Episode 28 — Secrets Under the Stars
Layla's POV
When Ethan closed the door behind us, the dorm corridor felt narrower and more ordinary than the night that hummed behind it. His hand stayed on mine, warm and steady, and for a second the world was nothing but our joined fingers and the muffled campus sounds beyond the windows. We had both said the things that mattered—promises, little vows—and the room still smelled faintly of coffee and the rain from the earlier afternoon. It was domestic, ordinary, and in that ordinariness I found a sudden, fierce relief.
"Do you want to go up?" he asked, nodding toward the rooftop access at the end of the hall. The student centre's roof garden wasn't off-limits; it was a resident amenity—a tidy strip of grass, a few planters, string lights that clicked on late in the evening. It was public enough to be safe but private enough that you could breathe without being watched by a crowd. Marcus had insisted on small, sensible precautions; Chloe had texted she'd be nearby and would pass along anything suspicious. We'd agreed that security meant we could still have moments that felt like ours.
"Yes," I said before I could talk myself out of it. The rain had cleared the air and left the night sharp and electric. "Let's go."
The elevator ride up was short, our reflections shifting beside each other on the metal walls. We didn't need words—none were required—so we put our phones away and let the lift swallow the rest of the building's noise. On the rooftop, the city breathed low and wide. The string lights along the parapet threw a slow, golden glow; the plants leaned into the night, wet leaves catching starlight. From here, the campus was a scatter of dim lamps and sheltering trees, and the fountain that had once been a stage for our vulnerability flashed like a distant memory.
Ethan took a slow breath the moment we stepped into the open, eyes soft with something that could have been gratitude or an ache. He pulled his jacket tighter around my shoulders without a word. The gesture was small—practical—but it landed like a shield. I leaned into him, the edge of his chest under my cheek, and let the quiet do its work. The watcher felt distant here, at least for a little while; the rooftop's subtle enclosure made us feel less exposed.
"I like this spot," I admitted, voice low. "It feels…safe. Like we're allowed to be small and loud and ordinary here."
He smiled, and it looked like the moon had found a place to rest. "We get a little ordinary now and then," he said. "And we hold on to it."
We walked the length of the garden slowly, palms skimming the planters. The plants smelled of damp earth and summer—a strangely domestic scent for a student roof. We found the bench near the far corner, the one that tilted slightly if you leaned against the left armrest. We sat close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that nothing had to be said.
"You kept your promise tonight," I said after a moment, turning so my shoulder brushed his. "When you said you'd be with me."
"I meant it," he replied. His voice was low and firm. "I wasn't kidding."
There was an honesty in him that felt like a hand on the back of my head, steadying. The world beyond the railing hummed as it always had—cars, the distant music of parties—but the rooftop was a pocket of domestic noise and private language. Safe, not because there were no eyes, but because the eyes that mattered were only ours.
My throat tightened. "I'm glad you pushed back tonight," I said. Saying it aloud made the memory of his father's speech linger at the edges—Gregory's quiet counsel that always tasted like leverage. "It would have been easy for him to…to make me feel like something to fix."
Ethan's jaw tightened, and he curled his fingers around mine. "Not on my watch," he said. There was a fierceness to him I knew well—the sort that came when he wrapped his mind around a problem and refused to let go. "We'll handle this by the book. Marcus will release what we need, Chloe will keep an eye from below, and we'll make sure whatever narrative they try to push won't stick."
I nodded, feeling the comfort of his plan like a blanket. Marcus's methodical care had always felt clinical and reassuring in equal measure; Chloe's gossip-turned-observation was a different kind of protection, tuned to the rhythm of campus life. Those pieces—Marcus's reach, Chloe's attention, our own choices—felt like a small army arranged around our private life.
"This place is perfect for not being watched," I whispered after a breath. "Even if we are—just a little—it's our kind of small."
Ethan's laughter was soft, a quick exhale. "You mean secret," he teased. "Our kind of secret."
My cheeks warmed, and I let myself smile. "Call it whatever you want."
There was a slow ease to the way we moved toward each other, as though the quiet had mapped the rest of the night for us. The tension that had sat in my shoulders all day—part fear, part adrenaline—began to loosen. He turned so he could look at me properly, and the light struck the plane of his face and held the angle I loved: the thoughtful brow, the curve of his mouth while he considered me. It made my skin feel suddenly thin, hot, open.
"I like seeing you like this," he said, voice thick with feeling. "Not watched. Not on edge. Just…you."
