Chapter 8 – The Fallout

Chapter 8 – The Fallout

Eli

Sleep was impossible.

I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the muffled thump of bass from across campus still ringing in my ears. Or maybe it wasn’t the music—it was my pulse, relentless, refusing to calm down.

I kept replaying it. The couch. The press of his arm brushing mine. His mouth, hovering a breath away from mine.

Almost.

That cursed word again. Almost like a warning. Almost like an invitation.

I’d never been the type to unravel over proximity. Words were my refuge—neatly stacked in books, carefully scribbled in notebooks. They never betrayed me. But tonight, Dante Cruz had undone me without a single touch.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the way his gaze had locked on me—sharp, intent, like he wanted something and wasn’t supposed to. My body remembered the heat, the weight of expectation, the way I had leaned up without meaning to.

And I hated myself for it.

Because he was my roommate. My… friend? Maybe. My tutor, my annoyance, my complication. Whatever he was, he wasn’t supposed to be the person I thought about at 3 a.m., teeth sinking into my lip as if the memory itself could scorch me.

By the time dawn cracked pale light through the blinds, I’d written nothing, slept even less, and convinced myself it had been nothing. A stupid, drunken accident. Almost didn’t count.

I clung to that thought when I walked into the library later, arms full of books.

Dante was already there, sprawled in the corner like the tables belonged to him. He looked unfairly awake for someone who had been at the same party until God knows when. His pen tapped against the open textbook, rhythm steady, his expression unreadable when he glanced up at me.

“Morning, Summers,” he said, low, like nothing had happened.

Relief flooded me—relief, and irritation. Because if he could so easily act like it meant nothing, then maybe it really hadn’t.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered, sliding into the chair across from him.

He smirked. “You’re a ray of sunshine today.”

I didn’t answer. My head bent over the notes, but the tension coiled between us like static. Every time his hand shifted closer on the table, my pulse jumped. Every time he leaned in to point something out in the text, I swore my lungs forgot their purpose.

Focus. I forced myself to circle a passage, to underline, to pretend. But the silence between sentences was heavy, dragging, filled with that unspoken almost.

Finally, I snapped. “Are you going to say something?”

He looked up, brows lifting. “About what?”

“You know what.”

For a second, the smirk slipped. His gaze darkened, quiet, searching. And in that pause, I realized he wasn’t going to hand me an answer. He was waiting to see if I wanted one.

My throat dried. I dropped my pen, fingers trembling just enough to annoy me. “Never mind. Forget it.”

His voice was low, quiet enough to cut under the library hush. “I don’t forget things that easily, Summers.”

Our eyes locked across the table, the air between us pulling taut. Books, pens, pages—all of it blurred at the edges. All I could see was him.

And just like the night before, almost pressed itself into the room again.