RHETT

          Every sound in my brain turns into white noise, static fading into silence.

          There's no crowd, no heavy bassline thudding in my chest. There's no Cole What's-His-Name. There are no phones pointed at me, ready to capture the exact moment I make one of the biggest mistakes of my life by taking the bait and getting into a fist fight.

          There's just peace and quiet, and then the pressure of Brie's lips against mine.

          This isn't supposed to be real. Everything about our fake relationship was meant to serve a bigger goal—guarantee we fulfill our goals to secure our careers after graduation—and, even though I've been trying to fix the aspects of us that I fucked up years ago, things weren't meant to take a turn towards this path.

          With all her ambivalence regarding public displays of affection, especially after being so stressed out about my hand staying on her thigh for longer than strictly necessary, I expected the actual kissing part to be off limits unless the situation was so dire we'd die unless we kissed.

          This isn't one of those situations, but she's right here and she's kissing me, and it's so foreign and familiar at the same time. It's been years since we last did this, but my muscle memory activates, remembering exactly how it feels—it's electric from head to toe, jolting me awake, and it's the only thing that has ever made sense.

          Her fingers dig into my shoulders, hard, then move to the sides of my neck when I kiss her back, lips parting to swallow the gasp that escapes from her mouth. My palm presses against the curve of her waist to pull her flush against me, eliminating the already minuscule distance between us, and she melts in my arms when my tongue gently brushes against hers. Tentatively at first, then with more fervor once she returns the intensity, and I finally realize what kind of fire she was talking about the other day.

          The fire has never left. Even when I thought I had burned out in that aspect, she managed to reignite the flame like she's gasoline and the whole world is highly flammable. I don't think I've ever been this brave and this vulnerable all at once, especially when nothing about this was planned and I need my whole life to be organized to perfection if I don't want to collapse under the heavy weight of my anxieties.

          House parties are a quintessential college experience, and everyone I know has hooked up with someone during one of these. A few months ago, I would have selected someone at random, taken them to an empty room, go in and come out and move on with my life. Tonight, the thought never even crossed my mind, not even once.

          When I wasn't occupied having a silent mental breakdown about how nothing in my life is going right or as according to plan, I was busy feeling completely intoxicated by Brooke Sheridan. I haven't looked at other girls, like this is a guys-only birthday party (Paige would never be an option for obvious reasons), and Brooke is the only person I can see.

          The only person I can smell—her and the sweet fragrance of her strawberry shampoo and her floral cologne.

          The only person I can feel—her hands on my neck, in my hair, her plush lips moving along with mine, the twirling of her tongue around mine.

          I ache to touch her, to kiss her even deeper, even harder, like I can still be closer to her, and I'm sweating like a mad dog. The world moves in slow motion and it's only when a low growl threatens to rise from my chest and pressure builds slowly in my pants that I reluctantly remember we're in a public space.

          I keep my private life private, which leads to the circulation of ridiculous rumors about stuff I wasn't even aware I did (I haven't done most of the things people say I have), and I want to stay minimally decent. I always want the girls I spend the night with to be treated with decency and respect instead of being shamed for doing the same thing I'm praised for doing, and Brie deserves the exact same treatment—care and respect. There are still phones around us, and I'm not sure I want to be caught on camera with a boner the size of the Eiffel Tower, so I make the first move to pull away.

          "I'm sorry," I whisper, in half a breath, and Brie lets out a whimper in response. My forehead rests against hers, hands still holding her waist, and I'm secretly glad I can barely see a palm ahead of me, as it means no one else can notice the situation going on around in my pants. "I got a bit carried away there."

          "I forgot how to breathe. I think we're even."

          I chuckle, taking in the crimson flush of her cheeks and her swollen lips. Color slowly returns to the space around us instead of drowning the world in black and white. "Have we ever been even?"

          "You're not beating me at this game."

