Chapter Text
PREVIEW
You like watching the soccer practice while you work on an assignment for college. The way many people run after a single ball, trying in their own way to score, is a surprisingly effective distraction. As you finish writing your article on how love is overrated in nineteenth-century literary works, an object suddenly hits you. It strikes you directly on the forehead.
“Shit!” you shout as the sharp sting spreads across your skin.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Shauna Shipman yells, crossing the soccer field in long, impatient strides.
“Normally, when someone hits another person with a ball, they apologize,” you say, already guessing she was the one who sent it flying your way. Your eyes remain shut as you wait for the pain to subside.
“As if it were normal for a creative writing student to sit around watching the women’s soccer team practice,” Shauna replies, her tone edged with disbelief.
You let out a slow breath, finally opening your eyes as the throbbing in your forehead eases. Shauna is already standing in front of you, hands on her hips, sweat-darkened hair sticking to her temples. She looks both irritated and slightly amused, as if she cannot decide whether to scold you or laugh.
“I’m allowed to sit wherever I want,” you say, rubbing the spot where the ball struck. “And besides, I’m not exactly hurting anyone.”
Shauna snorts. “Not hurting anyone? You’re sitting right in the line of fire. This is practice, not a viewing party.”
You look past her at the rest of the team, who have paused to watch the exchange. A few of them whisper among themselves, clearly entertained.
“Well, forgive me for not predicting that the star forward of the team would launch a ball at my skull,” you reply, gathering your notebook and trying to maintain some dignity.
Shauna steps closer, her voice dropping just enough that only you can hear. “Maybe if you weren’t staring at us like we’re some kind of study group for your next essay, this wouldn’t have happened.”
You let out a muffled laugh. “Not that I want to be the one to inform you of the extent of your insignificance, Shipman, but I’m not here watching any of you,” you say as you rise, hurriedly gathering your things.
“Do you truly expect me to believe you come here to do your college assignments because this is the best place for it?” Shauna asks, moving closer, her eyes sweeping over your face. The only space between you is taken up by the materials in your hands.
“Actually, you’re right. I do come here to observe, but not because I find you also captivating, that it inspires me. It’s because watching you play so poorly motivates me. It reminds me that anyone can do the bare minimum and still walk away with a scholarship,” you answer, staring straight at her, watching fury spread across her features.
She jerks forward as if intending to shove you, and the moment she does, you lose your balance. You only register the impact as your body drops onto the stands, your tailbone hitting the hard surface, while Shauna’s face twists into something almost indescribable.
You refuse to concede, swinging one leg out to knock Shauna off balance and catching her completely off guard. Unfortunately, you do not anticipate her falling on top of you. The moment her body collides with yours, something flares beneath your skin, a sudden heat you had not consented to feel.
“So your plan was to make me fall on top of you, genius?” Shauna asks, her breath warm against your face, far too close for comfort. Your materials, which could have served as a barrier between you, scatter beside you when you hit the ground.
“You must think highly of yourself if you believe anything happening here is because I want you anywhere near me,” you fire back, keeping your voice steady despite the weight of her pressed against you.
“I wasn’t thinking about it that way, but now I might start believing you are,” Shauna says, her tone low as her fingers glide deliberately across your chest. The touch is light, almost teasing, yet enough to draw an involuntary sound from your lips, a quiet moan you immediately wish you could take back.
Startled by your own reaction, you shove her aside with all the force you can gather, desperate to create distance.
“Girls, what the hell is happening out there?” Coach Ben shouts. Only then do you and Shauna notice that the entire women’s soccer team has stopped practice to stare at the two of you.
“Nothing, Coach. Y/N was accepting my apology, and we lost our balance,” Shauna answers quickly as she gets up and snatches the ball from the ground. For a moment, you had even forgotten it was the same ball that hit you.
“Then get back to practice, Shipman,” the coach orders, and the players finally turn away and return to the drill.
Shauna begins walking back toward the center of the field, but pauses halfway. She looks over her shoulder, watching you as you push yourself to your feet.
“I just want you to know I don’t regret it,” she says, lifting the ball slightly in your direction, making it unmistakably clear that she does not regret hitting you at all.
You do not respond, even though every part of you wants to tell her she can go fuck herself. Instead, you gather your materials with quick, clumsy movements and walk away before she can read anything in your expression. It is far from your proudest moment.
For the rest of the day, the scene replays in your mind with irritating clarity. You keep thinking about how you should have pushed her harder, or how you should never have let her provoke you in the first place. Concentrating during class becomes nearly impossible. Every lecture slides past you, every note you try to take dissolves into another intrusive memory of Shauna’s touch, her voice, the way she looked at you. By the time your schedule finally ends, your nerves feel frayed.
When you reach your dorm, the hallway is unusually quiet, the kind of silence that makes your own footsteps sound too loud. As you approach your door, Taissa looks up from where she has been leaning against the frame. She greets you with a bright smile that immediately signals she is in a suspiciously good mood.
“If it isn’t the kindest roommate in the universe,” Taissa says, her tone far too cheerful for the exhaustion dragging you down.
You drop your bag with a dull thud and rub your temples. “So who is it this time? Who are you planning to sleep with tonight?” The question comes out flat, softened only by how tired you sound.
Taissa pushes off the door frame, pleased with herself. “Since you’re asking, I actually have a date. And I’m feeling cautiously optimistic about it, which is unusual for me. But, as you already know, optimism and I are not exactly close friends.” She studies your face as she speaks, her smile fading into something more observant. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck. Did something happen?”
