Chapter Text
December
We had cranked up the heat in our dorm creating a cozy kind of warmth that settled into my skin that made everything feel softer. Alex had lit one of her festive “holiday cookie” candles, and now the room smelled like sugar and cinnamon. The windows were fogged, a sharp contrast to the cold night pressing in from outside. The snow was a thick and delicate layer of powdered sugar, blanketing the world outside with a pristine and glistening coating that seemed almost magical in its beauty.
I was curled up on Chloe’s bed, popcorn between us, half-watching a bad rom-com while she scrolled through her phone, narrating her family’s latest drama.
“—and then my aunt said turkey was ‘pedestrian,’” Chloe snorted, scrolling through the family group chat, “so now we’re doing prime rib for Christmas, because, you know, class.”
I laughed, the kind that came easily, bubbling up without effort. “That actually sounds amazing.”
“Sure, if you ignore the fact that my family turns every meal into a competition.” She sighed dramatically before grabbing a handful of popcorn. “But enough about me. How are you holding up? No Liam hovering over your shoulder tonight.”
I smiled, feeling the warmth spread through me again. “It’s… nice, actually. Quiet.”
“See? Told you you’d survive one night without him.” She grinned, nudging me with her elbow.
I picked at the popcorn. “Never said I couldn’t! It’s weird though. Like, I keep waiting for my phone to buzz.”
Chloe chuckled. “That’s called codependency, babe.”
I laughed again, knowing she didn’t understand just how different Liam and I were.
To most conventional couples, such behavior might seem codependent, perhaps even unhealthy. However, for us, it felt perfectly right, an ideal harmony between our souls. It was as if our lives were intricately woven together, each thread complementing the other, creating a tapestry of connection that was not just satisfactory, but even superior in its completeness and understanding.
Still, the night felt easy. Relaxed. A rare moment where nothing felt too heavy. Chloe’s phone buzzed on the blanket between us, then mine, but I ignored it, tossing another piece of popcorn into my mouth.
“Shouldn’t the game be wrapping up soon?” Chloe asked, glancing at the clock.
“Yeah,” I nodded, “but he probably won’t text until he’s off the ice.”
She smirked. “Bet he’s already thinking about coming home to you.”
I smiled again, a little shyly, and reached for my phone, about to send Liam a quick “can’t wait to hear about the game” text when Chloe’s phone buzzed again—this time, harder, longer.
Her phone buzzed once. Then again. And again. I didn’t think much of it until Alex’s phone, sitting on the couch, lit up too, vibrating loudly against the wood.
Chloe frowned, unlocking her phone. “Weird.”
I picked up mine. A flood of notifications—Snapchats, Instagram tags, group texts—were lighting up the screen. Then another buzz—Ethan.
The warmth in my chest thinned, the buzz of comfort flickering out.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice sharper than I meant.
Chloe didn’t answer at first, her eyes wide as she scrolled through her phone, her face paling. “Caroline… you need to look at this.”
I fumbled to unlock my phone, my fingers suddenly too slow. A video popped up—Snapchat. The arena. The roar of the crowd filled my ears, distorted and tinny, the camera shaking as someone zoomed in on the ice.
I saw him immediately—Liam. Number 15. His helmet was gone, hair soaked with sweat, face contorted with something wild, something feral. His fists were moving—fast, brutal—over and over, slamming into another player. Blood spattered the ice.
The caption read: “Barnette’s lost it. This is insane.”
“Holy shit,” Alex whispered from across the room, her voice tight.
“You seeing the same thing?” Chloe asked Alex. My ears were ringing. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Another buzz.
Ethan: Should’ve been there, princess. Your boyfriend’s sporting some nasty bruises.
My vision blurred, my heart racing so fast it hurt. I scrolled to the next video. Closer this time. Liam was pinned by two refs, his chest heaving, mouth twisted in a snarl. Blood smeared his cheek, his lip split and swelling, but he was still fighting—still trying to reach the other player. The thing was, the other player wasn’t moving. He lay motionless on the ice.
I felt bile rise in my throat. My hand rose to my mouth.
“What… what happened?” I whispered, but no one answered.
Buzz.
Another video shows a close-up of Liam, his face twisted in rage as he is pulled off the ice. His eyes burn with anger and frustration, his hair matted with sweat, and his jersey hanging off his body. The camera zoomed in on Liam's face, capturing every detail. His hair was matted with sweat, his skin flushed and shiny with exertion. His eyes blazed with unbridled rage, practically popping out of their sockets. His jersey was torn and hanging off his broad shoulders, revealing his muscled chest and arms. The video shows a close-up of Liam, his torn jersey revealing his muscular torso. Blood streaks his face and his lip is swollen, but his eyes are still wild with rage.
