sweet nothings

PRESENT DAY

Senior year dawns hot and muggy, but it’s going to treat you well, you think. You only have two more courses to complete in your major, your acapella group just added four new members, and you have the second biggest room in the sorority house with the cutest little balcony on the top floor. This also means you have the requisite amount of stuff to move up two flights of stairs, but luckily, the boys next door saw your plight and are helping you move—

“Jesus Christ, how much shit can you possibly have?”

The serene smile that came easily to you a second ago freezes in place at the sound of that irritating fucking voice. You remind yourself that you have free will, you are the master of your own destiny and blood pressure, and you do not need to give the owner of that voice the satisfaction of reacting.

“Seriously, we should give up on the stairs and just have a yard sale here with the rest of your stuff.”

Oh, what the hell. Your attempt at zen was doomed from the start. “You wouldn’t dare,” you seethe, whirling around to glare at the Oscar Piastri-shaped nuisance currently carrying your beloved swivel armchair.

He pokes his head around the chair to smirk at you. “Oh, hey there, Lady Disdain. And here I thought you were going to pretend I didn’t exist for the rest of the year.” 

You smile sweetly right back. “The year just started—don’t count yourself out yet. And nobody forced you to help, so either stop complaining and lift with your legs, or fuck off.”

He tsks. “And leave the rest of my brethren at your mercy? I think not.”

“Your brethren are happy right where they are. Isn’t that right, Logan?” 

Logan, passing by carrying your full-length mirror under one arm, catches the slightly maniacal tone of your voice and nods hurriedly. “Nowhere I’d rather be, ma’am.”

You nod in smug satisfaction. For that, you’re even willing to overlook the fingerprints he is no doubt leaving on your mirror. 

Oscar rolls his eyes. “That’s your best friend’s boyfriend—sampling bias if I’ve ever seen it. And thanks for the backup, mate.”

Logan grins, unrepentant. “Sorry, that’s my girl’s best friend. You’ll understand when you’re older, honey.”

Oscar scowls at his retreating back and refuses to make eye contact with you. “Whatever. I’d rather not lose my mind over anyone like that.”

You inhale deeply; here we go. “Hah! As if anyone would want you to—”

“Trust me, there’s no shortage of willing participants in my bedroom—”

“Oh, yeah, ‘cause your bedroom is the pinnacle of every girl’s romantic fantasy? Real classy, asshole—”

“Hey, I never said I was anyone’s romantic fantasy, alright? Girls know what they’re getting into with me—”

“Trouble is what they’re getting into—”

Lando clears his throat noisily. “Can you guys do this somewhere else? You’re in our way.” 

Startled, you look away from Oscar for the first time to realize that the two of you are, indeed, blocking the doorway of the sorority house. Lando is lugging along two of your suitcases, and behind him, Alex and Charles release a hand each to wave cheerfully at you from where they’re holding on to either end of your loveseat. 

You shake yourself out of your Oscar-induced stupor and paste a serene smile back onto your face. “Of course, of course. Thank you, boys, you are such dears.” You usher them through the doorway with a promise of pizza for a job well done, and you steadfastly ignore Oscar’s faint, high-pitched imitation of your words of gratitude. 

You’ll be damned if you let him get in the way of your perfect senior year. 

THREE YEARS AGO: FRESHMAN YEAR, FIRST SEMESTER

There is something seriously wrong with you. Seriously. You have half a mind to go to the student health center about it, but you know you’d get laughed out of there like you deserve.

Diagnosis? So horny it’s making you stupid. 

That has to be it, you decide. The raging hormones of youth, a campus full of equally hormonal, distractingly attractive students, and no fully developed prefrontal cortex to balance it all out. You’re just another victim of the high of living on your own for the first time and being entirely free to make reckless decisions.

That has to be it, because there can be no other reason for why you find yourself making out with Oscar Piastri in the middle of a frat basement, again.

It’s a real pity, too, because you’d been doing so well on the not-making-out-with-Oscar-Piastri front. Despite making clear eye contact with him at the last two dorm parties where you’d both been in attendance, you had managed to avoid his lips—evil, terrible temptations—each time, mainly by turning the other cheek and feigning great interest in the conversation farthest from wherever he was brooding with his (admittedly fantastic) arms crossed over his chest and some storm of indecipherable emotions brewing in his eyes. 

But tonight, the frats are open to freshmen, you are a sucker for a Two Friends Big Bootie mix, and, well, one thing led to another, so now you have Oscar’s tongue in your mouth and his hands on your ass. It is, unfortunately, just as great as it was the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, and so on and so forth.

It’s unfortunate, but not because there’s anything wildly objectionable about Oscar—quite the opposite, really. You’ve done the customary freshman introduction song-and-dance with him and around him enough times now to have his biography memorized: he’s an engineering major, he’s from Melbourne, Australia, and he’s on the lightweight rowing team. 

Then there are the things that you’ve picked up on your own: he’s lightning-quick with a dry remark or a muttered quip, his hair is always perfectly soft even though you’re sure he uses 3-in-1, and he’s the best kisser you’ve ever known. 

Finally, here’s what you don’t know: just how far the moles on his skin extend below the collar of his shirt, why he looks at you with such intensity even when you’re both completely sober in broad daylight, or what he thinks of your hot-and-cold approach. That approach, so far, has looked like making out with him at parties, and literally turning on your heel and walking expeditiously in the opposite direction whenever you see him outside of a frat basement. It’s so bad that you’ve even resorted to pretending like you’ve never met him once or twice. 

You’re sure it’s confusing as hell for him, but it’s confusing for you, too. If pressed, you wouldn’t be able to state a clear reason for why you’re so mercurial with him. You just know that your mediocre high school boyfriend broke up with you two weeks before freshman orientation because he thought he was growing out of this relationship and the two of you should take advantage of the college experience and meet new people. And it’s not like he was the great love of your life, but how dare he break up with you? And who is he kidding, growing out of this relationship? He doesn’t even know how to do his own laundry. 

This is all to say: you came to campus six weeks ago determined to take advantage of the college experience and meet as many new people as possible. As you’d screamed drunkenly the first night, shortly before meeting (and making out with) Oscar for the first time: slut era, baby! So you have no intention of getting into a relationship, or even any kind of repeat player situation. 

The problem, of course, is that you keep finding yourself within kissing distance of Oscar, which inevitably leads to kissing him, which inevitably leads to continuing to kiss him until you’re in danger of a public indecency citation or something (to your humiliation, you’ve already gotten several Snapchat videos from your friends of your enthusiastic dance-floor-makeouts with the guy). Worse still, you haven’t been kissing anyone but Oscar. 

He doesn’t seem to have any complaints about it, if his eager hands are any indication. Right now, those hands have migrated upwards, one rucking up the hem of your shirt and sweeping across the exposed skin of your waist, the other at your chin, tilting it so he can kiss you deeper. A shiver passes down your spine when he nips at your bottom lip, and you know he feels it because his mouth quirks into a smirk against yours, thrilling and terrible all at once. 

“Oh no,” you whine, voice wrecked and wretched when you pull away from the kiss just to tuck your head against his shoulder. “I’m kissing you.”

“Yeah? I’m well aware.” His voice is amused but no less affected, raspy and accent thicker around each elongated vowel.

“Yeah, but.” You pull your head up to glare at him, no real heat behind it. Svedka and jungle juice make you more honest than you intend, because then you blurt out, “I had a plan for not kissing you!”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You had a plan for not kissing me?”

You nod emphatically. “I was going to kiss Lando instead!”

His expression sobers immediately. Then, his eyes flick over your shoulder, and he laughs, sharp and a little mean. “How’s that going for you, hm?”

You turn to spot Lando really crossing the line into public indecency, mouthing into some girl’s neck and hands disappearing under her skirt. Cheeks burning, you turn back around to face Oscar with a petulant huff. “Whatever. I didn’t actually want to kiss him, anyways.”

Relief flashes across his face, so quickly that you’re not sure you didn’t make it up after the fact. His voice is steady again when he asks, “Who d’ya wanna kiss then, gorgeous?”

Uh-oh. The compliment completely destroys your resolve, and you resort to hiding your face in his shoulder again. “I want to kiss you, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” he repeats, half pleased, half amused as he sways you back and forth to music which is entirely unsuited for this kind of slow dancing. “I don’t get you, you know that?”

You sigh mournfully. “In my defense, I actually do know that.”

“Well, alright then.” He doesn’t press further, and you don’t explain, either. You’re going to get so much shit for this from your friends (Snapchat is not temporary), but you continue to sway with him until the party dies down, and later, it becomes one of the fonder memories you have of him. 

PRESENT DAY

On second thought, maybe senior year has it out for you. It’s 94º and the AC is out in your sorority house, your acapella group can’t agree on a rehearsal time for the semester, and the last two courses you have to complete in your major are Physics I and II. There’s a reason you’ve been putting these courses off until your last year of college; you and physics do not get along well. High school made you painfully aware of this, but who knew you’d be forced to confront this foe again as an adult, and at 8am in the morning, no less? 

Of course, it gets worse, because the TA assigned to your physics lab section is Oscar. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight of his impassive countenance on the first day of classes, handing out paper copies of the physics syllabus because your professor is an old-fashioned kind of guy who still lectures on blackboard and doesn’t allow laptops in the classroom.

“Oh, fuck me,” you groan instantly upon reading the syllabus. Labs start next week, conducted under the supervision of the TAs; that’s an extra 3 hours per week you have to spend with Oscar in close proximity, on top of actual class and office hours.

“Fuck you for real,” Callie agrees from beside you. “I’m an English major. Why the hell am I here?”

You bat your eyelashes at her. “Because lab is a graduation requirement and you love me so, so much?”

Your best friend frowns. “No, I don’t think that’s quite right. There are easier courses with labs.”

Logan bounds up the steps to the third row where you’re sitting with Callie and greets her brightly. “Hi, sweets!” 

She beams right back. “Oh, yeah. That’s why I’m here."

“Whore,” you mutter listlessly. She pats your shoulder in consolation, though you’re not sure how sincere she is about it given the hearts sparkling in both her and Logan’s eyes at the moment. You turn your attention instead to the back of the classroom, where you expect to find Oscar brooding with his arms crossed over his chest now that he’s done passing out syllabi.

To your surprise, he’s turned sideways, leaning casually against the wall as he laughs at something the pretty brunette next to him is saying. She’s another TA, Riley something-or-the-other; you remember her from serving on the Inter-Sorority Council together last year, but you don’t remember her being that funny. Oscar’s laughing with his head tossed back, exposing several moles along his neck that remind you of when you’d seen all of the moles scattered across his skin. Not for the first time, you curse your excellent memory.

You’re saved by the bell, so to speak; your professor enters the classroom just then, and soon you’re too busy scrambling to keep up with his rapid scrawling on the blackboard to think of much else.

50 minutes later, your notes look insane and you can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. And you’re supposed to meet briefly with your lab section to introduce yourself to your partner and receive instructions for the first lab from the TA. You’re already grimacing by the time you reach the small huddle of students grouped around Oscar—not just because he’s there, but also because you haven’t had to take notes by hand in ages, and you’re still shaking out the cramp in your fingers.

“That bad, huh?” The guy next to you nudges your shoulder with his and offers you a sympathetic smile.

You smile ruefully in return. “That obvious, huh?

“I salute you, fellow warrior.” He really does salute you, solemn for 0.5 seconds before he breaks into a grin. “And lab partner, I think?”

You glance down at the sheet of lab partner assignments at the back of your syllabus. “Oh, yeah, nice to meet you! Here, let me give you my number so we can coordinate—”

Oscar clears his throat loudly. “If everyone’s done socializing, we should talk about the pre-lab.” He doesn’t look at you as he says it, but you’re sure the derision in his tone is directed at you. If you’d been feeling more energetic, you might have snarked back; as it is, you simply scowl at the floor, willing your headache away.