“Shauna Shipman happened, actually. That idiot. So I’m not exactly in the mood to play third wheel on your date or to hunt for another place to sleep while you bring someone back to our room,” you say, your voice weighed down by fatigue. Normally, helping Taissa with her romantic pursuits is not a problem, but today everything feels heavier.
Taissa pauses, her expression shifting into one of cautious optimism. “Well… I might have a solution. My incredible future girlfriend has a roommate who agreed to let you sleep in their dorm for the night while she and I use ours for… well, you know.” She gestures vaguely as she speaks, and you can already feel the hope of resting in your own bed dissolving into thin air.
“I see. You want me to sleep in someone else’s dorm so you can have privacy tonight?” You already know the answer, even as you ask the question.
Taissa gives you an apologetic smile that almost, but not quite, softens the blow. She is a good roommate, genuinely, but whenever she starts dating someone, you are the one who ends up making the necessary compromises.
“You’re going to owe me for this,” you say, and Taissa immediately steps forward to wrap her arms around you.
“Anything you need, I’ll do it,” she replies into your shoulder before letting you go. You head toward the dorm room, resigned to the arrangement.
“Let me at least take a shower first, then your little love nest will be all yours,” you say as you set your materials down in a corner, too drained to care about the mess. You grab a clean set of pajamas from your drawer and make your way to the bathroom.
The hot water is a brief mercy. You let it run over your skin, trying to wash away the day, the irritation, the memory of Shauna’s hands, the way your body betrayed you. Meanwhile, you can hear faint movement from the room as Taissa tidies every corner with surprising enthusiasm, preparing it for her date as if it were some sacred ritual.
For a moment, with the water running over your face, you allow yourself to pretend the day didn’t happen at all.
You linger under the hot water longer than necessary, letting the steam soften the tension running down your spine. It helps, but only a little. No matter how hard you try, the memory of Shauna’s breath brushing your skin and the involuntary rush it pulled from you refuses to fade. Your body remembers even when your mind protests.
When you finally turn off the shower and wrap yourself in a towel, you can already hear Taissa moving around the room with restless enthusiasm. By the time you put on your pajamas and step back inside, the transformation is almost comical.
Taissa has arranged everything with meticulous care. The pillows are perfectly fluffed, the comforter smoothed out, her favorite candle burning on the desk. The lights are dimmed to a soft glow that makes your shared dorm room look more like a curated date set than a place where two exhausted students usually collapse after class.
“You’re really committing to the ambiance,” you say, leaning against the doorframe while she adjusts a pillow that needs no adjusting.
“I told you, I’m optimistic,” Taissa replies, running her hands over her curls in a motion that betrays both excitement and nerves. “Which obviously means I’m also terrified, but I’m choosing to pretend I’m handling it well.”
You grab your backpack and the small tote where you tossed your essentials for the night. “I’ll survive in someone else’s dorm. Just text me the room number again so I don’t barge into the wrong place and traumatize a stranger.”
Taissa steps forward and places a hand on your arm, the smile she gives you smaller, gentler. “Thank you. Seriously. I know today wasn’t exactly smooth for you.”
“That’s one way to put it.” You try to smile back, though the day’s weight still clings to you.
She squeezes your arm, her voice softening. “I’ll make it up to you.”
You nod, because that is how your friendship works—give and take, compromise and chaos. Still, she means it, and that counts for something.
With your bag slung over your shoulder, you take a last glance around the room Taissa has turned into her temporary sanctuary. Then you step into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind you.
You check your phone and see Taissa’s message with the dorm number you are supposed to crash in for the night. Determined to push Shauna out of your head, you straighten your posture, rehearse a couple of neutral smiles, and tell yourself this will be simple. One night. A bed. Silence. Sleep. Nothing dramatic.
You stop in front of the door, raise your hand, and knock lightly. Then you wait. Nothing.
You knock again, louder this time, glancing up and down the hallway as if the answer might materialize from somewhere else. Still nothing. You tap your foot, irritation slowly building. You knock a third time, sharper, and your patience starts slipping.
A voice finally erupts from inside. “I said I’m coming, for fuck’s sake!” The words are half-muted by running water, the unmistakable sound of a shower masking whatever else the person is saying. You hear something clatter to the floor, followed by another curse, and then footsteps approaching the door.
You roll your shoulders back, bracing yourself. Whoever is about to open this door is clearly not thrilled, and considering how your day has gone so far, you would not be surprised if the universe decided to throw one more problem in your face.
Suddenly, the door swings open. Shauna stands before you with nothing but a towel wrapped around her body, droplets of water tracing the line of her collarbone as her damp hair clings to her skin. Her eyes sweep over you with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
“Sorry, I think I’ve got the wrong room,” you say, already turning away, your pulse quickening the moment you realize she is the roommate of Taissa’s soon-to-be girlfriend.
“You didn’t get the wrong one,” Shauna says, her tone steady and unmistakably deliberate. Her fingers curl around your wrist, warm and firm, guiding you back inside before you can protest. She closes the door with a quiet finality, locking it behind you as though sealing the two of you away from the rest of the world.
The room smells faintly of her shampoo, and the soft hum of the still-running bathroom fan fills the silence. Shauna steps closer, studying you as if she were piecing together a question she is suddenly desperate to answer. Her proximity alone feels like a challenge, a confession, and a warning all at once.
TO BE CONTINUED...