"Freshman year, OVER!"
I yell at the top of my lungs, arms raised like I just escaped a maximum-security prison. Which, honestly, is what this past school year has felt like—except the guards were professors, the cellmates were group project freeloaders, and the "food" was whatever the cafeteria decided to call meat.
Four grueling months of essays, tests, surprise pop quizzes, and enough sleepless nights to kill a small horse. But I made it. No C's. No D's. Definitely no F's.
I spin toward my mirror, grinning like an idiot. "You did good, Ash. Only three more years to go. You've got this."
Except… I don't.
Because there's this little, tiny, soul-consuming thing I've been putting off for months.
His name is Sergie Villarreal.
Yes. That Sergie. The one who looks like he was plucked straight out of a motorcycle ad. The one with the too-perfect smile and the kind of hair that probably has its own personal fan club. The guy who's been pursuing me like he's the lead in some over-the-top Netflix romcom.
Flowers. Late-night calls. Showing up to my dorm at 2 a.m. with takeout because I was pulling an all-nighter. Who even does that?
And for months, every time he asked if I'd finally give him a shot, I told him the same thing.
"Wait until the end of the year. Then I'll give you my answer."
Well… it's the end of the year. And I still have no idea what I'm going to say.
My heart? Screaming, "Yes, yes, yes!" like a lovesick cheerleader.
My brain? Coldly hissing, "What if he's secretly a psycho? What if he's married? What if he eats pineapple on pizza and calls it 'gourmet?'"
I groan, grab my phone, and text him before I can overthink it any harder.
Coffee shop near campus. Meet me. Neutral ground. If I chicken out, I can escape.
He replies almost instantly.
Finishing something, be there soon.
At least he's honest. Could've hit me with the classic "On my way!" text while still in the shower like every other guy who thinks punctuality is optional.
Thirty minutes later.
I'm halfway through my second large milk tea. Regretting every sip because I can feel my bladder quietly packing its bags to abandon me. The barista keeps side-eyeing my growing collection of empty cups like I'm running some kind of personal caffeine graveyard.
To distract myself from internally combusting, I scroll through TikTok. My For You Page clearly hates me, because every other video is a couple kissing, cuddling, or pulling a #RelationshipGoals prank.
Oh, universe. You're hilarious.
"Sorry I'm late. Been here long?"
I glance up—and there he is. Sergie, sliding into the seat across from me like a Calvin Klein model who just wandered into the wrong coffee shop.
He's in a dark green hoodie that probably costs more than my entire closet. His hair? Perfectly tousled, like he woke up five minutes ago and somehow achieved effortless ad energy.
I gesture dramatically to the two empty cups in front of me. "What do you think?"
He follows my hand, winces, and raises his palms in surrender. "Okay, okay. My bad. I was literally on my way to buy you flowers, but traffic downtown is apocalyptic. Teacher conventions, school events, the works. It's like—cars. Everywhere. Snail pace."
I narrow my eyes. I want to stay annoyed, but he's not lying. Everyone's been complaining about the traffic. One of my classmates swore it was faster to ride a scooter than stay in a car.
I sigh dramatically and stab at the ice in my cup with my straw like it personally offended me. "Fine. I'll let it slide."
His grin widens. He knows I can't hold a grudge. Not with him.
After splitting a plate of fries (which I barely touch because I'm still riding my sugar high), we head back to my apartment.
The streets are louder than usual. Horns blaring, traffic crawling slower than a snail with a broken leg. Sergie stays quiet, but I can see his jaw tighten every time someone cuts him off.
When we finally get inside, I offer him water while he perches on the couch like it might bite him. This man can lean into a turn at seventy miles an hour, but sitting on a sofa? That's his kryptonite.
"You okay?" I ask, turning on the fan because he's practically glistening.
"Yeah. Just hot." His voice is casual, but I can tell something's eating at him.
I settle into the chair opposite him, my heart pounding because I know what I'm about to do.
"Sergie…" My voice cracks slightly, so I clear my throat and try again. "If I say yes… will anything change?"
His brows knit together. "Change?"
"Yeah. Us. You. Me. Will it be… different?"
He hesitates, eyes darting to literally everything in the room except me. "No. I mean, yes? I don't know. Maybe a little. Probably for the better?"
I squint. "Why can't you look at me when you say that?"
Finally, he meets my gaze. There's a flicker of something in his eyes I can't quite read.
And then, casually—like he's asking me what I want for dinner—he drops this
"Ash… what do you think people expect a guy and a girl to do when they're alone… in a room?"
I blink. "Talk?"
He stares at me like I just admitted I believe in Bigfoot.
"We're not even in a bedroom. This is the living room. What's your point?"
He groans, rakes a hand through his annoyingly perfect hair, and mutters, "You're impossible."
"Thanks," I deadpan.
He moves closer, inch by inch, closing the gap between us. My breath hitches, my brain short-circuits, and my heart is doing full Olympic gymnastics.
His lips are right there.
And then—
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
I snap my eyes open, ready to commit a felony. "Are you serious right now?!"
"You're cute," he says with a smirk, before planting the quickest peck on my lips. Barely a kiss. More like a… drive-by.
My face is on fire, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. He, however, is staring at the ceiling like it personally insulted him.
The silence that follows? Suffocating. Like, physical pain suffocating. I contemplate faking a phone call when—
The apartment door bursts open.
Selene and Marie storm in, matching scowls plastered on their faces. They stop cold when they see us. Exchange a single look. Then, without a word, they pivot and march right back out.
"Forgot something at school," Selene mumbles, voice dripping with fake innocence.
"Uh-huh," I mutter. "Sure you did."
Hours later, Sergie heads home, and my two so-called best friends return, grinning like they just watched the season finale of their favorite drama.