Oscar drones on about the pre-lab assignment for a few minutes, and then you’re exchanging numbers with your lab partner on the way out. Your headache has fully reared its head now, but there’s not much you can do about it; you have a meeting to get to in twenty minutes, and it’s fifteen minutes across campus in the new science building. You’re about to just grit your teeth through it when a tiny bottle of Advil and a banana are shoved in front of your face. 

“If you’re going to make it through 8am physics, you have to stop skipping breakfast,” Oscar says brusquely. 

“I—”

“Don’t like bananas, yeah, I know. It’s all I had on me, okay?”

That isn’t what you were about to say, but it’s true—you don’t like bananas. You’re just shocked Oscar knows that.

He continues as if he’s done nothing out of the ordinary. “Eat it, or I’ll sic Callie on you.”

You shudder instantly at the thought. Your meeting is at the imaging lab, but you don’t doubt Callie would burst through the lab doors just to force breakfast into your mouth.

Oscar allows himself a tiny, amused smile at your reaction. Satisfied that you’ll have something to treat your headache and something to eat, he nudges you toward the door. “Go. You’ll be late.”

And really, how does he know that? You ponder this until you reach the lab, where the likely culprit is sitting innocently.

“Have you been reporting on me to Oscar?” You point an accusing finger at George, fellow neuroscience major and research assistant in the Hamilton lab. George also happens to harbor delusions about Oscar being secretly in love with you. You’re pretty sure George just likes to stir the pot and watch the ensuing drama unfold, but that has never stopped you from vociferously rebuffing him at every turn. 

George raises both hands in absolutely unconvincing defense. “I may have mentioned our shared dismay about Lewis moving the weekly check-in to Monday mornings, yeah. C’mon, Oscar’s my friend and teammate, too. Can’t I wish the best for my two friends?”

You scoff. “Can’t you wish the best for some of your other friends?” 

George smiles sunnily. “You two are in the most dire need, though.”

“Good morning, good morning!” Professor Hamilton—Lewis, he insists—bustles in with his usual good cheer and, best of all, a pot of good tea and pastries from the best bakery in town. 

You and George fall into the rhythm of the weekly check-in while you munch happily on a spinach and feta danish. At the end of it, you grab a chocolate croissant and wrap it up carefully in napkins, trying not to think too hard about what you’re doing and why you’re doing it. 

When you exit the building and spot Oscar ascending the steps with his head down and looking at his phone, you feel like you’re a freshman again, tempted to run away at the sight of him. But you straighten your shoulders and lift your head, and your hand doesn’t shake at all when you thrust the croissant in front of him, almost hitting him in the forehead with it. 

His head jerks up, alarm clear in his expression before it melts into something like hesitation, like hope. He points at the croissant, then himself in a For me? kind of way.

The gesture makes you laugh softly. “Yes, it’s for you. My professor brought pastries, so. Yeah, you know. Thanks for this morning.” It’s stilted and awkward, and you think it must be 110º in the air around you right now, but you’re glad you did it, especially when Oscar’s entire face turns pink as he takes the croissant from you. 

“Thanks,” he says. “This place makes my favorite chocolate croissants.”

“I know,” you say before you can think better of it. Then you do think better of it, and you squeak out an, “Okay, bye!” before fleeing the scene. It really is just like freshman year. 

FRESHMAN YEAR, SECOND SEMESTER

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen.” You bemoan the sight before you: Callie, once your staunchest ally willing to die on the no-relationship hill, now happily tucked against Logan’s side in the library, hands entwined underneath the table where you’re all studying. 

Callie sticks her tongue out at you. “Sorry, dearest, I still love you the most.”

Your eyebrows pull together in disdain. “Obviously.” 

At the same time, Logan presses a kiss to Callie’s temple and agrees, “Of course.”

Your face softens, almost against your will. Callie and Logan are so much in the throes of the honeymoon period that it’s almost cartoonish, but you’re happy for them; really, you are. Your discomfort with their new relationship stems from entirely selfish reasons, namely—

“Hey, does anyone have a charger I can borrow—oh, hello.” Oscar’s ears go bright red as he waves awkwardly at you, and only you. He might as well be waving a neon sign that says, I’ve had my hand up your dress not 500 feet from here! 

(Shamefully, you can now say that you kind of understand Lando; last week, you and Oscar had been too impatient to make it to the dorms, so you’d made it work in the stacks of the library, which was the only semi-private place between either of your dorms that was still open late at night. Your only consolation is that, well, at least you made it out of the party.

Oscar’s low murmurs of, There you go, c’mon, gorgeous, you look so good like this, as he helped you fall apart on his fingers served as a nice consolation, too, you suppose.)

“Hello,” you grit out. “Here, take mine.” You hand him your charger, and when he continues to stand there like a statue, you pointedly jerk your head in the direction he came from. Thankfully, he seems to get the message and shoots you an inscrutable look before going back to his study group two tables away. 

Callie’s eyes narrow instantly at you. “What’s going on between you two?”

“Who, me and Oscar? Nothing, nothing!” you insist, high-pitched even to your own ears.

“Not according to Oscar,” Logan mutters, so quietly you almost miss it. 

“Weren’t you all over each other at the crew party last week?” Callie asks loudly. 

“Keep your voice down,” you hiss, resisting the urge to turn around to see if Oscar heard her. “We just. Y’know. Hook up sometimes. Why, what did he say?” You turn to Logan with zealous focus. Callie repeats the motion, and he looks distinctly regretful about opening up his mouth.

“Oh, this and that,” he mumbles. But he’s no match for the heat of yours and Callie’s combined glares. “Okay, he just said he doesn’t know what your vibes are.”

You’re instantly skeptical. “He said that?”

Logan grimaces. “Well, not in those exact words. But I think he’s been… confused? About whatever’s going on between you two.”

“Which is nothing,” you rebuke sharply. Even if half the campus has seen you and Oscar making out at some party or another, you’re not about to pour your heart out in front of Logan, who’s still Oscar’s best friend at the end of the day. You flick your eyes significantly at Callie, and she understands immediately.

“Logan, do you mind getting me an iced tea? From the café next door, not the one in here. The café next door has the ice cubes I like,” she explains. “And take Oscar with you. He looks like he could use a walk.”

Logan glances at the completely full iced tea in front of her, then between you two, then over at Oscar, and he catches on, too. “Of course, baby. It might take a while, so we’ll be back in five… ten…? Okay, ten minutes,” he allows gallantly. 

As soon as he’s grabbed a confused-looking Oscar out of his seat and they’re both out of earshot, Callie raises her eyebrow at you, and you sink your head into your hand and heave a huge sigh. “Oh god, I don’t even know. Me and Oscar… It’s not, like, a thing. I never even intend for it to happen! It just happens.”

“You and Oscar hooking up every time you see each other at a party and then pretending like you’re distant acquaintances the next day is a thing that just happens?” 

“Well, when you put it like that... But in my defense, it’s better now than it was a few months ago, when I was still acting like I had never met the guy.”

Callie offers you a sarcastic thumbs-up. “Wow, you’re the model of emotional maturity.” She pauses, looks at you like you’re a frightened woodland creature, and begins again. “He’s a good guy, you know.”

You sigh louder. “He is! He really is. I dunno, it’s easy enough to fool around with him when we’re both a little drunk and Miley Cyrus is playing on the dance floor, but every time I see him in public I just want to run away because god, he’s really perceived me, y’know? The idea that he knows anything about me is so humiliating, but at this point, he knows a lot about me.”

“You ever heard of an avoidant attachment style?” Callie asks rhetorically; she already knows what your response will be.

“Oh, come on, enough of that pop psychology bullshit—”

Callie smirks. “Yeah, yeah, I know, you sanctimonious science snob.”

“Semantic know-it-all,” you retort. “Damn, I gotta give it to you for the alliteration, though.” 

You lock eyes with her, and then you both burst out laughing. You’re still giggling by the time Logan and Oscar return with an iced tea for Callie and a banana smoothie that Oscar tries to pass off casually into your hands. 

You stare blankly at the smoothie. You figure his study group is done, so you ask, “You want me to hold this for you while you move your stuff over here?”

“No, I—it’s for you. The drink. You probably don’t get enough potassium. Most people don’t, actually. At least, that’s what the sign at the café said. It’s their special this week.” Oscar’s voice fades off into a mumble, blush intensifying across his cheeks with every word.

“Oh.” You’re quite touched by the kind gesture, random though it may be. “But I don’t like bananas,” you say thoughtlessly. 

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back—his eyebrows pull down, his mouth sets into a flat line, and he moves to take the smoothie from your hands. You think maybe he’ll drink it himself, but he lobs it unceremoniously into the nearest trash can, which sparks some vague irritation in you. 

“That is so wasteful,” you begin, mulish for no real reason other than your embarrassment about what you said and not knowing what to do with all this prickling heat at the base of your neck. 

“It’s no less wasteful than you not drinking it,” he snaps. 

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to drink it—”

“You said you don’t like bananas. It’s a banana smoothie.”

“That doesn’t mean I wasn’t going to drink it!”

“It’s basically the same thing—”

“Don’t put words in my mouth—”

Callie snickers. “I can think of other things you could put in her mouth.” 

You and Oscar turn twin expressions of shock on her. 

Now she cackles. “What, like you’re not familiar with each other’s mouths? Oscar, sweetie, she doesn’t like bananas, but she loves berries. Ask me next time if you’re unsure, okay?” 

Oscar gapes at her for a few seconds, mutters something about needing to finish a problem set, then retreats back to his study group. 

Logan looks at his girlfriend with newfound admiration. “That was so hot,” he blurts out. 

“I know.” Callie throws her hair over her shoulder; the picture of self-satisfaction. 

You groan. You’re never living this one down. 

PRESENT DAY

The AC in your sorority house has been out for four days now, and the unusual heat wave continues; high-nineties during the day and not much better at night. You may not have retained much from high school physics, but you know heat rises—you’re practically melting in your room on the top floor. Even at night, every part of your exposed skin is unpleasantly sticky, and you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in four days. 

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Tonight, you’re desperate enough that you’ve dragged your desk chair out onto your little balcony, folding yourself into the cramped space with a stack of research papers propped against your knees and highlighters tucked behind your ears. If you can’t sleep, you can at least make some progress on the thesis you’re doing in the Hamilton lab. There’s even a pathetic little breeze out here on the balcony. 

You’re deep in the weeds of literature review when your phone buzzes in your shorts, which makes you groan. The thought of fishing your phone out of your undoubtedly sweaty back pocket is so unwelcome, but needs must. 

Oscar’s name at the top of your notifications is the last thing you expect to see. 

oscar: I can hear the wheels in ur brain turning all the way from here

oscar: Here, where the AC is on, btw. And I’m just working on my capstone, so I won’t disturb u if u come over

Your head snaps up and across the way, where Oscar waves sardonically at you through his window. 

(You’d almost lost it a few days ago when you discovered that Oscar is the current resident in the frat next door whose window practically kisses your balcony. Fate is a cruel mistress; the discovery came about because you got a text from Oscar—the first you’d gotten from him in well over a year, and in fact the first in your text history because you’d deleted everything from before—telling you to pull your damn curtains together. Mortified, you’d immediately shut down your blasé habit of changing anywhere in your room without care to who could potentially see.)

You consider your options: continuing to live in miserable, sleepless, soupy heat, or blessed AC paired with an opportunity to address the elephant in the room. 