          "Is it over?" Jeff asks, somewhere in the crowd. Brie takes a step back, throwing him a Paige-style glare. "Oh, thank God. It's like walking in on your parents having sex."

          "Someone here has to get some action to teach you how it's done, Jeff," Paige calmly points out, inciting a round of snickering from the rest of the hockey team, and even I manage a smile. She slides her arm through Brie's and my hands pathetically slip away from her, the tips of my fingers still tingling from touching her. "Can't really blame people for feeling sorry for your lack of game. If you don't mind, Rhett, I need to introduce your girl to my girl. I'll bring her back in one piece, I promise."

          "You better," I blurt out. Brie throws me a tiny little shy smile that legitimately makes my heart stop, and it's only after they leave that I realize I didn't even feel the need to mentally correct Paige when she called Brie my girl.

          I have no ownership over her and would much rather know she's comfortable in her independence instead of turning into a toxic, possessive guy who believes he's entitled to her and her body. I'm the one who has been branded—heart and all—even though we don't belong to each other, not really, and I'm not calling her mine until I hear her do the same.

          And yet, with every twist and turn this relationship has taken and all its developments, I think Cole might have been right in spite of all the bullshit he was spewing out (the way he spoke about Brie disgusted me; I cannot comprehend what she ever saw in that guy).

          Maybe I am whipped.

          If I am, if the lines between what's real and what's fake have already started to blur this early into the fake relationship, I'm terrified to learn what will follow—if every feeling I thought we were faking becomes more intense and amplified.

          I'm terrified I'll somehow find a way of fucking it all up. Again.

ᓚᘏᗢ

          Brie Sheridan is in my bed.

          Well, technically, she's on my bed. She's fully clothed and is sitting on my bed—hell, she's wearing more clothes than she was at the party, putting one of my hoodies over her blouse. With how much she's had to drink tonight, after the tequila shots she downed in her room and the party beverages, I'm not surprised to see her struggle with pulling her hair out of the neckline of the hoodie, so I do it for her.

          My skin is burning, aching to feel hers. Suddenly, I'm glad I landed myself a single room. I was living in a suite last year and, though it sounds fancy and cool to most people, the lack of privacy and the constant shuffling of people in and out were driving me nuts by November.

          Back to Brie and what she's doing in my bed, soaking wet (from the rain), and wearing one of my hoodies, which I doubt she'll ever return.

          Her presence in my room is completely innocent at its core. I genuinely had no second dirty intentions when I decided to invite her to come here, as my dorm is closer to the parking lot than hers, and we were both drenched from the sudden rainstorm by the time we got out of the car. Now that we're inside and shielded from the sudden terrible weather, we're a bit warmer, but it still feels—and sounds—like the sky is falling, complete with rumbling thunder in the distance.

          Brie, bless her soul, was still coherent enough when I asked her if she wanted to wait in my room for the weather to improve, as neither of us had bothered to bring an umbrella or rain-appropriate clothing. She had just wanted to party and meet Lucy Ripley, while all I'd wanted was a goddamn break. Instead, I nearly ended up fighting her stupid ex-boyfriend, and he'd nearly broken my jaw.

          For all his flaws (seriously, all of them), the dude has a mean right hook, I'll give him that.

          "Are you feeling okay?" I ask Brie. "Do you need water or something to eat?"

          It's been hours since the kiss and my lips are still tingly, like I've just had something horribly spicy to eat. At least I'm still sober, able to fully process everything that has happened tonight, but it's unfortunate I can't say the same thing about her. I can only hope she'll remember it in the morning.

          The more optimistic side of my brain wholeheartedly believes she will, even if it's for the wrong, more hurtful reasons. Even if she wakes up and regrets the whole thing—God forbid—it will mean it has left emotional memories strong enough to withstand the temporary alcohol-induced amnesia.

          I hold on to that belief like a life raft, even though part of me suspects wishful thinking might be at play here, and, just as quickly as my optimism kicked in, my impostor syndrome and self-doubting tendencies slide right through the front door.