The next disappearing image showed medical crew on the ice.
My phone buzzed again—Ethan.
Ethan: Almost like someone touched his favorite toy.
I dropped my phone like it burned me.
“Caroline,” Chloe’s voice snapped me out of it, “you’re shaking.”
I hadn’t realized it, but my whole body was trembling, my hands white-knuckled in my lap.
“She’s white! Caroline, drink this,” Alex pressed a water bottle into my hands. “Breathe. Deep breaths.”
The water tasted metallic, my mouth too dry to swallow properly. The images still played in my mind—Liam’s fists, the blood, the way he looked completely… gone.
“I—” my voice cracked, “I need to go. I need to see him.”
Alex was already moving, practical, efficient. “I’ll call an Uber. Chloe, pack her clothes, I’ll grab her books and laptop. Caroline, find out where he is.”
Chloe scrambled off the bed, grabbing my duffle, her hands moving faster than her brain. “We should go with her,” she said, panic creeping into her voice.
Alex shook her head. “No. Too many people will just make it worse. She needs to be alone with him.”
I was barely listening, my focus narrowing to one thing: Liam unhinged.
My hands shook as I texted Ethan.
Ethan: He’s headed back to the house. You should meet him there.
My heart pounded against my ribs, my throat tight. I grabbed my phone again, fingers shaking as I texted Ethan.
Caroline: Is he okay?
(Not that I could define what I meant by “ok.”)
Ethan: Nothing you can’t fix
The Uber was pulling up outside.
“Hey,” Alex grabbed my wrist, grounding me, “text us the second you get there. If anything feels… off, call us. Immediately.”
I nodded, unable to find my voice.
Chloe wrapped me in a hug, tight and fast. “He’s gonna be fine. Just… take care of him. And text us.”
I stepped out into the cold, the door closing behind me with a soft click. The warmth of the dorm evaporated instantly, replaced by the sharp, biting wind. I pulled my coat tighter around me, but it didn’t help.
I climbed into the Uber, the images still looping in my mind—Liam’s fists, the blood, the rage.
He told me not to go to the game. He said it was better if I wasn’t there.
But what if… what if me not being there is what made him snap? Would he had grounded himself knowing I had watched? Or would my presence only push him further? Just how dangerous was he? That last question clung to my ribs like cancer.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my forehead against the cool window as the car sped through the dark streets. The only thought running through my mind, over and over, was simple: I needed to see him.
The hockey house pulsed with a frenetic, chaotic energy—voices raised to a fervent pitch, laughter teetering dangerously close to aggression. The air was filled with the sharp, acrid sting of sweat, mingling with the metallic scent of blood and the fiery burn of whiskey. The remnants of the game clung heavily in the atmosphere, as players animatedly recounted moments from the ice, their stories punctuated by wild, sweeping gestures and the telltale signs of battle: bruised knuckles and flushed faces.
I hesitated at the door, the weight of the house pressing in. My heart raced, each beat a harsh thud in my chest.
“Caroline!” Mason’s familiar voice broke through the noise.
I turned as he approached, his face flushed from the game but wearing that easy, golden retriever smile. His helmet dangled from one hand, pads still strapped unevenly around his shoulders, a cut above his brow bleeding slightly.
“Hey,” I tried, forcing a small smile.
He gave me a once-over, his smile softening into concern. “You doing okay? That was… intense.”
I swallowed hard. “I just need to see him.”
He hesitated before nodding. “He’s upstairs. Been nursing that whiskey like it’s medicine. Got some bruised ribs, but he’s… Liam.” His smile was lopsided but faltered as his eyes drifted toward the stairs. “I’ve never seen him like that before.”
I nodded, my throat tight, and moved toward the staircase.
“Hey,” Mason called after me, softer this time. “He’ll be happy to see you — He’s been waiting for you.”
Before I could answer, another voice cut through the noise—smooth, sharp, like a blade hidden beneath silk.
“Well, well,” Ethan drawled from the hallway, beer in hand, his lip split, bruises forming under his eye, but his grin still intact. “Told Mason you’d be here. Nurse on duty, right?”
I didn’t reply.
Ethan tilted his head, his eyes sharp. “Hope you’re ready, princess. He’s… in a mood.”
I clenched my jaw and pushed past him, my hand tightening around the strap of my bag.
As I climbed the stairs, the house noise dulled, but the weight in my chest grew heavier. The air felt thicker, charged, like I was walking straight into a storm I couldn’t see yet.
Liam’s door was slightly ajar, light seeping through the crack. I hesitated, my hand hovering above the handle, before I pushed it open.
“Babe?” My voice came out softer than I intended, trembling slightly.
