Ethan
Our 'soft launch' at the library was a resounding success. The student paper ran a picture of us, my hand covering hers on a textbook, under the headline: "A New Chapter? Chen and Brooks Get Cozy." The campus was buzzing. Our little PR initiative was working almost too well. People weren't just talking; they were invested. They were rooting for us.
The problem was, I wasn't entirely sure I wasn't rooting for us too.
Holding Olivia's hand had felt… different. I'd held a lot of girls' hands. It was part of the playbook, a casual gesture. But with Olivia, it hadn't felt casual. It felt significant. The way her small hand fit in mine, the slight tremor I felt when our skin touched—it was a jolt to the system. And the moment in the library, when she'd told me about the mayor and the park, I'd seen the passionate, idealistic girl behind the iron-clad exterior. It was a side of her I was dangerously curious to know better.
Our forced cooperation on the Fall Festival committee was the perfect excuse. After our initial clashes, we'd settled into a grudging rhythm. She would create the spreadsheets, and I would fill them with ideas she couldn't immediately dismiss as "fiscally irresponsible."
Which is how we found ourselves in an empty student union conference room at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night, staring at a giant whiteboard covered in sticky notes. We were the only two left. The rest of the committee had bailed hours ago.
"Okay," Olivia said, her voice tired but determined. She tapped a sticky note that said 'Live Music.' "We have three quotes from potential headliners. The indie band you wanted is twenty percent over budget."
"We can make it work," I said, leaning over the table to look at the budget spreadsheet on her laptop. "If we cut the petting zoo, we'll have the cash."
"We are not cutting the petting zoo," she said, her tone scandalized. "The petting zoo is a beloved tradition! It polls at an eighty-five percent approval rating among the student body."
"We're polling a petting zoo?" I asked, incredulous. "Chen, sometimes I think you're a robot built in a political science lab."
"And sometimes I think you're a golden retriever who's been given a trust fund and a voter registration card," she shot back, but there was no heat in it. A small smile played on her lips.
I grinned. "Is that your way of saying I'm loyal and lovable?"
"It's my way of saying you're easily distracted by shiny objects. Now, focus. The band."
I looked at the numbers on her screen. They were a mess. But I'd spent my summers as a teenager working—unwillingly—at my father's investment firm. I knew my way around a balance sheet better than I let on.
"Okay, look," I said, pointing to the screen. "Your projection for ticket sales is too conservative. The band we want has a huge following. If we launch a smart social media campaign, we can pre-sell enough tickets to cover the extra cost. Plus, your food vendor estimate is off. We can get a better deal if we offer them exclusivity."
I started moving numbers around, creating a new column for projected revenue. I could feel her watching me, her silence a tangible thing in the quiet room. I looked up. She was staring at me with an expression I'd never seen on her face before. It was a look of pure, unadulterated surprise.
"What?" I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
"You… you know your way around a spreadsheet," she said, as if she'd just seen a dog speak fluent French.
"My dad made me work as a junior analyst for three summers," I admitted with a shrug. "Most boring time of my life. But I guess I picked up a few things."
"You never mentioned that."
"It doesn't really fit the 'charming rogue' narrative, does it?" I said, a hint of bitterness in my voice.
She was quiet for a moment, her sharp eyes studying me. "No," she said softly. "It doesn't."
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The playful banter faded, replaced by something more intimate, more real. We were no longer two rivals playing a game. We were just two people, working late, sharing a small, unexpected piece of ourselves.
"Okay," she said, her voice a little shaky. "Let's run the numbers on your projection."
We worked for another hour, side by side, our shoulders occasionally brushing as we leaned over the laptop. The air was thick with unspoken thoughts. The fake relationship we had constructed felt like a flimsy stage set, and the reality of our connection was threatening to bring it all crashing down.
Finally, we had a viable plan. A plan that included both my band and her petting zoo. A perfect synthesis of our opposing views.
"We did it," she said, a tired but triumphant smile on her face. Her smile transformed her. It softened the sharp angles of her face and made her dark eyes sparkle. She was breathtaking.
"Yeah," I said, my voice thick. "We did."
We were standing close, the whiteboard on one side, the conference table on the other. There was nowhere to go. I could see the exhaustion in her eyes, but I could also see the pride. And I could see the same awareness that was thrumming through my own veins. The awareness that we were standing on the edge of a cliff.
I didn't plan it. I didn't think about the rules. I just acted. I lifted my hand and gently tucked a stray strand of her dark hair behind her ear. Her skin was soft, warm. She froze at my touch, her breath catching in her throat.
My gaze dropped to her lips. They were slightly parted, a silent invitation. I leaned in, slowly, giving her time to pull away. But she didn't. She stood her ground, her eyes wide, her body trembling almost imperceptibly. She was waiting.
I was inches away. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my face. I could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Just one kiss. One real kiss.
Suddenly, the conference room door swung open with a loud bang. A janitor stood there, his eyes wide with surprise.
"Sorry!" he stammered. "Didn't know anyone was in here. Just came to lock up."
The moment was shattered. We sprang apart as if we'd been burned. The space between us was suddenly a chasm, filled with awkwardness and unspoken words.
"We were just leaving," Olivia said, her voice high and strained. She grabbed her binder and her bag, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. She wouldn't look at me.
"Right. Yeah. Me too," I said, gathering my own things.
We walked out of the student union in a silence that was more deafening than any argument we'd ever had. The first cracks in our carefully constructed facade had appeared. And I had a terrifying feeling that soon, the whole thing was going to come tumbling down.