacher, Evie. So patient. So dedicated. Getting on your knees to help me understand the material better."
My face burns nuclear. "That's not what—"
"I wanted to say thank you." His fingers brush my cheek, surprisingly gentle. "Properly."
Before I can process the softness in his voice, he pulls me against him and kisses me. But not like before. This isn't brutal or claiming or meant to prove anything. This is slow, deep, grateful. Like I've done something that actually matters to him.
His tongue strokes against mine lazy and sweet, and I melt completely. When he pulls back slightly to breathe, the words tumble out without permission.
"More." My voice is barely a whisper. "Please, just... touch me. I need—"
"No." He steps back, but there's something different in his eyes. Not cruel, almost... protective? "Not here. Not like this."
"Caleb, please—"
"You're asking because you're grateful I passed. Because you think you deserve a reward for helping me." His voice is gentle but firm. "That's not the same as needing it."
Footsteps echo down the hallway. Stacy and Madison round the corner, stopping dead when they see us. I jump away from Caleb but it's too late—my lips are swollen, my face flushed, my whole body screaming that I've just been thoroughly kissed.
"Oh my God," Madison's voice carries down the entire hallway. "Little Miss Perfect is skipping Peterson's lecture to make out with Caleb Voss."
Stacy's already pulling out her phone, her laugh sharp as glass. "Our virgin valedictorian cutting class for her bad boy. How the mighty have fallen. Wait until everyone hears about this."
They walk past, their whispers and giggles echoing off the walls. My heart pounds so hard I feel sick.
"I have to go back," I manage, already backing away. "Mrs. Peterson will mark me absent."
"You could stay," Caleb offers, but he's not pushing. "Skip the rest. We could drive somewhere."
"I can't. I won't." But even as I run back toward biology, I know the damage is done.
I slip back into class, trying to be invisible, but Mrs. Peterson stops mid-sentence. The entire class turns to stare.
"How generous of you to rejoin us, Miss Harper." Her voice drips disappointment. "I trust your emergency has been resolved?"
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry." I slide into my seat, pulling out my notebook, but my hands shake so badly I can't write.
Madison and Stacy aren't in this class, but by next period, everyone will know. The virgin who never missed a minute of class, who never broke a rule, just snuck out to make out with Caleb Voss.
My phone vibrates: Meet me after school. Main entrance.
I type back with trembling fingers: Why?
His response is immediate: You'll see.
The rest of class crawls by in a blur of formulas I can't process. All I can think about is that kiss—different from all the others. Like maybe I'm not just a game to him.
But that's dangerous thinking. This is temporary. Just until graduation.
Four months, I remind myself.
But four months feels like forever when every cell in my body is counting the minutes until after school.