Chapter 3

Alicia’s POV

Mirabel’s dorm room was a cozy explosion of color and clutter. Fairy lights looped around the headboard, casting warm gold across the stacks of books on her desk and the half-unpacked suitcase already open on the floor.

The vanilla diffuser hummed softly, fighting a losing battle against the lingering scent of last night’s microwave popcorn. It felt like home in a way my own room never quite managed—lived-in, loud, full of life.

I sat cross-legged on her bed, my back to the wall, scrolling aimlessly through my phone while she held up two sweaters in front of the mirror.

“Red or green?” she asked, pressing the red one to her chest, then switching to the green. “Red is festive. Green is… I don’t know, classy?

Sophisticated?”

I tilted my head, considering. “Red. You’re festive. Green would make you look like you’re trying too hard to be mysterious, and you’re terrible at mysterious.”

She laughed, tossing the green sweater onto the growing pile on her chair. “Red it is. Dad always says I look like a Christmas ornament in red, but he smiles when he says it, so I know he secretly loves it.”

I smiled back, tucking my phone away. Talking about her dad always brought out this softer side of her—the way her eyes lit up, the way her voice dropped a little, like she was sharing something precious.

I’d never met the man, but Mirabel had shown me a handful of photos over the years—mostly old ones from when she was little, or the occasional candid she’d snapped on her phone. Always from the side or behind, mostly photos of him at the stove making pancakes, him standing on the porch looking out over the lawn, him in a tux at some event with his back to the camera.

Never a clear, straight-on face shot. She said he hated having his picture taken, that he’d duck out of selfies or turn away at the last second.

“Thoughtful,” I’d called him once, after she showed me one where he was reading in an armchair, half in shadow. She’d nodded proudly. “He’s the best.”

She flopped onto the bed beside me now, propping herself on her elbows. “He texted back right away. Said he’d get the cleaners to tidy up the rooms, but the pool heater’s still being finicky, so we should pack warm—classic Dad. He’s already got the chef planning your favorite things even though he’s never met you. I told him you love anything with cinnamon, so expect a lot of spiced lattes and those ridiculous chocolate tarts.”

My stomach did a small, nervous flip. “He didn’t have to do that.”

“He wanted to. He’s like that. When I said I was bringing my best friend, he immediately went into host mode. ‘Make sure she knows where the library is. She’ll disappear for days.’” Mirabel grinned.

“He’s not wrong though. Our library is insane—floor-to-ceiling shelves, those rolling ladders, big leather chairs. You’ll never want to leave.”

The mention of the library made my chest warm despite the nerves. Books had always been my safest place. “Sounds dangerous.”

“In the best way.” She sat up, crossing her legs.

“Two weeks of no lectures, no assignments, just food and pool and bad Christmas movies. Dad pretends he hates them, but he always sits through the whole thing if I pick.”

I laughed softly. “He’s a good dad.”

“The best.” Her expression softened, gaze drifting to the framed photo on her nightstand—her as a toddler on a man’s shoulders, his face turned away, only the back of his dark head visible. “He could’ve checked out after Mom died. Hired people, and buried himself in work. Instead he did everything. Midnight feedings, school runs, helping with homework even when he was exhausted from board meetings. I never felt like I was missing anything… except her.”

The room quieted for a moment. I reached over and squeezed her wrist. I knew exactly how she feels, from me who doesn’t know my father, and lost my mum at a young age, then lived the majority of my life at the foster home. She squeezed back, then shook her head like she was shaking off the heaviness.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Anyway, let’s get back to packing. We need to pack cute stuff, like bikinis. That red one-piece you never wear because you think it’s ‘too much.’ It’s not too much. It’s perfect.”

I groaned, flopping back against her pillows. “I’m not trying to impress anyone. It’s your dad’s house.”

“Exactly. Which means you should look hot just because you can.” She tossed a pair of denim cutoffs at me. “Besides, the pool is gorgeous. And the backyard at night with the lights on? Magic.”

We spent the next hour sorting clothes—her throwing things in with chaotic energy, me folding neatly. She kept up a steady stream of chatter, talking about the holiday menu, how her Dad always over-decorated the tree because “Mirabel likes lights,” how he’d act grumpy about holiday rom-coms but never change the channel when she hit play.