A bead of sweat rolls down your neck, collecting in the valley of your chest, and yep, that’s it. You cap your highlighter and text Oscar back. 

you: open your window

oscar: What why

you: i’m coming in through the window

oscar: ???? There’s a perfectly good door 2 floors below us

you: a PUBLIC door

you: plus i’ve seen like 30 people up on your roof at once it’ll be fine

oscar: Yeah but they’re not climbing onto the roof from ur rickety ass balcony

you: i’ve BEEN one of the 30 people up on that roof, AND i’ve been on this balcony. it’ll be fine!!!

oscar: U r impossible

you: yeah yeah whatever it’s the cross i bear. open your damn window 

Oscar slides his window up, disapproval already etched into his eyebrows. “Hate to throw a wrench in your plan, but my window has a screen on it.”

You roll your eyes. “First of all, you love to throw a wrench in my plan. Second of all, and speaking of, don’t you have a screwdriver or something lying around that you can use to disassemble the screen?”

His mouth drops open. “You want me to take the screen off? Seriously, I get that you’re embarrassed to be seen with me, but it can’t be so bad that you’re willing to go this far just to avoid the front door.”

“I’m not embarrassed to be seen—what the hell are you talking about? You know what, fine, forget it, if you can’t take the screen off, you could’ve just said so! What’s the point of being an engineering major if you can’t even—”

“Oh my god, as if I’m incapable of taking the screen off—Jesus Christ, you’re so—!” Oscar’s voice dissolves into a litany of muttered exasperations as he disappears from the window frame. 

You wonder if this is it, if you’ve finally pushed him too far, and he’ll just stop interacting with you at all. The thought is surprisingly sobering; stinging, even. Mechanically, you resume highlighting the research paper in front of you while ignoring the way your shorts stick to your thighs and the suspicious pressure building behind your eyes. 

But then there’s some light clanging, followed by Oscar’s head popping out of his window, which is now screenless. He folds his arms across the windowsill and gives you an unimpressed look. When you blink deer-in-the-headlights eyes back at him, he sighs and lets one corner of his mouth twitch upwards. “Well, don’t make me come get you.”

Relief floods through you, both for the AC so close within your grasp and for the reassurance that he’s still willing to put up with you. “Yay! Okay, take this first.” You scramble out of your chair and gather your stack of papers together, moving to stretch over the railing of your balcony to hand it to Oscar. But the distance is farther than you’d gauged, and it quickly turns precarious.

“Be careful—”

“Relax, it’s fine! Can you just—”

“It’s definitely not fine. Wait, don’t—”

“Move your head—“

“You’re going to give me a concussion—”

“Don’t be so dramatic—”

“Oof.” 

Somehow, he manages to pull you in through the window, and you both land in a rumpled heap on the floor of his room. 

“This is a nice rug,” you remark from your position face-down in it. 

He groans. “Your elbow is in my ribs.”

“Hold on, let me get up—”

“That’s worse—how did you manage to make it worse? Fuck me—”

“Don’t move, let me just… There!” You finally disentangle from him successfully, and then you’re giggling at the sight of his disgruntled appearance, hair all messed up and cheek creased from some element of the tumble. 

He glares balefully at you. “Was this worth avoiding the front door?”

You’re still shaking with mirth when you scoot closer to him on the floor, much to his continued exasperation, but he goes completely still when you reach out to touch him. “Sorry,” you murmur, fingers gentle in his hair as you smooth down the ruffled strands. 

Oscar’s forgotten why he was annoyed at you in the first place. “S’okay,” he says, eyes fluttering closed at the absentminded sweep of your thumb across the crease on his cheek. 

His skin goes pink in the wake of your every touch, and it’s so heartbreakingly familiar that you almost lose your nerve. But even if the timing is a little earlier than you’d imagined, the opportunity is right there for the taking, so you figure you might as well. “Sorry,” you repeat, barely above a whisper now as you lean in even closer, fitting your palm to the curve of his cheek. “Want me to kiss it better?”

Eyes still closed, Oscar raises his eyebrows. “Sure,” he says, joking because he thinks you are, too. Strange that you’re suddenly so comfortable addressing the elephant in the room, but that’s fine, he can roll with the punches—

You kiss him like it’s the first time, soft and a little shy. 

It’s so unexpected that he’s frozen for a second, eyebrows still raised like he’s expecting a return quip from you. But then muscle memory kicks in, overriding all good sense and inhibitions and nine long months of not knowing where the hell he went wrong with you, and he’s kissing you back with a fervor bordering on desperation. If nothing else, he still knows this: exactly how you like to be kissed, all the places where you’re hypersensitive and responsive, the trembling gasps he can pull from you if he’s just clever enough with his teeth and his tongue. 

And he may know all of your tells by heart, but you don’t even have to try to unravel him. It’s not fair what you do to him, and it never has been; he loses his head, his restraint, and his treacherous heart in one fell swoop to the shocked little Oh! that you whimper into his mouth, to the overheated press of your chest against his, to the way your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt and tug because you’re so caught up in sensation.

He doesn’t even register how you got into his lap; only that you’re there, sweet and pliant like the fantasy he’s been punishing himself with, all these months knowing he can’t have the real thing. But this is real, and you’re so fucking lovely that he needs to tell you immediately or he’ll die—

The tentative, searching press of your hips against his is like a bucket of ice-cold water in his face.

He wrenches himself away from you with a gasp, and he doesn’t know if he hates himself more for being the cause of your protesting whine or for losing his resolve and kissing you back in the first place. “What,” he heaves out a breath, “are you doing?”

A marriage of hurt and humiliation flash across your face. He decides that that’s what he hates himself for the most, but there’s no going back now. 

“What do you mean?” you snap, scrambling off of his lap and wrapping your arms around yourself like armor.

He wants to hug you, to comfort you. He wants to go back to five minutes ago, before you’d kissed him. He wants to go back to thirty seconds ago, when you were still too wrapped up in each other to remember yourselves. Instead, he just looks at you, wild-eyed and kiss-swollen and the loveliest sight he’s ever seen. He’s not sure he could ever regret kissing you, but he regrets that he may never be able to see you like this again.

“Isn’t this what you invited me over for?” you bite out, unable to hold the silence like he can.

He shakes his head mutely.

You scoff as you scrabble about for the sheaf of research papers that had scattered across his floor in your rough-and-tumble entrance through the window. “Well, you didn’t have to invite me over just to tell me you’re not interested. I got that message pretty clearly sophomore year, actually.”

He’d rather rip his beating heart out of his chest than add to your distress, but he can’t hold his agony just between his own two hands anymore. “What the hell are you on about?”

You stand with your papers tucked against your chest, adding distance and height between you and him to better steel your nerves. “Listen, I have no interest in playing games with you. And I have a pretty healthy ego, but I know not everyone wants me. I was gonna say you should just tell me if you don’t, but I guess you just did. Thanks, Oscar. I almost forgot where we stood with each other. I’ll see myself out—you have a front door, or so I’m told.”

You’re gone before he can formulate a response, and all that’s left is a stray highlighter of yours that had rolled under his bed, and the echo of the way you’d said his name on your way out.

SOPHOMORE YEAR, FIRST SEMESTER

You’ve decided to turn over a new leaf. New (school) year, new you. Freshman you should hardly be able to recognize sophomore you; that’s your goal, anyways. 

First order of business: impress Professor Hamilton enough this year to have him sign on as your thesis advisor. Second order of business: conquer sorority rush. Third order of business: be normal about Oscar Piastri. 

Number one and two are going along swimmingly. The third one…

“God, I just think he’s so hot,” sighs the girl in front of you in the line for the bathroom. Her friend, who you know vaguely in the same way you’ve gotten to know most of the upperclassmen in your sorority over the course of rush, has the decency to try to shush her. You don’t realize why that’s necessary until the girl protests, “What’s wrong? It’s not like Oscar can hear me.” She lets out a drunken giggle. “I wouldn’t even mind if he could.”

Her friend swats her gently on the shoulder. “Girl, seriously, shut up.” She glances back at you and mouths, Sorry!

You instantly overcorrect. “Oh god, no! Please, it’s totally fine. I’m not dating him, or seeing him exclusively, or anything, really! I’m not even hooking up with him anymore. Go for it, girl!” You aim the last part at the girl, whose delight (and several Twisted Teas) manifests in a smacking kiss to your cheek. Her friend hauls her into the bathroom with an admonishment and another apologetic smile back at you. 

God, this school is too small. Or—probably more accurately—you and Oscar had been far too conspicuous last year. In any case, that’s all behind you now; you’ve had a summer of growth and reflection, and you’re a new woman now. Oscar Piastri and his effect on your hormones will rule your world no more. 

“Hello, gorgeous.” But then there’s that voice, lazy and low in your ear, sending a visceral bolt of heat down your spine.

Heat, which you ignore judiciously, because you’re a new woman now. Or something.

“Hi, Oscar,” you respond, schooling your tone into a kind of placid neutrality that belies how hyperaware you are of his arm brushing against yours, and holy shit, did his arms get bigger over summer break—

New woman. Right. 

He smiles faintly and crosses his arms over his chest like he doesn’t know how that affects you. “Good summer?” 

“Mmhm,” you manage, counting backwards from 10 now to distract yourself from the wide expanse of his chest. You’re a weak woman, is what you are. 

“Miss me?” he asks, eyes dropping shamelessly to your mouth. The intention in his expression is enough to make you forget, momentarily, what you’ve set out to do this year. You’re not sure where all this brazen confidence came from, but it looks good on him, burnishing him golden and bright, sending your heart stuttering in your chest and the floor shifting beneath your feet. 

Or maybe that’s the girl you saw in line for the bathroom earlier, stumbling into you with an apology and widened eyes once she realizes who you’re talking to. She begins, “Oh, are you guys…?”

Nope, back to your original plan. “We’re not!” you insist, ungluing yourself from Oscar’s side (what the hell, when had you even gotten there?). 

“You totally should!” She flaps a hand behind her at Lando, who sends you and Oscar an obnoxious wink. “I’m going upstairs with him instead!”

“Yay! Have fun,” you say weakly, ignoring the way Oscar’s gaze is drilling into the side of your head. Without looking at him, you explain, “I was just telling her earlier that we’re not dating, or seeing each other exclusively, or hooking up, or anything. So. Y’know. FYI.”

“Really? That’s news to me,” he says. You’d bet anything he’s giving you a flat, unimpressed look right now. 

You nod with false enthusiasm. “Well, yes! Hence the FYI. For your information. Now you’re informed!”

“Yippee,” he intones dryly. 

You figure this horrifically awkward PSA can’t be that much worse with the addition of eye contact, so you decide to face him again. But it is worse now, because he looks a little miserable and all the more beautiful for it, and god, you really need to get a grip; it’s so embarrassing to feel like this about some guy in a frat basement. 

There’s no way out but through, so you take a deep breath and begin again. “I just figure, with Callie and Logan and everything—I mean, they’re still going strong, and it doesn’t look like that’s going to change anytime soon. Not that I’d want it to change; I’m happy they have each other! But you and I are, um, probably going to keep seeing a lot of each other.”

He scoffs. “Careful, now. If we see any more of each other, someone might think we’re hooking up, or seeing each other exclusively, or dating.” 

You scowl at him. “My point is that since our best friends are dating, we should try to play nice with each other.”

“And you’d know just how nice I can play with you,” he drawls, low and slow and so fucking hot you think you deserve some sort of award for holding onto your resolve. 

You laugh shrilly to distract yourself from the heat pooling in your navel. “Anyways! I think we should be friends. Or at least, uh, normal acquaintances.” You stick your hand out, elbow locked in the stiffest handshake you can muster. 

