Chapter One: The Crush
"I'm going to throw up."
"Don't," Harper says, barely looking up from her compact mirror. "You'll ruin the eyeliner I worked so hard to stab you with."
I clutch the edge of the desk like it's a flotation device and I'm drowning in panic. "I can't talk to him, Harp. What if he laughs? What if he tells everyone I'm delusional?"
"What if he rips your clothes off and takes you right there on the campus lawn?" she says, smirking.
I glare.
She shrugs. "I'm manifesting."
Typical Harper. Blonde bombshell, mile-long legs, and enough chaotic confidence to light the whole damn college on fire. She's the kind of girl who could trip and make it fashion.
Me?
I'm the one in the oversized sweater that smells like anxiety and vanilla shampoo. The one who memorizes professors' office hours and silently panics when someone sits too close.
"Cass," Harper sighs, finally putting the mirror down, "you've had a crush on Liam Blake for, what—ten months?"
"Eleven," I mutter.
"Right. Which is almost a year. It's time."
My eyes drift toward the front of the lecture hall. Liam's there, laughing with his friends, leaning back like he's in a cologne ad. Golden-brown hair, jawline so sharp it could cut glass, and dimples that should be illegal.
He's perfect.
He's impossible.
"Physics Club," a voice drawls behind me.
I freeze.
No.
Please no.
Not him.
I turn my head, slow as death, and there he is—lounging across two chairs, arms folded behind his head, like he owns the air we breathe.
Nate Carter.
Tall. Smirking. Chaos in a hoodie.
The guy who's made it his mission to annoy the shit out of me since day one of freshman year. Who calls me Physics Club because he forgot my name once during an icebreaker and decided never to bother learning it after that.
("You looked like you were building a rocket in your brain," he once said, when I snapped at him for it. "Seemed fitting.")
I've hated him ever since.
His hair is dark brown and always looks like he just rolled out of bed—and knowing Nate, he probably did. His jaw's sharp, a little stubbled, and his eyes are the kind of gray that flashes silver when he's about to say something infuriating.
Which is always.
"I wasn't asleep," he adds, sitting up and stretching with a dramatic yawn. "Just meditating on how fast this conversation became tragic."
Harper snorts. "Were you eavesdropping from behind our desk again?"
He flashes her a grin. "I call it passive listening."
He looks at me. No—through me.
"You seriously crushing on Blake?" he asks, like it's a crime against nature. "That walking protein shake?"
"I—he's—" I sputter, cheeks flaming.
"You know he once asked a girl if the moon was real, right?"
"I like the way he looks at things," I snap.
"Like a golden retriever that just discovered mirrors?"
"Go away, Nate."
He shrugs. "Just saying. You're gonna need a tetanus shot after touching that jawline."
I turn, fuming.
He doesn't stop. He never stops.
"You're too smart for him, Physics Club," he calls after me. "Try someone with at least one brain cell."
I don't answer. My stomach's already in knots. I won't let Nate's mouth ruin this.
Not again.
Harper nudges me as we move down the aisle. "He's such a dick to you."
"Because I'm the only one who bites back."
"You sure that's all he wants you to bite?"
I gasp. "Harper!"
But she's already grinning wickedly. "Just saying. There's tension."
"There's murderous intent."
And yet—when I glance back...
Nate's still there.
Watching.
Smirking.
Like he knows something I don't.
Later...
We're halfway across the quad when I grab Harper's arm.
"I can't do this."
"You can. You will. And you'll thank me when you're Mrs. Blake with little golden-retriever babies."
"I hate you."
"Love you too, cupcake."
Liam's by the student center now, chatting with someone and looking like he was hand-carved by Greek gods and sponsored by GymTok.
Harper gives me a gentle shove. "Go. I'll be right here."
My legs carry me forward like I've forgotten how to use them. My mouth's dry. My brain is screaming.
But I make it.
He turns as I approach, flashing that dimpled grin. "Hey."
"Hi," I croak. "I, um… I just wanted to say... I think you're really smart. And cool. And I like the way your brain works."
What the hell are you saying, Cassie?!
He blinks. "My brain?"
"Not that it's the only part I like. I mean—not that I've thought about other parts. Not that I haven't—I just—"
His smile twitches. "Wait… are you hitting on me?"
Oh god. Abort. Abort.
"I just thought maybe, sometime, we could... grab coffee or something? If you want?"
Silence.
His friend shifts awkwardly beside him.
Then Liam laughs.
Loud.
Sharp.
Too loud.
"Damn, you were serious."
I feel my heart physically cave in.
He looks me up and down—slow, unapologetic.
"I don't date girls like you."
Girls like me?
He leans in a little, and somehow that's worse. Like he's about to let me down easy.
"You're... sweet," he says.
The word feels like an insult.
"But not the kind of sweet I like. You're... textbook sweet. Like, if I kissed you, you'd probably blush and thank me."
My stomach twists.
"I'd break you, Cassie."
The world freezes.
He says it casually, like he's explaining gravity. Like it's just a fact.
"You're not fun. You're... safe."
And just like that, I'm back in my oversized sweater, my bubble of invisibility, the girl who reads manuals for fun and writes fanfiction in secret.
The girl who should've stayed in her goddamn seat.
I nod. "Right. Got it."
And I walk away.
I don't cry.
Not until I'm alone.
Not until my dorm door shuts and the silence sinks its claws in.
The second I'm out of sight, I crumble.
Not all at once—no, it's worse. It's quiet. Pathetic. I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor like it personally betrayed me.
"Textbook sweet," I whisper aloud.
The words sound even uglier when I repeat them.
Like he branded me with them.
Safe. Sweet. Breakable.
I thought maybe, just maybe, someone would see me—really see me—and not just the shy girl who blends into walls and tucks her hair behind her ears when nervous.
But that's all I am to them, isn't it?
Background noise.
Untouchable. Not because they respect me.
Because I'm boring.
I drag my hoodie over my face and curl into myself like a freaking cinnamon roll of shame.
Harper texts, asking if I'm okay.
I don't answer.
What would I even say?
Hey, Harp. I asked a guy out and he laughed like I offered him a used tissue.
Also, apparently I'm so sweet I make people lose erections.
I should study.
I should distract myself with my usual fail-safe: notes, planners, color-coded systems.
But even my highlighters feel judgmental right now.
I toss them across the room.
They land near my nightstand. My phone lights up with a soft buzz.
An ad is still open on the screen. One Harper showed me a week ago while drunk off her ass and swearing "this app is filth in a good way."
Hotline.
Anonymous. No names. No pics. Just fantasies.
I'd laughed at the time. Like I'd ever.
But now...
Now I'm thinking: Maybe I don't want someone to see me.
Maybe I want someone who doesn't need to.
No history. No judgment. Just... raw.
My fingers hover over the app icon.
I hesitate.
Should I? Or not?