Maybe I should’ve insisted we stay tangled up instead of rushing to the next step. But this feels right, and he wanted more too. I saw it in his eyes.
I glance at the door again, needing him to hurry so I can show him how much I want this. How much I wanthim.
Ten minutes.
I sit on the edge of the bed we were just on and stare at the door, legs twitching from leftover heat and the thrill of waiting for him. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and it’s pitiful how quickly I grab it, hoping it’s him. It’s only an email notification. My thumb moves to our thread of texts anyway, scrolling back to the chocolate-pretzels fake-out and the late-night photos, and smiling at how easy it always felt with him.
The last message was him telling me he was on his way to the party. Nothing new yet.
Maybe he couldn’t find anything right away. Maybe he’s looking. That would make sense.
Right?
He wouldn’t just… leave. Not after the way he held me.
Not after “I’ve got you.”
Fifteen minutes.
The vodka haze is thinning fast, leaving a soft nausea and a growing unease in its wake. Campus isn’t that big. He could’ve run to any of the buildings by now… hell, he could’ve run to the 24-hour convenience store on campus and been back by now.
I want to text him. I typeYou okay?then delete it. I typeHurry backthen delete that, too.
Instead I stare at the blank screen, trying to hold onto the warmth still humming under my skin. He’s coming. He has to be. This is the start of something amazing.
Twenty minutes.
What if he’s already regretting it? What if the second he stepped into the hallway the buzz wore off, and he realized how close he came to hooking up with his confused best friend.
What if he decided he doesn’t wantme?
My breath comes shorter and my hands are shaking now, no longer from anticipation but from the sudden fear that I’ve ruined everything. That I pushed too hard, asked for too much, and now he’s gone.
I stand up and pace again, bare feet silent on the carpet. Every creak in the hallway makes my heart lurch, and I cave and open the door. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and the faint smell of stale beer and ramen noodles drifts from somewhere close by, but there’s no one there.
Thirty minutes.
I sit back on the bed and draw my knees up, then wrap my arms around them. If he walked in now, I know I’d look pitiful, but I hug my legs to my chest because I needsomethingto anchor me here. The tiniestpinprick of hope tries to fight those voices in my head telling me how badly I just fucked up, but it isn’t winning.
The ache in my chest isn’t sweet anymore—it’s sharp and panicky.
The clock keeps ticking, and I keep waiting.
Forty-five minutes.
The room is too cold. I pull the blanket around my shoulders, but it doesn’t help. My chest is tight, like someone’s sitting on it and not allowing my lungs to fill. Every time I close my eyes I see his face when he left.
Dark eyes.
Soft promises.
I believed him.
I fucking believed him.
An hour.
No new messages.