          "I think I'm okay," she replies, kicking off her boots. "I'm still a bit dizzy and I'm freezing, but I'll be fine. I guess."

          I stand by my desk, keeping a safe distance between us big enough to squash any and every impulse I might get to kiss again—the same impulses that are currently making my brain go haywire. I want to kiss her again, feel the softness of her lips and the warmth of her skin against mine, a reminder this hasn't all been one of my daydreams, but I can't. The circumstances have changed.

          It's one thing to kiss her back after she makes the first move, as she's always been the one to be so against it, but I don't want to cross a line by doing the same thing. I suppose I could just ask if she wants to do it again or if it was strictly a one-time thing, but those words sound so awkward in my head I fear they'll make the situation even worse if I dare to utter them aloud.

          I know we'll have to discuss the kiss eventually, as there are several months left of this fake relationship and of mending things between us, and this isn't a fictional love story where one magical kiss somehow fixes everything and makes all the hardships disappear. That might be how it works in the love stories she reads and watches on a screen, but real life is a lot more complicated, especially when it comes to me and her.

          I'd really wish for it to be simpler and easier to deal with, but timing and proper communication have never been our strong suits; though I hate to get all meta and blame it on miscommunication tropes, tropes apply to fiction. Trying to twist real people and their lives into fitting arbitrary literary devices has never helped anyone; it might make things easier for her to process, since it's what she's used to, and that's fine by me, but I can't do it. I need objective, palpable facts, as my brain does enough twisting by itself.

          Thank you ever so much, crippling anxiety. You're really ruining my life and my relationships here, more than I ever could all by myself.

          We already have so many other things to worry and talk about that I'm scared the kiss, albeit extraordinary and life-altering—at least in my eyes—has only helped cement how terrifyingly real things are becoming. We both entered this agreement under the condition it would be fake when it comes to the romantic aspects of it, and Brie has been adamant about not wanting to reignite her past feelings for me. It stings like a bitch to hear that, but I respect her and whatever choices she wants to make.

          Respecting her doesn't make it hurt any less. I look at her and think it would be so easy to press my lips against the curve of her neck, right against her pressure point, how easy it would be to remember everything she likes—how she likes to be touched, where she likes to be touched.

          I'm burning up with unsaid things and complicated feelings, angry that we know so much about each other and still feel like complete strangers at the same time, but maybe that's how we're fated to be—contradictory from start to finish, alpha to omega. Maybe we'll never be nothing more than this, a collection of almosts—we almost worked things out, we were almost meant for each other, we almost figured it all out.

          It's the most heartbreaking word in the English language for a reason, isn't it?

          "What's going on with you?"

          Brie's voice, softer than it has been all night, startles me and pulls me out of my inner monologue. It stops the self-torture for a moment, just enough to make me forget where I am, but then I look at her—sitting cross-legged on my bed, hair brushed back, wearing my fucking hoodie—and it all comes crashing back against me like a wrecking ball.

          "What do you mean?"

          "I'm worried about you, Rhett," she confesses, playing with the drawstrings until they're about the same length. It gives her an excuse to not look me in the eye while we share an awkward but necessary conversation, but I suspect it's for the best. I don't think I have it in me to look her in the eye, either. Not right now. Not like this. "I'd say you haven't been yourself lately, but that would probably be a disservice to all the changes you've been through since we . . . since we stopped talking. Some of those changes were good, but I've been thinking and it's becoming more and more obvious each day that something happened to you. Something bad. I don't know what it was or if you even want to talk about it—with me, out of all people—but it doesn't stop me from worrying. You spend so much time in your head and I can't reach you, no matter how far I stretch out my hands to hold you." She pauses, timidly looking up at me through those impossibly long eyelashes, and my heartbeat flutters. "At first I thought it was because of me and what happened during that first date because all those feelings and memories were rushing back in with full force, but I know you well enough to know it would never affect your performance on the ice. It's always been your favorite thing, your main focus."