Liam sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees, a glass of whiskey hanging loosely in one hand, the other gripping an ice pack, before dropping it onto the floor. His ribs were exposed, dark bruises already blooming against pale skin, his knuckles raw and bloodied.
He didn’t look at me right away, swirling the whiskey in the glass as if it held answers.
“You’re here,” he murmured finally, his voice low, rough, and layered with something heavier I couldn’t quite place.
I took a hesitant step forward. “Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”
He reached up for me. Liam’s fingers traced slow, deliberate lines over my wrist where his grip had once left a faint red mark. He wasn’t apologizing—he never did—but there was a carefulness in his touch now, like he could smooth over a faded bruise with his fingertips, erase the damage before it set in.
The room was thick with the smell of whiskey, sweat, and blood—his blood, mine in a different way. The bruises bloomed dark and swollen across his knuckles, one cut still sluggishly bleeding where it split open beneath the tape.
“Don’t be scared of me,” Liam murmured, his voice low but edged with steel.
It wasn’t a question or a plea. It was a command. And the way his hand wrapped around my wrist again—gentler this time but still firm—told me exactly how serious he was.
“I’m not,” I lied, the words scraping against my throat.
His gaze flicked up, sharp, unrelenting. He saw through me. He always did. But instead of calling me on it, he just gave a small, satisfied nod—accepting the answer he needed to hear.
I pressed the ice pack harder against his ribs, feeling the heat of his bruised skin beneath it. He winced but didn’t say anything.
“God, Liam…” I whispered, my eyes trailing over the mess of him, taking account of each cut, scrape, discoloration upon his skin. “You’re a disaster.”
The corner of his mouth tugged upward, a humorless smirk. “If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy.” I tried not to flinch.
The way he said it—like it was a badge of honor—
caused my nerves coiled beneath my skin, tight and trembling. But I didn’t say anything. I just moved the ice to his swollen knuckles, my hands trembling slightly.
“I wish you hadn’t seen it,” Liam muttered after a beat, his voice rougher now, as if admitting weakness took more out of him than the fight.
I hesitated. “I—” but the words stuck in my throat. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. That I was scared? That watching him like that—completely unhinged—made something in me twist painfully? That it wasn’t just the violence that scared me most, but how easy it was to see him like that and still want to take care of him?
He caught the hesitation in my silence. His hand wrapped around my wrist again—this time harder—and I flinched before I could stop myself.
His jaw tightened. “I have never laid a hand on you. I have never hurt you and I never will.”
The words came out sharp, defensive, as if he needed me to believe them as much as he did. But my eyes flicked to the bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, half-empty, and I weighed my response carefully.
“You raped me, Liam.” My voice cracked, thin and fragile, but I forced the words out. “You can’t say that when...” I let the words die on my tongue. They no longer held their weight, not like they once had.
The room went still, heavy with the weight of it. Liam let out a deep, exasperated sigh, like I was a child who still didn’t understand how the world worked.
“That’s different, and you know it.”
I looked away, swallowing the bitter taste rising in my throat. The worst part was that some small, fractured part of me almost believed him.
“I was scared,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned back, stretching his ribs—wincing but covering it with a grimace. “Scared for me?”
I nodded.
His smirk returned, softer this time, almost indulgent. “Good. Someone should be.”
I pressed the ice pack harder against his hand, trying to ignore the way my heart twisted at his words.
“What did he say?” I asked, my voice tight.
Liam’s jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white around the glass in his hand. His eyes darkened, gaze distant, replaying something in his mind. I waited, the question hanging between us, heavy and fragile.
He shook his head once—slow, deliberate. A clear end to that conversation.
The silence stretched, filled only by the soft crackle of the ice pack in my hands.
But I couldn’t let it go. “Are there any rumors we should be worried about?”
His eyes snapped back to mine, sharp and cold. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
I swallowed hard, nodding, feeling that familiar twist in my chest—the pull of him, of his control, threading through everything.
“You did good,” Liam murmured after a beat, his voice softer now. “Coming here. Taking care of me.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded, the tension in my chest tightening, twisting into something I couldn’t name.
“I need you,” he added, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
And I believed him.
Because in that moment, “I need you, too” was the truest confession I’d given him.
"What did Coach say?" I asked, finally breaking the tense silence that had settled between us. I had just finished rewrapping the bandage around Liam's bloodied knuckles, which were swollen and bruised from the fight, and now I was carefully dabbing antiseptic on the split in his lower lip.
"Suspended for two games," Liam replied, his voice a mix of frustration and resignation. "And I have to attend an anger management class on Saturday." He paused, rubbing his temples as if trying to dispel the memory. "Coach wanted to know why I lost my fucking head," he muttered, eyes dark with the weight of his own actions.
