My chest's still tight, anxiety clawing at me like a fucking vice. Last night, when I told Noah I'd fake being his boyfriend, I don't know what the hell came over me. Maybe it was the shock of seeing him face off with his dad, understanding why he's so desperate for that scholarship. But now, with a clear head, I'm not sure it was just that. Maybe it was a stupid impulse, an echo of how he drives me fucking crazy. And now I'm trapped. For Noah, this is a lie, a plan to climb out of his hole. But for me, with what I'm feeling, it's not that simple. Fuck, I'm screwed.
Officially, Noah and I are "boyfriends." And I have no clue what to think. Before, being his friend was easy, natural. But after saying yes, everything feels twisted, like I crossed a line I can't uncross.
This morning, I bolted out of the house the second my eyes opened, dodging hallways to avoid running into him. Thank God it's my day off, so I don't have to see him at The Coffee House or bump into him on campus. I needed a breather after diving into this mess.
I step out of multivariable calculus in Building 380, my head a tangled mess, and decide to walk through the Main Quad to clear it. The sandstone arches cast long shadows, and the air smells of fresh-cut grass. Then I spot him: Jackson, trudging down the path, shoulders slumped. Instantly, I'm back at the pool party, when he stormed off with a face like he hated the world.
I've texted him since, but he only replied once, saying he was "training." Bullshit. He used to be glued to the house, always with a joke or a beer. Now he's a ghost. Something's up, and I'm not letting it slide. That idiot, with his model face, is my best friend.
"Jackson!" I yell, picking up my pace.
It takes a few shouts for him to turn, and his face screams he doesn't want to talk to anyone. "What're you doing? Why haven't you answered me?" I ask, catching up and planting myself in front of him.
"Been training," he mumbles, not meeting my eyes.
"Yeah, real convincing," I say, a hint of sarcasm creeping in.
"What do you want, Ethan?" he snaps, annoyed, crossing his arms.
"I want to know what's wrong. You've been MIA since the party. Not at the house, nowhere. What happened that night?"
"Let it go, Ethan," he says, dodging my gaze.
"No. Tell me," I push, firm, blocking his path.
He glances around, nervous, like he's looking for an escape. "Let's grab something to drink," I suggest, grabbing his arm and pulling him along.
He resists a bit but gives in. We end up at an outdoor spot near Meyer Green, sitting on the grass with milkshakes. He's still quiet, and I can't help staring, trying to read him. He notices.
"Can you stop staring at me?" he snaps, irritated.
"I would if I could figure you out, asshole," I shoot back with a crooked grin. "Since you won't talk, I've gotta drag you out of that cloud somehow."
"Nothing happened," he insists, staring at the ground.
"Really? You barely talk to me like this, Jackson. Something's up, and I've got a feeling Joe's in the middle of it."
"What?" His eyes widen, surprised, tensing up. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, uncomfortable.
"Don't you?" I challenge, raising an eyebrow.
"No, Ethan. Just…" He shifts on the grass, avoiding my eyes.
"Just what?" I press. "You've been tight with Joe, then you ditch the party right when I see him making out with Julie. What's going on with you two?"
He tenses more, his face like a scolded dog's. "Jackson…" I push, until he cracks.
"It's Julie," he says, throwing up his hands like he's justifying himself.
"Julie?" I repeat, thrown.
"She… I like her," he confesses, but his voice doesn't sound sure.
I freeze. I don't buy it. It doesn't add up. "Since when do you like Julie?" I shoot back. "If you did, I'd know. You've never looked at her like that."
"Let it go, Ethan. Please," he begs, almost pleading.
"Hey, my favorite idiots!" Julie interrupts, appearing out of nowhere. She hugs me from behind, planting a kiss on my cheek, then does the same to Jackson.
"Haven't seen you guys all morning. Where were you?" she asks, plopping down on the grass in front of us.
Jackson tenses, avoiding her gaze. "I was in class," I answer. "And Jackson…"
"Training," he finishes, dead serious, sipping his milkshake.
"You've been training a lot lately, huh?" Julie says with a smile. "Haven't seen you, Jack. You pissed I missed the game before class?"
"I'm fine," he replies, curt, not looking at her.
"I'm not catching your grumpy vibe," she says, beaming. "I'm too happy."
"Why?" I ask, curious.
"Things with Joe are going well," she says, grinning. "I think I really like him."
I catch Jackson tense, his fingers gripping his cup. "Happy for you," I say, trying to sound normal.
"Thanks, handsome," she says, winking at me. Then she looks at Jackson. "You not gonna congratulate me?"
"What do you want me to say?" he snaps, finally meeting her eyes. "Congratulate you for getting a boyfriend?"
"Why're you so tense?" Julie asks, raising an eyebrow. "You seem pissed."
I don't know if Jackson's upset about Julie and Joe or because Joe's not with him. I seriously doubt he likes Julie. If he did, he'd have said something ages ago. They've had a million chances to hook up, but there was never anything. He never cared about her with other guys, but with Joe… something's different.
