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EPISODE 8 — Headlines and Heartbeats
(Ethan's POV)
The first thing I noticed when I woke was the quiet. Too quiet. Not the soft dormitory hum of Avalon University at night, but an almost eerie stillness, the kind that made the edges of my mind sharpen. My phone vibrated relentlessly on the bedside table. One glance at the screen and I knew — this was no ordinary morning.
A video had surfaced online.
My chest tightened as I opened it. The angle was unmistakable, the moment frozen like a crime scene. Me. Layla. The kiss. The quiet intensity of her lips against mine, the subtle hesitation, the rush of everything unspoken — captured, shared, and now viral among students across campus.
I dropped the phone, heart hammering.
The words my father had drilled into me — "Don't make headlines, Ethan" — slashed through my mind like a blade. I had ignored them before, thinking a quiet nod, a fleeting comment, could keep my life under control. Not anymore. Not now.
The dorm walls suddenly felt like they were closing in. My hoodie, my shield, did nothing to protect me from the sudden awareness that everyone would see, judge, speculate. The delicate equilibrium I had maintained — the careful distance, the composed mask — shattered in a single moment.
I ran a hand through my hair, eyes darting to the mirror. Ethan Marshall, calm, collected, untouchable. Or so everyone thought. But even I couldn't hide the flush rising on my cheeks, the unsteady pulse in my throat. The kiss had been real. The video made it undeniable.
And now, I had to face the consequences.
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Breakfast in the dining hall was a blur. I could hear whispers before I even entered. Phones raised discreetly, small groups turning their heads as I passed, smirks curling like knives. Marcus gave me a subtle thumbs-up, grinning. "Nice move, man," his eyes said, though his tone was teasing.
I ignored him, focused on my tray, but every movement felt exaggerated, every glance a reminder. The kiss was out. Public. And I could already feel the invisible weight pressing down on me: my father. My father would see it. And he would not be amused.
Don't make headlines.
The mantra repeated in my head as I left the hall, moving toward the quad. I needed air. Clarity. Control. I couldn't let him see me falter — not now, not when so many eyes were waiting.
And then I saw her. Layla.
She was sitting under the oak tree near the fountain, sketchbook in hand, calm, collected. The faint sunlight caught her hair, haloing her in gold and chestnut. She didn't notice me at first, absorbed in her own world. And yet, there was a weight in her gaze when our eyes met — a quiet acknowledgment that the kiss wasn't as private as we had thought.
I hesitated. Part of me wanted to vanish, to protect both of us from the chaos. But another part — a darker, louder part — wanted to step forward, hold the moment, claim it.
"Layla," I said, voice low, careful.
She looked up, eyes sharp, eyebrows raised. "Ethan." There was no warmth there, no teasing. Just… the seriousness of someone trying to measure the storm coming their way.
I sighed, the tension coiling tighter in my chest. "We need to talk."
"About what? That the entire campus now knows you have a type?" she replied, a trace of sarcasm hiding concern.
"About this," I said, pointing toward the fountain, toward the spot where our kiss had been, toward the blurred lines between reckless desire and consequences.
Her gaze softened slightly, but her posture remained guarded. "I don't want to make a scene."
I swallowed, the weight of my father's warning pressing down on me. "Neither do I. But a scene is already in motion. The headline exists, Layla. My father…" I trailed off, the words tasting bitter.
She tilted her head, frowning. "Your father?"
"Exactly." I ran a hand over my face. "Don't make headlines. That's what he always says. What he's drilled into me since I could tie my own shoes. And now — now I'm staring at the consequences of ignoring it."
Layla blinked, absorbing my confession. She wasn't used to seeing this side of me — the careful, calculated, pressured side. The side that carried weight beyond the campus, beyond the whispers. The side that worried.
"And yet," she said softly, "you still kissed me."
I felt her words like a strike, sharp and undeniable. "Yes," I admitted. "Because it wasn't just me being reckless. It was… real. And the moment it happened, I knew it would be impossible to walk away without consequences."
Her lips parted slightly, the faintest hint of understanding, maybe even empathy. "So… what now?"
I looked at her, the sunlight tracing the lines of her face, her quiet strength, the defiance hidden behind soft eyes. "Now… we deal with it. Together. Carefully."
She smirked faintly. "Careful doesn't seem like your style."
I chuckled, tension easing ever so slightly. "You've been paying attention."
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By midday, the ripple had grown. Texts, whispers, social media notifications — each one a small explosion. My father's voice echoed in my head, a ghostly admonition I could not shake.
Don't make headlines.
The truth was, he would not just disapprove; he would intervene. And that intervention could be disastrous. Not just for me, but for Layla.
I moved across campus, mind racing. Every step was calculated, each breath measured. The last thing I needed was a confrontation before I could assess the damage. But as I approached the student center, I saw a small crowd gathered around, phones pointed like cameras. And there she was — Layla, standing just behind the fountain, trying to look casual while clearly aware of the stares.
Someone had already posted clips, snapshots, teasing captions.
I pushed through the crowd, heart thudding. "Everyone, give her space," I said, voice low, but carrying the authority I usually reserved for the family boardroom. Heads turned, whispers ceased. Layla's eyes met mine, a flash of gratitude hidden behind her calm exterior.
We moved away, finding a quiet spot near the library steps. I leaned back against the railing, shoulders tense. "This… is bad," I muttered, more to myself than to her.
She sat beside me, sketchbook resting on her lap. "Bad how?"
"Bad enough that my father will know before noon," I said, voice tight. "And he does not handle headlines lightly."
Her lips curved faintly, a teasing glimmer in the storm. "So you're saying… we're in trouble?"
"Yes," I admitted. "And yet… I don't regret it."
Her gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, the chaos of cameras, whispers, and expectations faded. Just us.
"Neither do I," she whispered.
And that was the truth — the danger, the public exposure, the looming shadow of my father's disapproval — none of it diminished the gravity of what had passed between us.
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Evening brought a quiet desperation. My phone vibrated again, and this time it was my father. The ringtone alone made my chest constrict. I ignored it. Not yet. Not until I had a plan.
I found Layla in the library, tucked into a corner, sketching as if the world hadn't just turned upside down. Her presence was a tether, grounding me even as panic threatened to overtake me.
"We need a strategy," I said quietly, sliding into the chair across from her.
She looked up, intrigued. "Strategy?"
"Yes," I said, voice low. "A way to manage… this. The video, the attention, my father… us. Carefully."
Her eyes narrowed, but there was a spark there — not fear, not hesitation, but the thrill of stepping into danger. "And what does careful look like?"
I smiled faintly. "First… we keep our distance in public. Second… we control the narrative. Third… we make sure no one else can take this moment from us."
She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "You make it sound like we're spies."
"Maybe we are," I replied, a mischievous glint in my eye. "The difference is… our mission is worth it."
The library around us seemed to fade. The noise, the chaos, the stares — nothing mattered except the subtle electricity of proximity, the unspoken promise of loyalty and desire tangled together.
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Later that night, I lay in bed, mind racing. My father would know. There was no avoiding it. And yet, the memory of her, of the way her lips had pressed to mine, refused to leave me.
Don't make headlines.
I cursed under my breath, yet a strange thrill coursed through me. Headlines were inevitable. But some things — like Layla — weren't negotiable. Some risks were worth the storm.
And if my father didn't approve… then he would have to see why.
Because I wasn't walking away. Not from her. Not from this. Not from us.
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