Chapter 4

Maxime ;

The worst thing about closing at “Meeting Point” isn’t even the hours or the drunk idiots—it’s how the night sticks to you afterward. By the time I drag myself up the stairs to my apartment, I smell like beer foam, bleach, and somebody’s awful cologne, and my feet are threatening legal action.

I should be exhausted enough to pass out instantly.

Instead, I’m wide awake.

Connor McLeod.

God. I can still feel his hands on my waist, the scrape of his teeth against my neck, the way he looked at me like he already knew I was screwed.

I pause outside the apartment door and force my expression back to neutral. If I walk in smiling like an idiot, Simone’s gonna interrogate me like a detective with a warrant.

The second I step inside, the familiar smell of microwave popcorn and lavender spray hits me.

Simone’s sprawled across my bed scrolling through TikTok while Troy’s at the desk, half-buried in anatomy notes with one earbud hanging out.

Simone glances up. “Oh wow. The dead rises.”

“Barely,” I mutter, dropping my bag by the door. “Tonight was chaos.”

“Lemme guess,” she says. “Henry cornered you again about his ‘entrepreneurship journey’?”

I snort while kicking off my boots. “Yeah. Apparently I’m one motivational podcast away from financial freedom.”

Troy laughs quietly without looking up. “You do look different tonight, though.”

I freeze for half a second. “Different how?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. Less homicidal than usual after work.”

Simone narrows her eyes at me. “Actually… yeah. You’re weirdly cheerful.”

“I made good tips,” I say quickly. “And nobody threw up in the bathroom sink tonight, so honestly? Huge win.”

“Mhm.” Simone sits up straighter, clearly unconvinced. “Why are you glowing?”

“I am not glowing.”

“You absolutely are.”

“It’s sweat.”

“It’s gay happiness,” she shoots back immediately.

I choke on a laugh. “Please never say that again.”

Troy finally closes his laptop. “Whatever it is, good for you. I’m going to bed before my brain melts.”

“Good luck on your test tomorrow,” I tell him.

He salutes dramatically with his water bottle before disappearing into his room.

The apartment gets quieter after that.

Simone fiddles with the edge of the blanket, studying me. “Okay, seriously. Did something happen tonight?”

I sit beside her and rake a hand through my hair. “Nothing dramatic.”

“That’s not a no.”

I sigh. “I just had a… good night, okay?”

“Aha.” She points at me like she’s cracked a case. “There it is.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And you’re blushing.”

“I hate this apartment.”

She grins. “You know you can tell me stuff, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Right as I’m about to change, my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Simone’s eyes immediately light up. “Ooooh. Mystery person?”

I grab the phone before she can peek.

Connor McLeod added you on Snapchat.

My stomach flips so hard it’s embarrassing.

Simone catches my expression instantly. “Oh my God. Who is he?”

“Nobody.”

“That’s a lie.”

“It’s literally just a guy from the bar.”

“A guy.” Her grin turns wicked. “Interesting.”

I roll my eyes, trying way too hard to sound casual. “Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late. You’re smiling at your phone like you’re in a N*****x rom-com.”

“I’m blocking you.”

“Mhm. Sure. You adding him back or what?”

I tap accept before I can overthink it. “There. Happy?”

“Very.”

She stretches and hops off the bed. “Alright, I’m brushing my teeth before I pass out. Try not to fall in love before midnight.”

“No promises,” I mutter.

“MAXIME.”

She leaves laughing while I sit there staring at my phone like an idiot.

A second later, Connor posts a story—shirtless locker room selfie, damp hair, cocky grin. Of course he does.

I roll my eyes so hard they nearly detach from my skull.

Still screenshot it mentally, though.

Then another notification pops up.

A snap from him.

Just his eyes, dark and unfairly pretty, with one word across the screen:

Trouble.

I laugh under my breath.

Then I snap a quick picture back—messy hair, tired face, zero shame.

Caption: Says the hockey player built like a scandal.

Send.

The moment my bedroom door closes behind me, I let my head thunk back against it.

Jesus Christ.

My entire body aches. My feet are destroyed, my neck still burns from the hickey Connor left behind, and every time I think about what happened in that storage hallway my brain completely short-circuits.

One hookup and suddenly I’m giggling at my reflection like a loser.

And honestly? Worth it.

I’ve never been kissed like that before—like someone was starving for it. Connor had this stupid cocky attitude right up until he touched me, and then suddenly he looked at me like I mattered.

Which is… dangerous.

Because now my brain won’t shut up about him.

I change into pajamas and catch sight of the mark on my neck in the mirror.

“Fantastic,” I mumble.

I should probably be embarrassed about it.

Instead, I touch it lightly and grin.

Connor McLeod—campus hockey god, certified menace, probably responsible for half the university’s emotional damage—left a hickey on my neck and somehow rewired my personality in one night.

That feels medically concerning.

I wash my face, flop into bed, and stare at the ceiling.

Sleep should be easy.

Instead, I keep replaying everything: the smirk he gets right before he kisses me, the warmth of his hands, the way he said my name like it meant something.

This is either the start of a terrible decision or the beginning of me becoming unbearably annoying about one man.

Honestly?

Could be both.

I bury my face in my pillow with a groan, already smiling.

If Connor McLeod is trouble, then yeah.

I’m probably already screwed.