Every story added another layer to the picture in my head. He's definitely a man who loved deeply and quietly, who carried grief like an old coat he couldn’t quite take off, and who still made sure his daughter felt like the center of his world.

I listened, nodded, and smiled in the right places. But underneath it all, that familiar ache stirred—the one that had started three years ago in a dark hotel suite and never fully faded.

The memory came in flashes: rough hands, low growls, the word “Daddy” slipping out of my mouth like it belonged there. That was the only time I had ever said the word, called someone daddy, and felt so good doing it. The way he’d filled me until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and couldn’t do anything but shatter.

I pushed it down. Hard.

My phone buzzed on the bedspread, and I glanced at the screen.

It was Chris. Again.

I silenced it without opening the message.

Mirabel noticed. “Him again?”

“Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes. “Just block him already. He’s been texting you every day since you turned him down last month.”

“I did block him. He got a new number.” I sighed, rubbing my temple. “He called yesterday too. Left a voicemail saying he ‘just wants to talk,’ that he knows I’m stressed with finals and he can help.”

“Help,” she echoed, voice dripping sarcasm. “Help meaning he wants to wear you down until you say yes to one date. Classic.”

“I know. I’ve told him no. Multiple times, politely. Then not so politely.”

She reached over, snagged my phone, and held it up. “To think I was even soliciting for him so you’ll go on at least one date, but he’s disturbing you now, and I don’t want nobody bothering my bestie. Want me to answer next time? I can be very clear.”

I laughed despite myself. “Tempting. But no, I’ll handle it.”

The phone buzzed again—same number. A call this time.

I stared at it, my thumb hovering over decline.

Mirabel raised a brow. “Answer it. Put him on speaker. Let’s end this.”

I hesitated, then hit accept and speaker.

Chris’s voice came through warm and too familiar. “Alicia? Hey. Finally picked up.”

Mirabel made a gagging motion.

“Chris,” I said evenly. “I’ve been busy with exam preparations.”

“Yeah, I figured. That’s why I’ve been calling. Just wanted to check in, and see if you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

A pause. “You sure? You’ve been… distant.”

“I’ve been clear, Chris. I’m not interested in dating. Not right now. Not with you.”

Mirabel mouthed savage and gave a thumbs-up.

Another pause—longer this time. “I get it. I just… I think we’d be good together. If you gave it a chance.”

“I’ve given it chances. The answer’s still no.”

He exhaled, like I’d punched him. “Okay. I hear you. But if you change your mind… I’m here. Holiday break’s coming up soon too. Maybe we could grab coffee when you’re back?”

“No, Chris. Please stop calling, and stop texting. It’s not going to happen.”

Silence stretched. Then, quietly: “You don’t have to be so cold about it.”

“I’m not being cold. I’m being honest.”

He laughed—short, bitter. “Right. Honest. Fine. Enjoy your break, Alicia.”

The line went dead.

Mirabel let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was clean.”

I set the phone face-down, my stomach twisting. “I hate that. I hate that he makes me feel like the bad guy for saying no.”

“You’re not the bad guy. He’s just not hearing it.” She nudged my shoulder. “You deserve someone who listens the first time. Not someone who keeps pushing until you cave.”

I nodded, but the words felt heavy.

We finished packing in quieter silence after that. When I finally stood to leave, hugging her goodnight, she squeezed me extra tight.

“A few more days,” she whispered. “Then freedom. And Dad’s tarts. You’ll love it there, I promise.”

I smiled against her shoulder. “I believe you babe.”

Back in my room, door locked, lights low, I sat on my bed and stared at the ceiling.

I took the notebook of my next exam, but the ink blurred together, and I couldn’t make sense of anything I’d written in the book.

The ache between my thighs was intense, it felt like it could detect when I was alone, and my clit throbbed and my pussy clenched on nothing.

I curled onto my side, pulled the blanket up, and tried to sleep.

“Maybe I need to date someone to get my mind off this, or at least, get laid.” I exhaled loudly through my nose.