Even hours later, my cheeks still betrayed me—flushed with heat I couldn't will away.
And all because of a note. Four simple words.
Meet me. Tonight. Rooftop.
It echoed in my mind like a secret I wasn't ready to unpack. I hated how easily my thoughts slipped back to him. To the way he said my name. The quiet curl of his smile when our names were paired.
It meant nothing. I told myself that again and again, even as I tugged my bunny-print tee over my head and settled onto the bed in my comfiest joggers, glasses perched on my nose, textbooks open but untouched.
The exams loomed closer with every tick of the clock. I needed to study. I wanted to study.
But focus felt like chasing clouds.
So just after midnight, I gave in.
I pulled on a hoodie and slipped up the stairwell to the rooftop. The night air met me with a soft, cool hush. The campus stretched in hazy silhouettes beneath the city's quiet glow. A few scattered chairs waited in the darkness like patient ghosts.
But he wasn't there.
I sat. Waited. Told myself not to care. The wind tugged at my sleeves, the chill settling into my bones.
And then, with my eyelids growing heavy and the air blurring around the edges—
Drip.
A raindrop kissed my cheek.
"Hey," a voice murmured, deep and low. "Wake up."
I startled, blinking fast. And there he was.
Danny Cole Fraser.
Breathless from the stairs, perhaps, or something else. His dark bomber jacket clung to his frame like second skin, the wine-colored Henley beneath catching shadows in all the right places. His sleeves were rolled, forearms flexed, hair tousled by the wind.
He looked—infuriatingly, stupidly—gorgeous.
"Sorry I kept you waiting," he said softly.
I sat up straighter, pushing my glasses back into place. "I wasn't waiting," I lied, weakly.
He smiled like he saw straight through it.
We talked then. About the Maxton Meet. The debate. The rules. The pressure. He was sharper than I'd expected—strategic, passionate, grounded. He wasn't just here to win; he was here to dominate. And he wanted a partner who could keep up.
"We'll need to practice daily," he said, voice firm. "An hour minimum. There'll be top-tier competitors. If we're serious about this, we work like it."
"I'm in," I said, and meant it.
Then—crack.
Lightning tore across the sky. I startled, heart leaping. And without thinking, I moved closer—into him.
His arms wrapped around me in one smooth motion, steady, warm. My face landed squarely against his chest, and for a moment, the thunder outside faded beneath the thunder in me.
He chuckled, low and lazy, stroking a hand through my hair.
"You're seriously a baby," he murmured, but there was no bite to it. Just something soft. Amused. Fond, almost.
And then I made the mistake of looking up.
His gaze was on me—languid, unreadable, as if he was trying to solve me like a riddle he didn't want to rush.
Something shifted. Tangled.
He didn't move. Neither did I.
Then, barely above a whisper, he said, "Tell me something, Rose…"
But whatever he meant to ask—whatever was about to happen—
The rooftop door creaked open behind us.