Oscar stares at your hand. The thing is, he knows you by now. Maybe not in the way a friend would know you, but he knows how your instinct is to crack a joke—or, Christ above, get into his lap and destroy his higher brain function—at the earliest sign of emotional intimacy. He’s seen how skittish you get when he doles out any of the tender affection that he barely manages to contain in the cage of his measured demeanor. Sometimes he feels like he can’t breathe around you for all the adoration that swells in his lungs, but he knows you’d spook and retreat if he ever spoke a word of it too soon. It’s probably crazy, and it’s certainly stupid, but he’s halfway in love with you, and he’s selfish enough to accept “friends” if that’s what you need before you’re willing to look him in the eye and acknowledge all the devotion bursting at the seams of him. 

So he takes your hand and shakes it, resisting the urge to pull you closer and just kiss you out of your inane platonic proposal. That would be the fastest way to end this charade, and it is a charade—he knows what you look like when you want something you won’t let yourself have, has memorized that look, treasures it, can taste it on his tongue if he closes his eyes and thinks about it. And he recognizes it on you now, easy. 

But he’s patient, and he’s foolish, and he’ll do anything you ask. “Friends or normal acquaintances,” he agrees, crossing his fingers behind his back. 

PRESENT DAY

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But hell is probably also where the correct answers to your physics pre-lab assignment reside, so you’re marching there with your head held high. 

And you keep your head held high, all the way from your sorority house into the depths of the old science building where the physics department still sits, all the way until you peek into the student lounge and spot the top of Oscar’s head, bowed down over his laptop on top of a repurposed lab bench.

Your immediate reaction is to fling yourself back from the edge of the doorframe and flatten yourself against the wall, even though there’s no way he saw you. Then you call yourself all kinds of fool; you should’ve sent Callie in to scout the scene for you before assuming there’d be other TAs available at office hours. 

But hold on, why are you embarrassed right now? Who wouldn’t have interpreted a frat guy’s late-night invite to come over and enjoy his AC as a poorly-disguised booty call? You don’t think you’re particularly far out in left field for that one. Sure, you probably shouldn’t have agreed or actually gone over, but you’re a weak woman—Oscar Piastri is still the best kisser you’ve ever known, and there’s still a huge, unresolved black hole between you two. God forbid a girl try her hand at conflict resolution and end up making out with her counterparty.

Righteousness restored, you tilt your chin up again and breeze into the student lounge with an aggressively friendly smile. “Oscar! You’re on TA duty now, right? Can you help me with the last few questions of the pre-lab?”

He heaves a sigh like he’s being asked to dig his own grave, and your smile freezes in place. “Yeah, I guess,” he says, gesturing for you to take a seat in the empty row of tall swivel chairs alongside the lab bench. 

Your smile doesn’t budge, even as you curse him out in your head for his bitchy attitude. What right does he have to go around acting so beleaguered, so put out? Between the two of you, you’re quite certain you’re the one who keeps getting rebuffed. But no matter; there’s a grade on the line here, and you will persevere, you will overcome, you will rise above the fray—

Oscar coughs. “Can you stop smiling like that? You’re freaking me out.”

Your eyes narrow, even as your smile remains artificially perky. “No clue what you mean. This is my normal smile.”

“That is not your normal smile.”

“Yes, it is. But please, Oscar, feel free to keep mansplaining my own smile to me.”

“I’m not mansplaining—you know what? Fuck it.” He rolls his eyes to the ceiling, takes a breath, and says, with exaggerated feeling, “Road work ahead? I sure hope it does!”

You can’t help it. Instinctually, your mouth curves into a genuine smile, and a giggle escapes you. 

“See? That’s your normal smile. God, I can’t believe that bit still gets you.” He slips you a sideways glance, pressing his lips together into a marshmallow-soft smile at the sight of yours; he can’t help it, either. He lets himself watch you laugh for a few more seconds before remembering to have you pull out your pre-lab assignment, and then it’s all business from there. 

Ten minutes pass comfortably with him checking your work, mostly nodding and confirming that you’re on the right track. You’re almost grateful for how quickly the awkwardness of your entrance has been dealt with, but when you eventually get to the part of the pre-lab that has been giving you the most trouble, he starts sighing and frowning and generally looking like he’d rather be anywhere else every time you ask a question. It’s getting on your nerves and dispelling any semblance of a positive atmosphere that has lingered after his stupid joke, and after a few minutes of it, you’ve had enough. 

“Okay, what is your problem?” You throw your hands up. “I get that I’m not a physics whiz, but I’m not stupid, either. You don’t have to sigh like it’s some huge inconvenience every time you start explaining something to me. You’re getting paid to do this, aren’t you?”

He gawks at you. “What? I’m not—I don’t think you’re stupid. At all. I think you’re terrifyingly brilliant, actually, but that’s not the point. I’m…” He exhales roughly. “I’m uncomfortable, okay? I’m trying to figure out how to apologize for how things went down in my room the other night, but I don’t know how.”

Your face shutters in an instant. “Thanks for the sentiment, but there’s really no need. I can pick up on a hint.”

He lets out a frustrated sound. “Well, I can’t. What the hell kind of hint do you think I’m giving?”

“I can’t believe you’re making me say this out loud—the hint that you’re not interested, Oscar! You don’t want me, or anything to do with me. Fine, whatever. Life goes on. Can we get on with the pre-lab?” 

A strangled laugh punches out of his chest. “You can’t be serious. You think I’m not interested? That I don’t want you?” Suddenly, he reaches out and grabs the back of your chair, swiveling it around to face him. 

The motion brings you closer to him than you’d expected; your knees knock together, and your next inhale seems to pull from the air in his own chest. He’s looking as determined as you’ve ever seen him, like the way he gets before a race, all single-minded and certain, ready to forge the world he wants by virtue of his own strength. But there’s no race ahead of him, no teammates breathing in unison on calm waters. Right now, there’s just you and him, and there’s a flush of color across his cheekbones already, emotions dialed all the way up for every inelegant word he doesn’t know how to say. 

“Wanting you has never been a problem for me,” he says finally. “I usually have the opposite problem, honestly.” I want you too much, all the time, everywhere, in whatever way you’ll have me. But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he just smiles at you, a little shy but sincere, almost helpless in his affection. 

“Oh. Well, you could’ve just said so,” you murmur, all the fight having gone out of you the moment you saw him smile like that. 

He gives you a knowing look. “There’s a lot of things we could’ve just said, gorgeous.”

The return of that particular epithet sends a full-body shiver through you, which his eyes seem to positively sparkle in delight upon catching. “Shut up,” you say pre-emptively. 

He exhales on a laugh, lighter now for having told you a fraction of what he feels. “Whatever else happens, you can always be sure of that.” That I want you, that I think you’re brilliant, that I’m lucky just to have you look at me. 

Your head tilts, surveying him. “Promise?”

“Promise.” And this time, he doesn’t cross his fingers behind his back. 

SOPHOMORE YEAR, FIRST SEMESTER

Your firm commitment to your friends-or-normal-acquaintances charade with Oscar has taken you to many foolish places, but this is probably the most embarrassing of them all.

“Remember,” your sorority’s New Member Educator trills, “you should only do it if you want to!”

Bit late for that now, you think, staring at the garishly pink fuzzy handcuffs attaching your left wrist to Oscar’s right and a bottle of shitty champagne between you.

Throwing your name into the mix for Edward Fortyhands had seemed like a fun idea a few hours ago, when you were fresh off of the buzz of sorority initiation. It seemed harmless even forty-five minutes ago, when you’d stepped into the fraternity house to which Oscar now belongs, and early-2010s Kesha had you slut-dropping it up and down the dance floor.

Now, you curse your previous naïveté. Of course Oscar’s name would get called alongside yours for this stupid drinking game; of course he’d be dressed in some nondescript black T-shirt with his hair tousled like he’d just woken up, straight out of your guiltiest daydreams; of course you’re on some new birth control that is driving your hormones haywire, fantasizing about your friend-and-normal-acquaintance. 

“Jesus, why are we doing this with champagne?” Oscar complains beside you. He’s glaring at the shitty champagne as if he could pulverize it with his eyes alone. 

“They ordered too much for initiation,” you sigh mournfully, having already gone through all the stages of grief about this. 

He glances sideways at you and purses his lips instinctually (a pout by any other name) at the sight of your forlorn expression. Well, that just won’t do. You’ve got a problem, and he can fix it. He tugs gently at your wrist with his and cocks his head toward the staircase behind him. “C’mon, let’s go up.”

Your brain stutters to a halt. Is he asking you to…? Really? Right now? It’s not like you don’t want it, but you’re not even two months into being friends-or-normal-acquaintances. 

Your heart pounds in your ears the whole time you follow him upstairs, almost like white noise drowning out the sounds of the party: your sorority sisters laughing, the bass thumping from someone’s amateur Soundcloud remix, the clink of champagne bottles against each other. 

He leads you into someone’s bedroom at the end of the hallway, dimly lit in blue and purple LEDs, and the sounds from the party truly fade to nothing when the door shuts behind you with a solid thump. 

“Impressive soundproofing in here,” you remark, trying for casual and ending up somewhere near breathy. 

Oscar barely reacts to your comment; he makes a beeline instead for a backpack sitting at the base of the futon sofa pushed up against the far wall. You make a confused sound as you follow, and you won’t lie—you’re a little disappointed he didn’t pick up on your brazen innuendo. But you sit down awkwardly when he does, and you watch the back of his head as he rummages around in the backpack one-handed. Frankly, you’re approaching offense; are you not entertaining him enough? 

You’re about to open your mouth and snap something sharp at him when he pulls out a small, black case with a triumphant smile. “Knew I packed this today,” he says, apropos of nothing. “Hold still, ‘kay?” 

Still one-handed, he works open the case and extracts a small tool. You’re momentarily captivated by the scrunch between his brows as he concentrates on the handcuffs linking you together, but then you realize what he’s trying to do. You’re not quite sure how to feel about it—impressed, if he really manages to pick the lock, or offended that he doesn’t want to be attached to you?

You gasp when the cuffs click open softly. He grins and pumps his fist in the air with his freed arm, which is horribly endearing and only adds to the tangle of emotions running through you—desire warring with resolve, a warm bloom of affection you’re barely willing to acknowledge warring with nonchalance you can barely fake. 

Shaking your wrist free, you rub your freed wrist where the silly pink feathers had irritated your skin. “Where’d you learn to do that?” you ask, now firmly settled on impressed.

Oscar shrugs, but he can’t hide how self-satisfied he looks. “YouTube.”

“You find yourself handcuffed that often?”

He snorts even as he reaches for your wrist, fingers sweeping more gently over your skin than yours. “No, smartass. I, um. I like heist movies. And Logan bet me fifty a few weeks ago that I couldn’t get out of these costume handcuffs with the toolkits we use in materials lab. Easy money, really.”

“Still. Kinda cool, that,” you say lamely, all sophisticated syntax having departed from your brain at the soothing, methodic brush of his fingers against your wrist. No, this is ridiculous—you need to pull yourself together. “What’s your favorite heist movie?” you ask abruptly. 

“It’s not one of the big ones, but I watched it with my sisters when we were kids, and we all loved it. The Italian Job. There’s such a sick getaway scene in it; I really wanted to drive a Mini Cooper after seeing it.” He gets more animated the more he talks about the movie, hands moving about (and no longer impeding your higher brain function, thank god) as he explains the heist to you. 

That’s how you end up tucked into his side on the sofa, watching movie clips on his laptop, balanced between your knee and his. Eventually, you move on to random compilations of funny videos—Road work ahead? I sure hope it does! makes you giggle uncontrollably, and he doesn’t fare much better when it comes to videos of cats misbehaving. 

The blue-and-purple lighting of the room makes time feel suspended, so much so that you find yourself nodding off against his shoulder. The cadence of his voice, calm and steady as he tells you a random story—something about practice running late tonight and rushing straight here, where his big, Danny, had offered his room to safely store Oscar’s backpack—only contributes to your sleepiness. It doesn’t take long before you’re completely knocked out. 