I felt the heat of gratitude and wanted to say the same. Instead, I let my hand slide up his arm to his chest and set it there, feeling the cadence of him beneath my palm. "I like being with you," I said. "It's that simple."
He leaned in, and the first kiss was a careful thing—gentle, testing, the kind that checked for consent before claiming anything. The kiss deepened, quickened, and we wrapped around each other like two halves that had finally rediscovered a fit. The bench creaked under us, the night air pressed close, and for a breath we were untethered from every outside voice.
When we broke apart, the rooftop felt even smaller, softened by the echo of our breaths. "I don't want to go back to being careful in the way that limits us," I whispered. "I don't want the watcher to make me shrink."
"You won't have to shrink," Ethan promised. His hands cradled my face—gentle, fierce. "I'll fight with facts. I'll be loud when I have to be. But I'll also keep these moments for us. I'll keep them real."
He brushed his forehead against mine, a small, fierce contact. The honesty in his eyes was a magnet. I wanted to step away from everything that felt like fear and move toward what felt like us. The pull was clean and immediate.
"Then don't stop," I breathed. "Not tonight."
He didn't. His hands moved like a map I'd studied before: confident, patient, knowing how to find the right lines. We kissed again, harder now, a claim and a promise braided together. There was no performance in it—only two people finally letting themselves be seen by each other.
There were safe ways to be reckless, and this felt like one: to hold someone close even when the world offered reasons to untie yourself. We spoke in touches, in small sounds, in the language of skin and breath. Each breath was a negotiation of want and boundary, and every boundary met the other and yielded.
At one point I laughed—a small, surprised sound—because it felt ridiculous that my heartbeat could hammer so loudly when his hand was simply at the small of my back. He grinned against my lips. "You're ridiculous," he said, affectionate and sincere.
"You love that about me," I pushed back.
"I do." He kissed me again, softer, and the laugh settled into something like a promise.
Minutes threaded into something else—time that wasn't a countdown to discovery but a deliberate filling of space between two people. We talked in half-sentences about nothing and everything: the absurdity of group projects, Marcus's stubborn calm, Chloe's knack for noticing the smallest slights. The conversation was easy, and it proved how much of us had been building quietly in the middle of all the noise.
"You know," Ethan said, voice low, "I keep thinking about how simple it should be. That love shouldn't be a problem. But here we are, with all these complications."
I reached for his hand. "We'll make it simple where we can," I answered. "We'll pick our moments. And we won't hand them the power to make us small."
He nodded, eyes reflecting the string lights. "Okay," he said. "Then let's be brave—right now. Not loud, but brave." His fingers tightened around mine.
We moved closer again, and this time there was a deliberate slowing, a taking in of the moment as if tasting it for the memory. My breath found his neck; his palm smoothed the small of my back. There was heat pooling at the centre of me, fierce and impatient. The watchfulness we'd constructed—Chloe's quiet observations, Marcus's surveillance—didn't feel like a castle now so much as a perimeter that allowed for softness inside.
"Layla," Ethan said, in that voice that made words heavy and urgent, "I want you."
The sentence was not a question. It landed with the gravity of things that are said and meant.
"I want you too," I answered, steadier than I felt.
He smiled like a sunrise. "Tell me more," he coaxed softly, like an invitation rather than a demand.
I let myself be honest because honesty had felt good this week—clean and real and reparative. "Touch me," I whispered, "here. Now. Don't hold back."
His response was immediate and warm. He leaned down and kissed me with a hunger that matched mine. Hands and lips worked together, finding familiar geography and new edges. The bench was cold against my thighs, electric under the press of our bodies, and I welcomed every scrape and all the small noises we made.
He moves first, impulsive, his hand reaching out to brush my arm. His fingers are warm against my cool skin, tracing a light path up to my shoulder, and it sends a jolt straight through me. I gasp softly, the sound swallowed by the night, and lean into it without thinking. 'Layla,' he whispers, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot, tipping the moment into freefall. The rooftop's dimness wraps around us, amplifying the heat of his touch, making the world below feel a million miles away.
My hand finds his chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath his shirt, and I tilt my head up, our faces inches apart. The tension coils tighter, every nerve alive, the breeze forgotten in the fire sparking between us.
'Tell me to stop,' he breathes, his thumb grazing my jaw, 'and I will.'
