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Oh my God the kiss.

Then me throwing up. The trip back to mine. Gemma practically falling out of the car and Misty helping her back to her room. And Oliver took me home. To his home, more specifically. And I threw up some more.

I resist the urge to slam my head into the pillow. Instead, I gratefully accept the glass of water and the two painkillers next to it left on the bedside table. Thank God I put my glasses in my bag before we left. My eyes aren’t too bad so I thought I could get away without them for a night. Maybe if I don’t put them on I don’t have to look directly into Oliver’s eyes and see all his regret. Yeah. That’ll work.

My stomach churns, but I can’t figure out if it’s from the alcohol or from the nerves.

I’m in Oliver’s bed. My hot tutor’s bed. What the actual fuck?

When I lie back down on the pillow, something brushes my neck. When I reach out to touch it, I realise my hair is in a braid. And that is certainly not something I did myself, I can assure you. These hands can use state-of-the-art mass spectrometry machines but do not ask me to braid. Somewhere in my fuzzy memories Oliver emerges. The warmth of his chest against my back. Laughing at how sensitive my scalp is. A smile creeps across my face before my blood turns cold.

I can’t do this.

I can’t be in a relationship.

Already it’s so easy to forget about the things I need to do. To let them slip my mind. I’ve got three assignments due next week and I can barely concentrate without thinking about him. I knew it would end up like this. Can I give up everything I’ve worked for for a man?

Looking down at Oliver’s sleeping face my stomach drops. I can’t let him down. I can’t let him go. But I have to. It’s the only way. It’s what’s best for the both of us.

I remember going up some stairs last night. There’s a bathroom just across the hall. I’ll just go grab my stuff and leave. We can pretend like this never happened. We can go back to him being my tutor and me not failing the class. We can pretend that this is easier.

I’m halfway to the bedroom door before I hear Oliver stir.

Oliver.

Last night certainly didn’t go to plan. Well, parts of it did. Eden and I drank and danced and kissed. I brought her home. She slept in my bed.

So I could take care of her, of course. Poor Misty had her hands full with Gemma, in my defence.

The taste of Eden’s lip gloss is still on my mouth when I wake up the next morning. I want to stay in bed a bit longer to savour the memory. She was so beautiful last night. I have to convince her to wear red more often. And to show off those legs more often.

The sunlight burns my eyes, and I groan and tuck my head back under the blanket. And that’s when I hear her.

Eden—rather loudly—trying to sneak out of my room. Thank God my dad and brother are away this weekend. She has less grace than a bull in a China shop.

“Sneaking off already?”

She freezes and turns her head. She’s still as pale as a ghost, but a flicker of mischief remains in those hazel eyes.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” she says quietly.

I sit up, thankful that I didn’t engage in my usual habit of sleeping naked last night. Eden stands there, silhouetted against my door. Her hair’s a mess, mostly fallen out of the braid I put it in last night. Thankfully taking the extra time to wipe her make-up off last night in between vomiting seems to make her look a bit more put-together.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” I croak out, my parched throat aching.

I’m worried that this offer might be too much. That it might cross a line that wasn’t crossed last night. That she might say no. I don’t know what to do if she says no.

She hesitates at the door, weighing up the options, before her composure cracks. “I would like that.” She smiles slightly, tugging at the hem of my jumper. I freeze. She’s in my jumper. Forgot about that bit.

After we got back to my house last night, it was all a blur. Eden vomited a few more times. And with how exhausted she was, I helped her get into bed. The flapper dress she was wearing was obviously not sleep appropriate, so I put her in my university jumper. The hem skims the middle of her thighs and I almost have to bite my pillow when I look at her legs. She notices me staring and a deep blush stains her cheeks. I shake myself out of my fantasies. Go make the girl-who’s-not-your-girlfriend breakfast before you drag her back into bed. Who knows what you’d do then.

“Pancakes?” I offer. She nods.

“Pancakes.”

And that’s how I end up with Eden opposite me at the breakfast bar on this bright and sunny Sunday morning. Her eyes track my every move as I make us breakfast. It should be intimidating. She’s looking at me like she’s just waiting for me to trip up, to make a mistake. But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t comment on the egg shell I have to fish out of the bowl. Just watches me.

“Like what you see?” I dish the pancakes up on a plate with a squeeze of lemon and sugar. My face flushes as I remember Ben’s teasing from last night and I hope Eden doesn’t notice.