Oscar trails off in his story when he notices the evening out of your breath on his shoulder, and then he’s studying you with an intensity that he rarely lets himself indulge in these days, when you’re so hell-bent on this friends-or-normal-acquaintances situation. 

Asleep like this, you look so much younger and unguarded, free from whatever tower you’ve put your heart in. It’s an apt comparison—he really does feel like the prince in Rapunzel sometimes, if Rapunzel kept her window locked and the prince was just talking to the wall. He’d feel more pathetic about it if he didn’t catch you looking at him so often, staring him down like an experiment run out of your control. What that look means is beyond him; all he knows is that he likes that you keep looking. 

Suddenly, his laptop starts blaring the familiar jangle of an incoming FaceTime call. It’s from Lando, which he declines immediately, cursing under his breath when it clearly wakes you up.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” you say, yawning and stretching against him in a way that he studiously ignores for the sake of his own sanity.

“No worries,” he manages to get out in a normal-sounding voice. 

Lando—not so easily deterred—sends Oscar a series of exclamation marks that flash conspicuously across the corner of his laptop screen. 

Lando: first of all RUDE u didn’t pick up so i could announce my news

Lando: which is that they’re gonna let me do the thing

Lando: THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

Oscar sends him a thumbs-up emoji in response, then turns to you with a wry grin. “He’s going to be insufferable about this.”

“As he is with most things,” you agree lightheartedly. “What are they letting him do?”

“The ‘party’s over’ announcement. You know, the whole, ‘if you’re not a brother or fucking a brother, get out!’ That thing.” Oscar has the grace to look embarrassed as he says it, nose twitching a mile a minute. The tips of his ears are red, too, and your instant reaction is to coo at him—which would be insane, obviously, so you don’t. 

Instead, you just raise an eyebrow. “You guys sure know how to charm a girl.”

“Yeah, well.” He coughs and raises his hand for a high-five. “Guess I’ll see you around?”

Your other eyebrow goes up. “Dude, are you serious?”

He winces as soon as dude leaves your mouth; though, considering the high-five, he thinks he probably deserved it. “Okay, never mind. Can you just, like, forget the last five seconds? Please?”

But you’re laughing outright now, almost as hard as you did at Road work ahead?, so he finds that he doesn’t regret it much. 

“Alright, alright,” you splutter, still laughing. “I’ll see myself out before you try to, like, fist-bump me or something. Safe to say I’m not a brother, and I’m definitely not fucking a brother. Bye, Oscar! See you around.”

The sound of your laughter trails behind you as you go, leaving Oscar a bit stunned in your wake. That’s not an infrequent state of being for him when he’s around you, but—really? Are you comfortable enough with him to joke about your obviously not-platonic history now? And is that something he should be happy about? Should he joke about it?

Lando: mate i was trying to tell this girl like hey i’m sorry but u have to leave cuz ur not a brother or fucking a brother

Lando: and she goes… not yet!

Lando: so now i’m going to hers

Lando: life is awesome

Oscar groans and lets his head thunk back against the wall. If only his life could be so awesome. But then he remembers the shape of your laughter, the weight of your head on his shoulder, and, well—he wouldn’t change a thing. 

PRESENT DAY

Thankfully, the heat wave ends, and AC is restored to full working order in your sorority house a few days later. Notwithstanding the heat wave, you had actually quite enjoyed getting work done on your balcony that one night, which is why you find yourself out there again a week or two later, noise-cancelling headphones on and music arrangement software running. 

You’re so immersed in your work that you don’t notice Oscar’s bedroom light go on, nor do you see him coming to the window to wave increasingly harder at you. 

He’s saying your name as loudly as he thinks could be acceptable in the neighborhood at 11pm (it’s just Greek row, but he was raised with manners), to no avail. It’s almost comical how hard he’s flapping his arms in your direction—until it’s purely comical, and then he has to stop out of preservation for his dignity. 

Unfortunately, his fallback plan is not much more dignified, not to mention significantly more absurd, but these are the things you drive him to do. 

You’re bopping your head along to a syncopated alto line when you feel something hit the side of your face. Startled, you look across the way to find Oscar frowning at you, looking a little out of breath. Now entirely bewildered, you slip your headphones off and bend down to retrieve whatever hit you in the face—

“Did you just throw a paper airplane at me?” you splutter. 

He blows an errant curl out of his face. “Several, actually.” He juts his chin at where a few of his earlier, less hardy attempts had landed without contact at your feet. 

You gape at the assortment of paper airplanes lying around you. “What is wrong with you?” you wonder, more rhetorical than not. 

“I was calling your name for, like, two minutes straight,” he says, as if that’s any explanation. 

“You didn’t think to text? Or, I dunno, actually call?”

He’s silent for long enough that you know his answer is no, he didn’t think of that, but he’s not about to admit it. You have to shake your head in disbelief—engineering boys, honestly. But then again, as you peer closer at the rather sophisticated folds of the paper plane, you figure there’s something to be said about a guy who’s good with his hands. You tell him as much, to which he just coughs and mumbles something incomprehensible. 

“What?”

His ears are bright red. “I said, that’s what she said.”

You stare blankly at him. 

He coughs again. “Sorry. Instinct. Too much time with Lando, probably.” 

A grin splits across your face. “God, you guys are so lame. But I like that you think girls are so universally experiencing pleasure at the hands of men. If wishing made it so, y’know?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Okay, when you put it like that…”

“Sorry, was it better the way you put it, like a pre-pubescent boy?” You laugh at his disgruntled expression, and you pointedly do not mention how his hands were, as ever, too clever by half with you. That’s a can of worms you know better than to open right now. “Anyways, was there something you needed from me?”

His ears go redder, if that’s possible. “Um, no. I mean, yes, kind of. I have your… highlighter. From, ah, a few weeks ago. You left it in my room.” He trails off into a mumble again as he realizes how inane it all sounds. Truthfully, he just wanted an excuse to talk to you, outside of physics lab or office hours when there are other people crowding around for his help and attention, and outside of nights out that feel too cavalier for what he’s trying to do. Not that he really knows what he’s trying to do—he just knows that something broke between you two last year, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to fix it. 

To his surprise, you perk up immediately. “Oh my god, I’ve been looking for that everywhere! It’s my favorite highlighter.”

“You have a favorite highlighter?”

“Duh. Hand it over, Mr. Wright.”

“You know, it’s actually pretty hotly debated whether the Wright brothers really invented the first airplane, because technically speaking—”

“Oscar, I swear to—”

“Okay, okay, I’m going, I’m going!” He disappears from the window frame, then reappears a few seconds later with your beloved highlighter in hand. “Here, catch—oh, fuck.”

The two of you stare down at the bushes where your highlighter has landed, two stories below. 

You breathe out deeply through your nose. “You’re so lucky you’re fast on the water. Your aim sucks.”

He grimaces. “It’s dark, and I don’t have my contacts in, okay? Just don’t move, I’ll get it for you.” 

You watch him disappear from view again, presumably to go outside and retrieve your highlighter. You’re a little annoyed and a little amused, but mostly just confused, because you don’t know how to act around him anymore. Not that you’ve ever really known how to act around him; you’re self-aware enough to recognize that. But the web you’ve weaved between you is more tangled than ever now. He says he wants you, but he won’t kiss you—despite the multiple times you’ve made eye contact at parties in the last few weeks (three years ago, that’s all it would have taken). He says he’s always wanted you, but you remember why he has your highlighter, after all. And you remember all those unanswered texts, over a year ago. 

And yet, you know he’s telling the truth about wanting you, and always wanting you. You know it’s the truth because he’s a shit liar, and he wears desire like he was made for it; if nothing else, the flush on his cheeks gives him away every time.

So he wants you, but he also doesn’t want you? Or maybe he wants you, but not in the way you’ve been offering? Or maybe the heat wave has fried your brain, and you’re seeing mirages in the mist.

Thankfully, his whisper-shout of your name breaks you out of your descent into madness. You peer down at where he’s standing at the entrance to your sorority house, motioning at the door. Right, back to business. But as you go inside and put your street shoes on, you remember the militantly perky representative from the national headquarters of your sorority staying in the guest room at the house this week, and you groan out loud. 

you: shit you can’t come in through the front door

oscar: Wtf is with ur aversion to front doors

you: no i’m serious this time

you: our ldc is here this week and she’s staying in the house

oscar: Ur what

you: LDC??? like

you: “leadership development consultant”

you: basically a recent grad who works for national and she travels around visiting chapters to check in on them and help them do stuff? idk she’s here for rush

you: why am i explaining this to you omg don’t you guys have these too????

oscar: Ohhhhhh that’s who that random dude who shows up once a year is?

you: god

you: men do the bare minimum

oscar: But why can’t I come in thru the front door

you: technically national rules say we’re not allowed to have guys in the house after 10pm

oscar: Fr????

you: welcome to the patriarchy! it’s well and alive in sororities

oscar: That’s so fucking stupid

you: your allyship is noted

you: anyways no one follows the 10pm thing usually but we’re all pretending to while our ldc is here

you: so that’s why you can’t come in through the front door

you: her room’s right next to it and she’ll freak if she sees you

you: ….. oscar?

you: hello where’d you go

you: omfg if you’re coming in do NOT say you’re here to see me

you: say it’s delaney or something

“Boo.” His voice, so close to your ear, makes you jump about a foot in the air. 

“Motherfucker!” you screech, smacking his (annoyingly solid) chest with some real force. 

He grins and catches your hands in his. “Sorry, sorry. That was immature of me.”

“You think? How’d you even get in here, you freak?”

“I went back up to my room, then through the window to your balcony. Wasn’t as hard as you made it look last time, actually.” The cheeky bastard has the audacity to smirk, and you’d be more upset about it if he didn’t look so alive, like this is the most fun he’s had in weeks.

“Shut up,” you return weakly, flummoxed for what to say or do now that he’s in your room, broad-shouldered and present in a way you can’t escape.

He holds his phone screen up to your face, displaying your last text. “Delaney, really? C’mon, I haven’t talked to her in ages.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t think you ever did much talking with her, but okay.” Now you’re really in dangerous territory, but you only have yourself to blame. You’re not even sure why you mentioned her name; it’s petty of you, and unfair in the grand scheme of things. 

He clears his throat awkwardly. “Well. Anyways. Um, here you go.” He puts his phone away and retrieves your highlighter from his pocket, pressing it into your hand gently; a peace offering. 

You accept it equally awkwardly. “Thanks. It has, uh, glitter. The highlighter, I mean. That’s why it’s my favorite.”

He takes the abrupt change of topic in stride, recognizing it as your own form of peace offering. “Really? And it still works?”

“Well… here, hold on, I’ll show you.” You turn to grab a piece of scrap paper from your desk, and when you turn back around, you can’t suppress a giggle at the way he’s folded himself down neatly on your rug, back straight against the base of your bed and looking at you expectantly—a polite cat for all intents and purposes. 

“What?” he asks, smiling automatically in response to your unimpeded laughter, even if he doesn’t know what it’s about. 

“Nothing, you just—oh my gosh, you look so cute like this.” Your hands squeeze at your sides before you shake them out, as if clearing out the desire to kiss him on the nose. 

He makes a face at you; half embarrassed, half pleased. “Thanks?” 

Nope, you still want to kiss him on the nose. But you have more imminent priorities at the moment, so you settle down on the rug next to him and uncap your highlighter with a flourish. 

“See,” you begin, drawing a line over the paper, “it works great! And it’s so fun.” You shift the paper slightly so he can see the glitter, then you feel immediately foolish for doing so. 

He hums noncommittally, but when you turn to him, he’s not making fun of you. He’s not even paying much attention to the paper; he’s just looking at you. So warm, so familiar, the way he used to do so openly. Your heart lurches at the sight, like the air in your chest has its own turbulence.