"Let's change the subject," I suggest, cutting the tension.
"Good call," Julie says, smiling.
Then I feel someone behind me. "Hey, green eyes," Noah says, his voice warm and playful. He grabs my neck, pulls me back, and plants a kiss on my cheek. My body tenses, heat rushing from my chest to… fuck, my groin. I'm nervous, caught between shock and something I don't want to name.
"Where were you? Didn't see you all day," he says, smiling, then looks at the others. "Hey, guys. Mind if I steal him? Need to talk."
"What?" I stammer, thrown.
Noah takes my hand, lacing his fingers with mine, and pulls me up, wrapping me in a hug against him. His warmth, his scent, it all hits me. Suddenly, I feel the eyes on the grass, students passing on the path. Jackson and Julie stare, then glance at each other, murmuring, looking completely confused.
****
Noah drags me by the hand through the Main Quad, Meyer Green's grass glinting under the afternoon sun. I stop dead, yanking him back to make him pause. "No, what the fuck are you doing?" I whisper, glancing around to make sure no one hears.
"What do you think?" he says, his eyes locked on mine. "I'm doing what we're supposed to do."
"What are you talking about?" I ask, though I know exactly what he means.
"Ethan, did you already forget what you said last night?" he says, a hint of impatience in his voice. "You agreed to fake being my boyfriend. If I want this to work, if I want that scholarship, everyone needs to see you're mine."
His words hit like a punch. "You're mine" echoes in my chest, a stab of heat that I both love and hate. I know he's saying it for the act, that it's just a game to him, but fuck, it's not that simple for me.
"I get it," I mutter, looking down, my own feelings betraying me.
"Hey," he says, his hands cupping my cheeks, warm and firm. "Relax, okay? I know you get nervous, but just go with it."
"How are you not embarrassed doing this in front of everyone?" I ask, my voice shaky.
"I'm scared shitless," he admits, dropping his hands with a crooked smile. "But with you, it's easier."
That smile, that damn smile, forces me to turn my face so he doesn't see my skin burning. "Fine," I give in, taking a deep breath.
"Just trust me, I've got you," he says, grabbing my hand again, lacing our fingers.
We walk through the Quad, and I feel eyes stabbing us like needles. Students on the grass, others passing with backpacks, all turn their heads. I don't blame them. Two weeks ago, Noah was the guy hooking up with any girl at parties. Now he's holding my hand like it's nothing.
"You know," he says, breaking the silence with a tone meant to ease my tension, "your cheeks are soft."
"What?" I stammer, thrown.
"The kiss," he explains, grinning. "Didn't expect them to be that soft."
My face burns hotter, and I don't know how the hell he says that so casually. The stares around us don't help. Some look skeptical, others whisper. "This isn't working, Whitman," I say, nervous. "Look at them. They don't buy it."
"With my track record, I don't blame them," he says, glancing at the crowd. "But don't overthink it. If we play it natural, they'll swallow it, even if it's a lie."
"That's the plan, right?" I shoot back, trying to sound steady.
"You know what? Let's switch gears," he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You work out today?"
"Work out?" I ask, confused.
"Come on," he insists, pulling me along, picking up the pace until we're nearly running.
We hit the Arrillaga gym, and the vibe slams us: the clang of weights, the hum of treadmills, electronic music thumping, and the smell of sweat mixed with disinfectant. It's packed—guys on machines, groups stretching, others lifting on the floor. Noah doesn't let go of my hand until we reach the free weights, like he wants every damn eye in the place to see.
We start with stretches. Noah stands behind me, hands on my arms, adjusting my form. I feel his chest brush my back, his low voice in my ear. "Relax your shoulders, Ethan."
I nod, but his firm grip makes my legs shake. He lets go with a pat on my shoulder, so natural it feels like routine.
We move to the barbells. Noah goes first, lifting with power, his arms and abs flexing under his shirt. I watch, mesmerized, until his lopsided grin catches me. "You gonna keep staring or give it a shot?"
"Just studying your technique," I say, my voice drier than I meant.
My turn. I grip the bar, but by the third rep, I'm shaking. Noah steps behind me, hands grazing my waist like he's steadying me. His breath on my neck sends shivers down my spine. "Hold it, don't quit," he whispers.
I finish, panting, and he grins. "Not so hard," he says, tossing me a towel and, without thinking, wiping the sweat off my forehead. He does it so casually I don't know if it's part of the act or just him being him.
We hit squats next. Noah's behind me, hands on my hips, correcting. "Slower, control the drop," he says, his voice firm but low, burning my skin.
A couple of guys nearby glance over, one raising an eyebrow like he's starting to buy the "couple" thing. Heat climbs my face, but Noah doesn't flinch.
We finish at the chest press machine. I settle in, and Noah leans over to adjust the bar, his face inches from mine. For a second, we lock eyes too long. I clear my throat, looking away. "Ready?" he asks.