          I sigh. Hockey isn't the only thing I care about in the world, even if my sports career is my main priority; there are so many other important things out there, Brie included. "I wouldn't be too certain about that. Depending on what it is, it could very well be distracting enough to make me act like a goddamn fool on the ice."

          "Was it me this time, then? Be honest."

          "No. No, it wasn't. It might have influenced my general state of mind a little bit, but no." She nods. "I'm not saying it didn't matter or that I don't care about you, because I do—I care about you a whole fucking lot, and it's frustrating me."

          "Sexually?"

          I stifle a laugh before I let those words have any effect on my lower body. "As I was saying, it wasn't because of you. There's just . . . a lot going on, you know? There's a lot at stake for me this year, and I didn't have a fun, easy summer. I was stressed the whole time and, when I thought things couldn't get any worse . . ."

          ". . . somehow they did."

          "Yeah."

          "I get it." She drops her hands. "I won't pry and I'm sorry for assuming everything revolves around me, even though I'm sure you know my life has been a whirlwind lately. Mostly because of you"—I even get a dramatic eye roll, Sheridan-style—"but also because of everything else. It's not the same as what you're going through, but I wanted you to know I understand it hasn't been easy. Maybe I can't help you through it, but I can be here to support you in any way you want me to. Even if you don't want to talk about it. We can just sit in silence. I'm good with silence. You can't actually tell because, hello, motormouth, but . . . yeah. I'm here for you, Rhett, and it's not just for show. You said you'd catch me when I chose to take that leap of faith, and I'm extending you the same offer."

          It's risky, but I make my way towards the bed and occupy the space next to her, ensuring there's still some distance between us so our arms won't brush when either of us breathes. She takes in a sharp breath when the mattress sinks with both our weights, the air between us charged with the same electricity from before, and I swear I can feel the heat of her body through God knows how many layers of clothes.

          The floor underneath my feet wobbles with the raging sea, the waves tossing me aside without as much as an apology, and I'm desperately trying to anchor myself to something, to reality, but it's slowly slipping away out of reach.

          That's the frustrating thing—everything I want, everything I've ever wanted is always standing right there, right in front of me, and all I need to do is step forward and take it. It's that simple, but I always find a way of tossing obstacles in my way, creating a long, winded path of self-sabotage.

          People always remind me I'm my own worst enemy. I could have everything I've ever dreamed of, but I always fall short because I never allow myself to take them. I never allow myself to believe I'm deserving of them.

          "I don't regret kissing you, you know," Brie admits, like she can read my mind. Sometimes, I think she can. She has powered her head so her hair forms a curtain between us, and I'm glad. My heart stops halfway up my throat. "I'm sorry for not asking for permission before, but I panicked. I knew we had to sell the story, but then I did it and . . . and I realized I didn't mind it nearly as much as I thought I would."

          My chest coils into a tight knot. "Was it all just for show, then?"

          "That's the hard part. None of it was for show. I kissed you and realized it's what I wanted to do. Not to prove anything to anyone there, not even to prove to you or to myself that I could do it without feeling anything. I did it because I wanted to, and I don't know how to stop myself from wanting to do it again."

          "You could just do it again, then."

          "What?"

          "Kiss me," I echo, unsure of where all this bravery came from. Is this wise? Probably not. "I wouldn't mind that."

          "But would you want me to? Regardless of whether you'd mind it or not?"

          "I've been wanting to kiss you since I first saw you tonight. Since yesterday. Since the first practice. For years now, really. It's a little pathetic of me, if we're being honest."

          "When haven't we been honest, anyway?"

          "Well, if we're being honest here . . ." I take a deep breath. My knee brushes hers. "I think I am sexually frustrated."

          Brie lets out a loud laugh. "Of course you are."

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

in case you're wondering no i still cannot write kiss scenes. y'all better pray i don't randomly decide to write smut scenes for this book or we'll all be dead from secondhand embarrassment