“Oscar,” you murmur, “you’re not even looking.”

“Sure I am,” he says, gaze steadfast as ever on you. 

“Okay, what color is my highlighter?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Pink.”

Your nose scrunches. “Fine. But you’ve had it for weeks, so. New question: what’d I just highlight?”

Finally, his gaze drops, and you will the rhythm of your heart back into regularity. He squints at the paper, then: “Your handwriting is awful.”

Your mouth drops open. “Are you serious right now? I’ve seen your chicken scratch on my lab reports. Pot, kettle.”

He grins and nudges your shoulder with his. “Yeah, yeah, alright. Is this next month’s sober monitor schedule?” He points to where you’d highlighted a pink, glittery line over a rough table of names and dates. 

“Mmhm. Just trying to get ahead of initiation.”

He sighs. “Don’t get me started. I think I’m gonna have to stay up every night that week in case someone flakes.” 

Right—you and Oscar are both risk chairs for your Greek organizations this year. It is, like most chair positions, a relatively thankless task. But it’s important: making sure there are at least two people from your sorority signed up to attend every night out sober and keep an eye out for anyone who needs help, keeping track of and enforcing everyone’s monthly quota of sober monitor duties, arranging the sober monitor schedule to fit with everyone’s availabilities and commitments, and rinse and repeat. 

Usually, there are four designated nights out per week, but sorority and fraternity initiation bumps it up. And knowing how crazy it gets, you’re trying to get at least four people on sober monitoring duty for initiation. “I’ll probably just put in a bunch of shifts that week myself,” you explain to Oscar. “But honestly, I try to stay up every night out anyways, in case someone needs me.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Every night out?”

You wave him off good-naturedly. “Why do you think I’m always so tired in physics? But nah, it’s not that bad. I’m usually up anyways, to finish work I need to do, and I just keep my phone on in case something happens. Probably a quarter of the girls have gone through sexual assault peer support training with me, which I’m glad about, but still—I just want to be available if anyone needs me.”

Oscar shakes his head. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I think that’s really… good. It’s awesome—not awesome that you have to do it, but, I mean, fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, flustered but no less earnest for it. “I wish I had a better way of saying it. You’re doing a great job. And everyone should be doing it, but they’re not. So if it was going to be anyone doing it, I’m glad it’s you.” 

You shrug, cringing at how his straightforward praise makes you feel—seen too clearly, burnished too golden, like you’re on a pedestal with too far a fall from grace if you misstep. At the same time, you’re so pleased, so grateful to be acknowledged even if it’s for something everyone should be doing, so flattered that he thinks it’s something important, something good. You feel unnervingly transparent; all your selfish desires on display and sated when you only wish to be perceived as untouched by greed.

But his gaze never wavers in its warmth, its unashamed admiration of you. For the first time, you consider the possibility that you could misstep in front of him, and he wouldn’t think less of you. For the first time, you wonder if it’s okay to be motivated by selfish desires as well as pure. To be proud of yourself and not just what you put out into the world. 

“You’re terrible at taking a compliment, you know,” he murmurs. “Although, I think there’s one you’re more used to… what was it again?” He pretends to think for a moment, then snaps his fingers and points at you. “Oh yeah, there it is—hey, gorgeous.”

You let out an undignified squeak and forcibly turn his face away from you. “Okay, okay, that’s enough!” 

“What’s wrong, gorgeous?” You can feel the smirk in the curve of his jaw.

You release your fingers from his chin and huff, defeated. “If you’re going to be annoying in my own room, can you at least help me with the sober monitor schedule on your end for the nights we’re supposed to be at your frat?”

Thankfully, he relents. “Yeah, of course. Put me in, coach.”

Together, you work on scheduling for your overlapping schedules, and eventually your separate ones. You each contribute knowledge about who you know is more reliable than not, who has a conflict but probably forgot to submit it; unglamorous, tedious work, but somehow more enjoyable with him. 

You don’t even remember falling asleep, but the next morning, you find yourself laying on top of your bedspread, shoes off, and a blanket you usually keep on your couch draped over you. You wake with a half-smile still lingering at your mouth; residual sweetness from last night’s dreams. The details are just out of your reach now, but you think there was something about paper planes, maybe, and a warmth you could live in. 

SOPHOMORE YEAR, SECOND SEMESTER

“George Russell, prepare to die!” you announce upon entering the lab.

He barely looks up from his workstation. “You know, violence at such an hour is so unbecoming of a lady.”

You hover threateningly over his shoulder. “It’s 2pm, which feels like a great hour for violence, if you ask me. And you wouldn’t recognize a lady if she fell into your lap.”

George fakes a gasp. “I’m telling Carmen you said that.”

You scoff. “Carmen would be the first to agree with me. She says you only pulled her because of her strange attraction to gangly men. I’m sure she’ll be sad to hear that you died, but she’ll get over it—other gangly fish in the sea, and so on.”

He finally turns around in his chair to face you, a finger already raised in the air to argue his counterpoint. “Okay, before you resort to violence, I should note that I’m not the only one on the hook for this.”

“Oh, enlighten me, Georgie! Who else out of your merry band of idiots is in on this?” This, being, of course, the singing Valentines your acapella group does every year to raise money for a local charity. This year, you’d been looking forward to the chance to perform one of your own arrangements as part of the repertoire. But then the list of requests got sent out, and you saw a Valentine addressed to Oscar, from George, with your own arrangement as the requested song. You’re also the soloist on that song, and you know only nefarious forces could have conspired to have you singing a love song directly to Oscar Piastri.

And here come those nefarious forces. “Charles,” George begins, ticking off the names on his fingers, “Lando, Alex, and, um, Logan.”

“Logan? What the hell was he thinking—what the hell were any of you thinking?”

“Technically, Logan advised us against it. But he still contributed, uh, monetarily.” George coughs. “Charles loves love, Lando just thought it’d be funny, and we had to ask Alex’s girlfriend to get us the details on who was singing the solo in each song. I, of course, am doing this because I want the best for my friends, and I think you and Oscar should give each other a real chance.”

You’re already texting before he’s even finished, pointedly ignoring his last sentence.

you: does feminism mean nothing to you bitches

lily: sorry alex was so sneaky when he asked me about the arrangements i didn’t even clock it

you: DID YOU FORGET THAT HE’S A MALE MANIPULATOR

lily: … a little bit yeah

lily: but he offered to pay for a fancy dinner for u + me

callie: wtf not me?

you: do not even get me started with you, brutus

callie: hey it’s not my fault logan’s such a pushover

callie: the other guys asked if he’d chip in to pay for the valentine and he just said yes immediately

you: i need to lose my voice TONIGHT so i don’t have to go through with this tomorrow

lily: nooooooo you sound so good in the solo!!!

lily: and it’s for charity

lily: think of the children

you: it’s an alzheimer’s charity

lily: old ppl have children too!!

lily: and caroline would kill you if you “lost your voice” the night before

you: god you and alex are perfect for each other

you: manipulator4manipulator

lily: what can i say

lily: i’m a woman in a male-dominated field

callie: now THAT’S what i call feminism

“Are you planning our demise?” George asks carefully.

You look up from your phone to glare at him. “I’m witnessing the death of feminism.”

“Oooookay. So… we’re good?”

“No, George, we are not good. I better see double the donation from you guys.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course.” He grins sheepishly. “Truce?”

“Only because this is for charity. But seriously, you guys are so fucking dumb.”

He nods. “We’re aware.”

“Good afternoon, good afternoon!” Lewis enters the lab just then, greeting you both with a smile.

George mouths thank god up at the ceiling, and you think, not for the first time, that you are living in some kind of Shakespearean comedy. With a doomed romance, maybe.

Doomed or not, romance is the name of the game the following day: February 14th, which dawns so cold that your teeth chatter instantly upon leaving your dorm. Of course, it’s also a million degrees inside any school building and dry as hell, as college climate control is wont to do. This is where you’d like to place the blame for the heat suffusing over your entire face and down your neck a few hours later, as you’re approaching Oscar and his friends in the library café. But one look at just the back of his head already has your heartbeat ratcheting up, and there’s no HVAC excuse for that. 

“Chin up,” Lily whispers from beside you. 

“I’m writing you the most boring alto part imaginable in the next arrangement,” you hiss back.

“Oh no, I’m terrified,” she says dryly.

“Oscar? Oscar Piastri?” The president of your acapella group, Caroline, projects her voice into the café with her usual authority—and volume.

Oscar’s head pops up from where he’d been bent over some graph paper. Next to him, Alex, Lando, and George look positively gleeful, while Logan just looks resigned. At his side, Callie already has her phone out, recording. 

You groan as loudly as you can without incurring Caroline’s wrath.

“I’m Oscar. Can I… help you?” Oscar looks at your group with some apprehension, but he relaxes when he spots you and Lily.

Caroline smiles perfunctorily at him. “George Russell wishes you a Happy Valentine’s Day, Oscar, and,” she glances down at the notes in her phone, “a lifetime of happiness.”

Caroline runs a tight ship; Oscar barely has time to turn to George with a bewildered look before she’s pushing you in front of the group and cuing everyone else in.

You start the song determined not to look at Oscar, training your gaze at the circulation desk in the distance instead. But as the song progresses, you can’t help but meet his eyes, and when you do, there’s such a tender awe in them that it nearly knocks the breath out of you. 

Still I wonder why it is

I don't argue like this

With anyone but you 

As you go on, you’re transfixed by the flush of color that spreads across his skin and the gentle curve of his mouth. Has he always looked at you like this? Like he can’t believe you’re real, like he’s counting his lucky stars just to be able to look at you? Like he could keep you warm with the reverence in his gaze alone? The raw emotion on his face is almost obscene for how honest it is, how unguarded. You’re struck with the sudden urge to kiss that look off of his face, if only to save yourself from the terrifying intimacy of it. 

Just like a star across my sky

Just like an angel off the page

You have appeared to my life

Feel like I'll never be the same

Just like a song in my heart

Just like oil on my hands

The song ends on an unresolved chord. So, too, remains the tension between you and Oscar, still looking at each other so intently that everyone else seems to hold their breath.

“Wow, you lot sure can sing!” With a whoop, Lando breaks the spell.

Oscar glares instantly at him, while you laugh nervously. “Anything for charity!” you squeak out. “Gosh, we’d better get a move on. Places to be, people to deliver singing Valentines to, and so on. Caroline, shall we?”

Thankfully, she nods. “Yeah, let’s try not to fall behind schedule. We need to find Max Verstappen next.”

The rest of the day is jam-packed enough with performances that you don’t have any time to think about the insane events from the library until you’re lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling. The memory of the way Oscar had looked at you during the song sits in your stomach like some precursor to a pearl: you want to protect yourself against it, but it transforms into something beautiful the longer you try. 

God. A frat guy is inspiring poetry in you. The usual sear of embarrassment hits you, but it’s tempered by the memory of how Oscar had looked at you today, and it’s dulled by a whole stream of memories now: Oscar, last week, spotting you in the longest line you’d ever seen at the library café and taking you instead to his favorite bakery in town, whose chocolate croissants are objectively much better and whose existence he jealously gatekeeps; Oscar, a month ago, showing up without fanfare to the 40-hour, semester-long sexual assault peer support training course you help to run; Oscar, last semester, quoting the Road work ahead? video to you every time he wanted to make you laugh after a particularly brutal phone call with your family.

Oscar, and the mosaic of ways he has showed up in every corner of your life for as long as you’ve known him. Oscar, who you liked so much you could hardly stand to look at him in broad daylight last year. Oscar, who you still like so much, and really, you’re running out of reasons—arguments you raise against yourself, in your courtroom of one—for keeping up this friends-or-normal-acquaintances charade. That charade’s been so thin in recent weeks that it’s basically gone, anyways.