"Ready," I say, voice tight.
I push the bar, and he cheers me on, his voice low, intimate. "Come on, one more… perfect."
When I'm done, he offers his hand and pulls me up with a tug. We end up too close, a breath apart. The stares around us pierce, but Noah doesn't care. "See? Almost a pro," he says, smiling.
"With a private trainer, it's easy," I shoot back, half-joking to break the tension.
"Sounds like I should charge you," he says, leaning in a bit, that playful glint in his eyes.
"Don't even think about it," I laugh.
We laugh, but the air between us hums, charged. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Noah watching me sometimes, quick glances that vanish fast, like he doesn't want me to notice. But I feel them, and I don't know what to do with that.
****
"That was smooth," I say as we head toward Campus Hall, the Main Quad's hum fading slightly, though not enough to make us invisible. The grass glints under the afternoon sun, and the sandstone arches cast long shadows.
"Wasn't it?" Noah replies, with that calm of his that's both infuriating and grounding.
I shake my head with a tight smile, feeling the stares of students crossing the path.
"Didn't peg you for such a nervous wreck," he adds, a teasing edge in his voice. "Knew you were jumpy, but you outdid yourself today."
"And I didn't peg you for so impulsive," I shoot back. "You were… too close back there."
He lets out a low laugh, like he enjoys having me on edge. "We're supposed to sell this as real. After what we pulled, no one's doubting it."
"I think they are," I say, staring ahead, jaw tight. His hand's still gripping mine, warm, steady, and he's not letting go.
"Nope, they're not," he insists, confident. "I need everyone to see."
We keep walking, and the stares follow. Some pretend not to look, others whisper without care, eyes locked on our joined hands. I'm surprised how fast people spin stories. If we were any other couple, no one would blink. But Noah's holding my hand now. I don't blame them for staring.
"I can't believe you're such a nervous wreck, Ethan," he says, breaking the silence. "You played football. Why were your hands shaking with the weights?"
"You're not helping, man," I reply, not slowing, his hand's warmth a constant reminder.
He laughs again, like this is easy for him. "You gonna let go?" I ask, lowering my voice, dodging looks from a group near the path.
"Nope," he says, flashing a confident grin. "Gotta make it look natural, you know that, right?"
I swallow, saying nothing. We reach the frat house entrance, the wooden stairs creaking under our feet. As we step inside, the air freezes. The living room's packed: guys sprawled on couches, plastic cups on tables, the stale beer stench lingering. Eyes snap to us, sliding from our faces to our clasped hands.
"What's this about?" David asks from an armchair, brow furrowed, more curious than pissed.
Nervousness hits me like a fist. I drop Noah's hand like it burns, heat rushing to my face. He doesn't flinch, just gives me a calm smile and turns to the room. "He's my guy," he says, with a certainty that slices the air.
My stomach twists, embarrassment burning me. I can't look at anyone, just the floor, where a faded carpet stain suddenly seems fascinating.
"You guys…" one of the brothers starts, but Morgan's voice cuts through from the living room. "Yo, get in here! We need to talk about something, now."
The vibe shifts, guys moving toward Morgan. Noah gives me one last look, his smile unshaken, and strides forward. Chris brushes past me, his expression unreadable—not support, not rejection, just something I can't decipher. Joe follows, a crooked grin on his face, like he's enjoying the chaos.
I grab his shoulder. "Joe, hold up."
He turns, that mocking glint already in place. "What, man? Need tips for handling Whitman?" he says, almost laughing.
I lean in, voice low. "You know this is a lie, right?"
He raises his eyebrows, amused. "Yeah, but they don't," he says, his laugh grating on my nerves before he slips away toward the living room.
I sigh, his words hitting like a brick. He's right. The others don't know it's a sham, and that explains the heavy stares, the murmurs. Morgan's always said there's hidden prejudice in the house, and he's not wrong.
"Wanted to talk about Jackson," I say, keeping my voice down.
His expression shifts instantly, the playful spark gone. He tenses, eyes hardening. "What's going on with you two?" I press, searching his face.
Before he can answer, a voice from the living room cuts through. "Hurry up, we're not waiting all day!"
Joe clenches his jaw, locking eyes with me, a mix of annoyance and exhaustion. "We'll talk later, yeah?" he says, nodding toward the living room.
I stand there, nodding reluctantly, a heavy sigh escaping. I want answers, to figure out what the fuck's up with Jackson and Joe, why Jackson cracks every time Joe's name comes up.
But there's no time. Discomfort wraps me like fog. Everything was fine until they saw us holding hands. I know it's a lie, but they don't. They're probably already thinking stupid shit, like Noah "turned" for me or some crap. And it's not just him they're looking at differently. It's me too. Every stare, every whisper, feels like a damn ceiling closing in. It's not new—I've dealt with this before—but here, in the house, in this tight space, it's like the air's thicker, almost claustrophobic.