But I don't want him to stop. The words stick in my throat, replaced by a shaky exhale as I press closer, my body aligning with his. His free hand slides to my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the hard line of his cock through his jeans, pressing into my hip. It makes my pussy clench, a rush of wetness soaking my panties. I slide my hand down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, until my fingers brush the bulge straining against the fabric.
Ethan groans low in his throat, his mouth crashing down on mine in a hungry kiss. His tongue pushes past my lips, tasting me deeply, while his hand at my waist slips under my shirt, fingers splaying across my bare skin. The rooftop wind whispers around us, but it's drowned out by the pounding of my pulse as he backs me against the railing, his body pinning mine.
We kept the motion private and careful, holding boundary and boundary-lessness in equal measure. Each touch was an answer to the world we refused to let win. We did not shout; we did not hide. We breathed and leaned and let the rooftop absorb our confessions.
I fumble with his zipper, freeing his cock—it springs out thick and hot into my palm. I wrap my fingers around the shaft, stroking from base to tip, feeling the veins pulse under my grip. He breaks the kiss, breathing hard against my neck, and nips at the skin there before murmuring, 'Fuck, Layla, just like that.' The risk of the open roof heightens every sensation, my senses are on edge, listening for any footfalls on the elevator.
His hand moves lower, unbuttoning my jeans with quick, sure motions. He shoves them down my thighs along with my panties, the cool air hitting my exposed pussy like a shock. Two fingers part my folds, sliding through the slickness, and I moan into his shoulder, bucking against his hand. He circles my clit with his thumb, then dips lower, pushing one finger inside me, then two, curling them to hit that spot that makes my knees weaken.
I pump his cock faster, thumbing the head where pre-cum beads, smearing it down the length. Ethan's thrusts into my fist match the rhythm of his fingers fucking my pussy, wet sounds mixing with our ragged breaths. The dim lights cast shadows that hide us just enough, but the exposure makes my skin flush hotter.
He drops to his knees suddenly, the gravel biting into his skin, but he doesn't care. His hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider as he leans in, tongue flicking out to lap at my clit. I thread my fingers through his hair, holding him there as he sucks the sensitive nub into his mouth, his fingers still plunging deep. Pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in my core, the breeze teasing my bare ass while he devours me.
I come undone with a stifled cry, my pussy clenching around his fingers, waves crashing through me. Ethan rises, his cock slick in my hand, and I sink, taking him into my mouth. I swirl my tongue around the head, sucking hard as I bob, tasting the salt of him. His hands tangle in my hair, guiding but not forcing, hips rocking shallowly.
He pulls back just in time, stroking himself furiously until thick ropes of cum spill onto my chest, warm and sticky under my shirt. We both pant, bodies trembling in the aftershocks, the rooftop silence wrapping us in secrecy once more.
'We shouldn't have,' he whispers, but his eyes say the opposite, pulling me up for another kiss.
When our breathing slowed and the lights shimmered around us, Ethan rested his forehead against mine, both of us flushed and quiet. There was an ease now that felt like permission: permission to want, permission to hold, permission to be a small, defiant island with another person on it. For a brief, luminous stretch of minutes, the watcher was a distant sound, reduced to a rumour that could not touch what we had.
"We should go down soon," he said finally, voice soft but practical.
"Okay," I said, though neither of us moved fast. Slow return was part of this—part of the savouring.
He wrapped his jacket around my shoulders again and stood. The rooftop air tasted of the night and something like hope. We took our time leaving, hands still intertwined. We walked back through the garden and into the elevator in a silence that pulsed with the kind of intimacy you don't always get to keep. We stepped into the corridor and then the dorm room, and the ordinary world resumed like a shoreline creeping back in.
Before the door closed, I looked at him—properly, the way you look at someone when you want to commit their shape to memory. "Thank you," I said. It was small and large at once.
"For what?" he asked, already smiling.
"For coming back to me, for fighting in small ways, for the roof and the jacket and the way you said 'I want you'—the way you said it like it was a fact."
He kissed my temple, gentle and sacred. "For staying," he said simply.
We closed the door, and the world was still out there—complicated, noisy, and hungry for headlines. But inside the room, in the hush of doors and curtains, we had carved out a small planet for ourselves. We had decided to be brave, to keep our private lights on, and to fight with facts when we needed to.
And with our hands still threaded together, with the echo of the rooftop in our bones, we sat on the bed and let the quiet hold us—until the next step came, until we chose again to be seen together.
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