Inconveniently, your brain decides to remind you that Oscar’s due to leave immediately at the end of the semester for his study abroad in Australia. If there was ever a time to gather your courage, it’d be soon. Now. If you were ruled by your better angels, you would have done it a long time ago.

Instead, you have mostly been ruled by apprehension and cowardice. Some misguided attempt at self-protection, perhaps, because to be known is to be scared. Scared of all the ugly parts of yourself, scared of laying them out in the open for someone else to pass judgment upon, to be deterred by, to decide that actually, you’re weighed down by too much emotional baggage, scarred by too much sanctimonious self-sabotage. 

But Oscar has never shied away from your worst demons. Maybe he should have; maybe his self-preservation instincts suck. But he has never backed down, never even flinched, never done anything but hold fast in the waters as the safest ship in the harbor, letting your tumultuous waves break over him. 

You think you owe him at least some measure of your courage in return. You think you wouldn’t be able to stand it if he went halfway around the world, and you never even tried. So that’s it, then. Time to get in touch with your better angels. 

PRESENT DAY

At long last, the dredges of summer heat dissipate into your favorite season: fall, with its perfectly crisp, perfectly temperate weather, and kaleidoscope of changing colors. Your balcony remains your favorite spot to work, especially when it gets cooler at night and you get to throw on a sweatshirt and enjoy the specific pleasure of being cozy in a slightly chilly environment. 

There is, admittedly, another part of your balcony mise-en-scène that you’ve been enjoying lately: the Oscar Piastri-shaped conundrum sitting just within your peripheral vision. 

Ever since you’d told him about your habit of staying up on the scheduled nights out, he’s been joining you at his window every time. You didn’t ask him to do it, nor does he make a big deal out of it, but it’s kind of nice to know that someone else is burning the midnight oil with you. Most of the time, he just works quietly at his desk (which you’re pretty sure he pushed closer to the window just to be able to keep you company, and you can’t think too hard about that without feeling kind of insane), a comforting addition to the vigil you used to keep alone.

He keeps his window open, screen long gone, and you’ll chat about whatever inane things come to mind. He’ll complain when a drink machine in the dining hall breaks and he has to drink coffee straight-up without his usual 50% ratio of hot chocolate, or you’ll get excited when the dining hall brings back breakfast for dinner. He’ll admit he doesn’t really like weight lifting much, but needs must for rowing, or you’ll rant about your new spin instructor who doesn’t seem to understand when to change songs (and you’ll refrain from confessing your own gratitude for his training regimen). He’ll tell you about a rainbow he saw over the science building, or you’ll give him a play-by-play of the most recent inter-sorority drama. 

There’s something about the velvet-soft safety of nighttime that makes it feel more natural to talk to him like this—to get to know him, almost. Which is absurd, because you’ve known him for over three years now. But perhaps this is what you were looking for, back when you were trying to be friends-or-normal-acquaintances—not the actual presence of a platonic dynamic (because honestly, who were you trying to fool?), but this right here. This sense of simple ease, like you don’t have to think about what to say or how you’re coming off. 

It’s not like your feelings for him have ever been unpleasant. But back then, it always felt like whatever wildfire that had sparked between you two could flame out into disaster with one wrong exhale, one overeager expulsion of oxygen. How nice, how luxurious, to be able to breathe around him without your nervous system flirting with fight-or-flight. Maybe it’s maturity, a combination of wisdom and time, soothing the volcanic, twin flames of your fears and desires, simmering into something steadier that could burn on and on forever. Maybe it’s the yawning expanse of the future—graduation hanging over your head like a guillotine, reminding you that there’s only so much time left before you may never see him again. Maybe you’re just tired of getting in your own way.

Whatever it is, the sky is cloudless and star-speckled tonight, and you’re feeling a little braver than usual. “Hey, can I ask you a question?” 

Oscar looks up from his laptop and blinks bleary eyes at you. “Whassup?” he mumbles through a yawn. 

“You don’t have to answer this if it stresses you out, but like… what are your plans for after graduation?” You wince as soon as the words leave your mouth. “Never mind, that’s obviously a stressful question. And I sound like a nosy relative! Forget I asked.”

He smiles faintly. “No, it’s okay—I’ve got a job lined up in Boston. September start date.”

So you will be able to see him again. A breath you didn’t know you were holding escapes you. “Not going back to Australia?”

“Nah, I’m staying here for a good long while, I think. Can’t get rid of me that easily, Lady Disdain.”

Your eyes roll automatically at the epithet, but secretly, you like the way it rolls off his tongue. “I’ve applied to some schools in Boston, too,” you blurt out. “For PhDs, I mean. I won’t hear back until the winter, so… we’ll see.” Your mouth curves into a wry grin. “I’m not that easy to get rid of, either.”

“Thank god,” he agrees easily. 

Too easily—heat blooms across your cheeks, so you resort to changing the topic abruptly. “How are the pledges this year?”

Like always, he lets you get away with it. “Pretty much the normal kind of guys we get. Mostly international students, athletes, that kind of thing. My little this year is a French dude on the tennis team.” His gaze goes just a bit sharp, just a bit wicked. “But you’d know all about my littles, wouldn’t you?”

Damn, he’s not letting you get away with that. “How is Franco these days?” you ask. Gun to your head, you’ll admit it—your tone is a little shrill. Poor Franco (second semester transfer student, assigned to be Oscar’s little after he’d returned from his study abroad) had gotten caught in the middle of the cold war between you and Oscar last semester, and you haven’t been able to look the guy in the eye ever since. 

“He’s doing alright for himself. Don’t worry, I don’t hold any of your actions against him,” Oscar intones archly.

“Oh, c’mon, like you were such a saint last semester?”

He opens his mouth like he’s really gearing up to get into it with you, then he sighs and shrugs. “Should we just agree that we were both not on our best behavior last semester? It’s late, and my brain is too fried to do battle right now, anyways.” 

“Speak for yourself. My brain is always ready to do battle.” And it’s a testament to how far you’ve come this year with him that you’re smiling when you say it. 

He grins lazily back. “Don’t I know it. What about you, then? Breathing a sigh of relief now that your LDC is gone?”

“God, don’t even get me started—she made my little change her outfit for initiation because it wasn’t formal enough, can you believe that? I felt like singing ding, dong, the witch is gone when she left.”

“Guess I won’t have to climb in through your balcony anymore,” he muses.

You stick your middle finger up at him. “It was one time, and what’s the point of being an athlete if you can’t put it to good use?” Then, thoughtlessly: “But sure, you can come through the front door next time.”

To his credit, Oscar barely reacts at the prospect of next time. “Nah, what’s the point of being an athlete if I can’t put it to good use?” 

It’s unsaid, but there’s a shift in the air, and you both feel it. Some small acknowledgement of whatever magic is brewing between you, soothing old wounds without even trying; the stars as your witness. 

SOPHOMORE YEAR, SECOND SEMESTER

Your better angels are probably not hiding out in a frat basement. But you’re done with finals, it’s the last night out of the semester, and you won’t see Oscar after this until next year because of his study abroad, so this is it. Now or never. Come hell or high water. And every other vaguely fatalistic idiom you can think of, because a strange sense of foreboding accompanies you as you migrate closer to the makeshift dance floor where Alex is leaning against the wall, gesturing animatedly to the person you’d come to see.

“... tasted kinda off, but I wasn’t gonna say anything with Charles smiling so hopefully at me like that,” Alex explains.

“Charles cooked again?” you ask, inserting yourself into the conversation with forced casualness.

Alex turns to you and nods. “Yeah, but we had Yuki supervise him. Hey, you dressed up for the theme!”

You point to the bright pink wig pinned haphazardly to your head. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Next to Alex, Oscar laughs lightly, looking absurd in an orange wig. “You look nice,” he offers.

You smile nervously. “No, I really don’t, but I appreciate the sentiment. Can I, um, talk to you?” 

“Right, I’ll see myself outta here.” Alex sweeps into half a bow, blue wig almost falling off his head, then winks exaggeratedly at you over his shoulder as he shimmies his way onto the dance floor. 

“He’s so subtle, that one,” you remark dryly.

Oscar has straightened to his full height now, posture uncharacteristically rigid. “Of course you can talk to me. What’s up?” 

“Relax, it’s nothing bad. I mean, I hope it’s not bad. I don’t think it’s bad, even though I don’t think it’s necessarily good, either… it’s just the truth, I guess.” You trail off, fingers twisting into the hem of your dress.

He blinks owlishly at you. “Huh?”

You take a deep breath and square your shoulders. You’ve never believed in half measures, and if you’re going down, you’re going down swinging. “Let’s go somewhere quieter. There’s something I’d like to say to you.”

He nods, and somehow, you end up in Danny’s room again. “He should start charging us rent,” Oscar jokes lamely. 

You ignore him firmly, laser focused on your goal. “I’m gonna tell you something, and I need you to just let me say it all at once, okay?”

Oscar starts to nod, then aborts the motion with a wince. “Yes, absolutely, but do you think we could take the wigs off first? I’d like to give you my full attention, but, y’know, the wigs are kind of distracting…”

He’s not even trying to be funny now; really, you can tell he’s 100% sincere about it. But the unexpected question startles a laugh out of you, popping the imaginary balloon of tension you’ve been holding onto all night and lightening the pressure in the room by degrees. “Yeah, okay, good point.”

Your wig’s been one bobby pin from falling out anyways, so it only takes you a second to get the pins out and shake your fingers through your hair. When you look up, he’s sporting a sheepish expression, hands twitching helplessly at his sides with a handful of bobby pins in each. “Mine’s stuck,” he explains. “There’s a possibility that Lando glued me into it.” 

The thought makes you laugh again, and his eyes go soft around the corners watching you giggle. Then you step into his space and start pulling pins out from the back of his head, fingers more nimble than his, and his eyes flutter shut at the sensation.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” he begins, eyes still closed. “I mean, I know things have always been a little… unconventional between us, but seriously. We’re kind of friends, aren’t we?”

“I don’t really want to be, to be honest.” You locate the last pin in his hair and pull it out, triumphant. “Done!” Then, you register what you just said. “Oh, fuck. I should give you some context for that.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.” The words come out strangled, his composure shot to hell. 

“Okay, can you… maybe keep your eyes closed?”

His brow furrows. “You’re not gonna, like, prank me or anything like that, right?”

“What? No, why would you think that?”

“I dunno, why else would you ask me to keep my eyes closed?”

“Maybe I’m trying to kiss you—oh, damn it, you keep derailing me!”

“What?” he splutters, eyebrows comically high with his eyes still obediently closed.

You sigh. Of course your speech isn’t going as planned; you should’ve expected as much, what with how easily you and Oscar get caught in these back-and-forths. “Open your eyes, Oscar.”

He cracks one eye open and teases, gently, “So, no kissing?”

You roll your eyes to high heaven. “Can you be serious now?”

He opens his eyes properly, regarding you with a steady kind of attention that reignites your nerves. “Yeah, of course. What did you want to tell me?”

“Kissing might still be on the table,” you begin, only because he gave you that opening. “But that’s not why I asked you to keep your eyes closed. I asked because I thought it’d be easier to say this if I didn’t have to look you in the eye, but that’s kind of unfair to you, isn’t it? And I’ve been unfair enough to you.”

He makes a confused sound, opening his mouth to say something, maybe to defend you from yourself, but you shake your head and continue on.

“No, just let me say this. I spent a lot of time running away from you last year, and I’m sorry about that. It really was me, not you. But you never even got mad at me about it, even though I wanted you to, sometimes. I swear I wasn’t trying to see how far I could push you, but you always just… let me. So I’ve been unfair to you, and frankly, I’ve been straight-up mean to you, so you probably don’t want to hear this, but I… caught feelings. For you. Ugh, gross.” You cringe at yourself, then soldier on. “I have a lot of feelings for you. Too much. So much I couldn’t even talk about it, or admit it to myself, until, like, very recently. And I’m telling you now because I feel like you deserve a straight explanation, even if you don’t want to hear it.”

A maelstrom of emotions swirl in his eyes, but he doesn’t say a single thing. The silence prickles along your skin until you can’t take it anymore, pleading, “I’m done now, so you can talk.” 

He exhales so hard it’s like a release valve has turned inside him. “You’ve gotta be a special kind of stupid if you think I didn’t want to hear that from you.”

“Hey—”

“No, seriously, everyone knew how I felt about you. All last year, it was, like, the team’s favorite thing to rib me about.”

“What—huh? How… How did you feel about me?”

“I liked you. That’s it. I just… I simply just liked you. Even when you made me work for it. Especially when you made me work for it.”

Your mouth drops open. “Really?”

He stares at you incredulously. “Yeah, of course. Why do you think I kept kissing you back at parties after you’d pretend not to know me the day before?”

“I thought you were just… I don’t know, horny or whatever.”

“You thought I was just horny?” He drops his forehead onto yours. “Unbelievable.”

“Aren’t most college guys?”

“Sure, but I think most college guys would find someone else to hook up with after having to introduce themselves to the same girl three times. You really didn’t know I liked you?”

You shake your head minutely, feeling him move along with you. “No? I mean, you never asked me for anything more—and, fine, I recognize how hard it would’ve been to ask me for anything. But I don’t know, I really just thought you… didn’t care that much. Like, if I wanted to hook up with you, great. If I didn’t, no worries. You were always so… nonchalant about it.”

He groans. “I swear, I’m gonna let you scan my brain in your lab just so you can understand what’s going on in my head, because clearly words aren’t doing it. Or actions.”

“Thanks? That’s kind of romantic, I guess. Not really how my lab works, but whatever—”

He interrupts you forcefully. “I’m not. I’m not whatever slick, nonchalant douchebag you made me up to be in your head last year. I got nervous around you, okay? Pretty girl wanted to kiss me—no way I was gonna say no. But you were so hot and cold all the time, and it was all I could do to keep up. Didn’t wanna scare you off. But I cared so much it made me stupid. I still do. And I still get nervous around you.”

Your heart thuds in your ears, hope rising in you like a tidal wave. But you can’t help yourself: “Still? D1 athlete, big, bad frat boy?”

He rolls his eyes and brings his hands up to your waist, squeezing like a warning. “Come off it, gorgeous. If anything, you’re way cooler than me. I just hide behind the varsity jacket.”

Suddenly, like a veil has been lifted from your eyes, you see it. Oscar, know-it-all nerd making it into the proverbial boy’s club because he happens to be fast in a boat; Oscar, always too straightforward and sincere for innuendo but playing along when he knows it’s expected of him; Oscar, holding his heart behind his teeth for fear of coming on too strong.

You’d go back in time and kick yourself if you could; you’ve been so blind, so caught up in your own head, spinning versions of reality to protect yourself from the bracing truth of it: he liked you, he always liked you, and you could test his patience a million times (and you probably got close), but he’d always come back for more. For you.

“And do you still like me?” you ask, breathless with possibility. “Do you like me now?”

His mouth quirks at the corners, resigned and a little self-deprecating. “D’ya even have to ask?”

Well, sure, you can feel how much he likes you, pressed against your hip. But you really, really need to hear it.

And he seems to understand why you’d asked, because he doesn’t make you ask again. “Yeah, I like you now. I liked you back then, and I like you now, and I probably never stopped, even when you wanted to be friends, or normal acquaintances.”

You groan at the reminder of that stupid phrase. “Who said that? That wasn’t me.”

He huffs out a laugh, half exasperation, half wonder, but he doesn’t say anything else. For a long moment, you just breathe together, letting electricity build up in the air between you.

You speak up first. “My timing is kind of horrible, isn’t it?”

He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Okay, you didn’t have to agree so quickly—”

“I’m leaving tomorrow morning. I won’t see you until January, and you want me to pretend like it isn’t going to kill me, knowing I have to wait that long to kiss you again?”

You balk and take his words in the wrong direction. “Well, I’m not expecting you to, like, wait for me or anything, obviously, I mean, I don’t even know what you’ve got going on in Australia, and I’m sure you have better things to do than sit around pining for me—”

“Been doing that for ages, gorgeous.”

“—even though, to be honest, I’ll probably be pining for you, a little bit.” You cringe again. “Ugh, I hate saying shit like that, but…. I’m trying to be more obvious about it. Liking you, I mean. So you don’t have to guess anymore.”

Hearing you say it again makes him smile helplessly at you, pink suffusing across his cheeks like a sunrise, and that makes the discomfort still buzzing underneath your skin, so, so worth it. 

“So, maybe you could reward me,” you murmur, a little coy now. “For trying. Like… you could kiss me once? Before you leave?”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh, eyes dark like you’ve never seen before. “I haven’t been able to get my mouth on you for a year, and I’m not gonna see you again for six months. Kiss you once? Are you insane?” And suddenly, he’s everywhere, hands running up your sides, mouth a flurry of movement between your chest, your neck, your jaw, panting words into your skin like he can’t be bothered to breathe if it means leaving you for even a second. “You make me feel crazy, literally out of my mind for how much I want you, okay? Don’t tell me you don’t expect me to wait—what do you think I’ve been doing all year? Now you’re going to have to wait, and I’d be sorry about it, but fair’s fair. Leave your schedule empty for a whole week when I get back, though. Don’t even think about leaving my bed.” 

He ends his heart-stopping spiel by finally, finally kissing you, tongue instantly licking into you with a fervor that makes you whimper straight into his mouth. It’s just as well that you can’t talk like this, because there’s nothing intelligible in your mind right now, just heat and pressure and the slick slide of his mouth against yours. Falling back into old patterns is easy, and so is unraveling each other without care to where you are or what might come tomorrow. It’s only when you nearly pull him towards the bed in the room that you remember yourself, and then you have to tear yourself away with a heaving gasp. 

He chases after you on instinct, muttering, “Too far,” right against your sternum where he sinks his teeth in and bites, reveling in the yelp you let out. Reveling even more in the whine that follows. 

“We should—we should really leave,” you insist through a moan. “This is… Danny’s room? And I don’t wanna disrespect him—oh god, Oscar, please.” The sudden pressure of his knee between your legs is too much and not enough all at once.

“We’ll send him a fruit basket, or something. It’ll be fine.” He’s just mumbling nonsense now, charting a path with his tongue from your collarbone, up your neck, and over your ear.

“N-No, who even does that in this day and age?” Your breath comes in shallow bursts, but you still have the wherewithal to quip, “Weirdo.”

Oscar only pulls back far enough to nudge your nose with his. “Okay, genius, where should we go, then? My stuff is all packed, and I was supposed to stay in Charles’s room tonight, but he still has a paper to finish, so we can’t really—”

“My room. I have a single this year, and if I didn’t, I’d probably kick my roommate out, even though that’s awful, but I want you so much—”

He groans so loud it reverberates in your chest. “Keep talking like that, and let’s go, let’s go right now.”

It takes a while to get back to your dorm, because you keep stopping to kiss him, and he keeps stopping because, well:

“I can get myself off any time, but if I can’t touch you until January, I’m gonna need something to remember you by, yeah?”

So you stop in the stacks at the library, and he murmurs a steady stream of mind-numbing filth into your ear with his fingers inside you, and you stop at a bench underneath the massive tree in the middle of the quad, and he sits down and helps you work your hips against his thigh until you’re shaking apart, and you stop in the new science building, sneaking in under some construction tape and happening upon the new research labs, which almost distracts you before you’re bent over a workstation, breath fogging up a stack of safety goggles. 

By the time you finally get into your room, you’re boneless and loose with affection in his lap, gasping his name into his mouth.

“How did you get so good at this?” you marvel out loud, in between kisses. 

He smiles indulgently at you, hair a wreck and flushed everywhere you can see. “Learned all my best tricks from you, gorgeous.”

Your whole body shivers against him, undone as always by the way that particular word drips out of his mouth. And maybe you’re shivering about something else, too, something more reverent and true: the fact that you really did learn everything together, fumbling in the dark last year, not really knowing what to do except that you wanted to please each other, make it good for each other. There had been times when it was awkward, and times when it simply didn’t work, but it helped that you were both a little competitive about learning more—and faster—about what made the other tick. Thinking about it now makes you want to cry a little bit, because you should have known all along what he felt for you, what you felt for him. How else to explain such clumsy devotion, shaking through eager hands, committing every sound and jolt of sensation to memory so you’d know better what to do the next time? How else to explain such sweet care, such absolute safety?

His lips press gently against the corner of your eye now, whisper-soft against a tear you hadn’t even noticed had leaked out. “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”

Uh-oh. The new phrase sends your hips firmly down against his, even as you cry a little more. “Nothing, I just… You’re so nice to me, and you’ve always been so nice to me, and… and, oh no, I like you so much, and you’re going away for six months, and my timing sucks, and I think I’m gonna die if you don’t fuck me soon, like, really, really soon—”

He bursts out laughing, high-pitched and delighted. “Baby, baby, baby,” he croons, swiping your tears away with a thumb while he shakes with hiccups of laughter. “You’re the sweetest thing in the whole world, and if you thought I was nice to you before, you’re not gonna believe how nice I can be now that I know you like me so much, now that you’re crying for it—god, I can’t believe you’re real, and you’d be mine if I asked.” He speaks the last words around his thumb, sucking away the salt from your eyes.

“Gross,” you mumble hoarsely, not really meaning it and just needing something to say.

“Pretty sure we’ve shared worse bodily fluids than this,” he says, offhanded. 

“Oh, seriously, Oscar, gross.” Suddenly, you’re mortified, slapping your hands over his face so that he can’t watch you squirm.

He grins, entirely unrepentant. “Oops, did I ruin the mood?”

“Did I ruin the mood,” you mock back at him, pressing your hips harder into his, heat layering into heat. “Obviously not, you idiot.”

He removes your hands from his face and looks at you with a new kind of seriousness. “I’ll ask when I get back. I’ll do it right.”

You laugh nervously. “Ask what?”

For once (for forever, you hope), he doesn’t let you run from this. “If you’d be mine. You know I’ve been yours since the beginning, right?” 

Now you slap your hands over your own face, whining into your palms. “Shut up. No. Yes. I guess. Maybe. I don’t know. Whatever!”

He kisses the back of your hands. “You’ll know. I’ll make sure of it.”

You let your hands fall to his chest, defeated and petulant in equal measure. “All these promises, and you still haven’t fucked me yet.”

“Only ‘cause I know you like it when I make you wait, baby.” He smirks and anchors you more firmly in his lap. “But don’t worry, I’ll get you where you need to go.”

And he does—he always has, he always does, he always will. The hours you spend together on that last night are so perfect that all of your later resentment never touches them, never warps them into anything other than a snow globe memento of burgeoning adoration, frozen in a time when you thought your future together looked boundless.

But the next morning, when you text him, he doesn’t text back. And that’s fine, because he’s on a plane, and you hadn’t expected him to text back. You text again the next day, still without response, and the day after that, and you’re not trying to jump to conclusions, but you can feel yourself wilting with uncertainty. Maybe he hadn’t meant all the things he’d said and promised; maybe it was just a fun night before a long journey. 

You text again the next week, having transitioned to petty anger at that point. Not that that’s much help against the humiliating shock of seeing your message go unmistakably green, a sore thumb in a sea of previously blue-and-gray texts.

So that’s it, then. He’s blocked you, without so much as a sorry, it’s me, not you.

biting at the bars of my cage. foaming at the mouth.