I winced as I applied the antiseptic to his lip, his sharp intake of breath making me pause.
"Sorry," I murmured, my fingers hovering uncertainly above the wound.
"Don't be," Liam said, his eyes finding mine with that intensity that always made me feel like I was the only thing in his world. "Keep going."
I resumed my careful ministrations, trying to focus on the medical task at hand rather than the heat of his gaze. The bruising around his eye was darkening by the minute, a violent purple-black stain spreading across his face.
"What did you tell Coach?" I asked, voice barely above a whisper, afraid of the answer but needing to know.
Liam's laugh was harsh, without humor. "What could I tell him? That someone chirped about my girlfriend? That I couldn't let it stand?" His hand found my waist, fingers pressing into my hip, grounding himself in me like I was the only thing keeping him tethered.
My stomach twisted, my pulse tightening in my throat.
“What did he say?” I asked, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer.
Liam exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening for half a second before he loosened it.
“It doesn’t matter”
I swallowed, “It does to me”
Liam’s eyes flicked up to mine, searching. For what, I wasn’t sure.
Then — “He said I had to drug and rape you to get you into my bed”
I stopped breathing. All the implications held in the air between us.
I saw the muscle in Liam’s jaw ticked.
“He said ‘I wouldn’t need a pharmacy to get her into bed with me,’” he continued, voice low, controlled, but laced with something venomous. “That he could turn you into his perfect little whore after just one night. He said I was welcome to watch what I couldn’t accomplish without GHB.”
The words felt like a punch to the ribs, even with how carefully he said them. Even without him repeating the exact ones that had been spat at him on the ice.
I inhaled sharply, nausea curling in my stomach. Liam must have felt the tension in my body because his grip on my waist tightened, his touch no longer grounding but claiming.
His lips curled, the ghost of a smirk, but there was nothing amused about it, “So I broke his fucking face”
I closed my eyes for half a second, trying to keep my breathing steady.
"Don't worry," Liam added, his voice dropping to a whisper as he pulled me closer, his bruised hand cupping my face. "I made sure he won't say anything like that again."
The way he said it sent a chill down my spine—not a promise but a certainty. His thumb brushed over my lower lip, a possessive gesture that made my heart stutter in my chest.
“Is he going to be ok?” My voice was so small, I wasn’t sure if he would hear me.
He gave a somber nod, “yeah, but he has a broken jaw, concussion and some other normal hockey injuries.” Normal. In the context, “normal” belonged nowhere in this room.
My brow creased. I knew I wore my unease openly because Liam didn’t wait for me to respond.
"You didn’t want you to hear what he said," he continued, his eyes darkening. "But I needed you to understand why I did what I did. Why I couldn't let it go."
“Liam, he talked about GBH…” my voice still soft but now quivering. I never allowed myself to wonder if Liam had a reputation of force before me. He assured me he didn’t but I could feel the trust cracking: porcelain when held up to light you can see every fault line. He didn’t look at me. A sharp, sickening weight settled in my stomach.
“Liam,” I whispered, my voice barely holding steady. “How did he know?”
His fingers paused against my skin, his grip still light but unmoving.
I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat. “How did he know what you did to me?”
Liam exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking over my face, reading every crack, every fault line splintering beneath the surface.
“It doesn’t matter.”
I tore myself from his grasp, my breath ragged and uneven, like a storm raging within my chest. "Don't do that. Don't you fucking dismiss this." My mind was racing too fast, spiraling into places I hadn’t let it go before—places I didn’t want to go.
Someone knew. And if one person knew, how many others did?
My hands curled into fists. “Who did you tell?”
Liam’s jaw flexed. “No one.”
“Then how—” I cut myself off, the realization slamming into me like a freight train. My stomach twisted violently. “Oh my God. You’ve done this before!”
His expression didn’t change, but something colder settled into his eyes.
“No.” His voice was smooth, controlled. “I haven’t.”
“Then how the fuck did he know?” I snapped, the panic clawing its way up my throat.
Liam exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Because people like to talk, Caroline.” My name sounded sour on his tongue, like he was forcing it out to placate me.
The way he said it—so calm, so unbothered—made something in me crack wide open.
“Talk about what, Liam?”
He tilted his head, watching me carefully. “About us.”
The room felt smaller, the air too thick.
“Us?” My voice was hoarse, barely there.
Liam leaned in, his hand ghosting over my wrist, an anchor, a tether. “Yes, sweetheart. About how I saw you first. About how I got to you first.” His lips curled, slow, deliberate. “About how you belong to me.”
I shook my head, bile rising in my throat. “That’s not—”
“People make assumptions, Caroline. They see what they want to see.” His fingers traced over my skin, featherlight. “They think they know things they don’t.”
I swallowed hard, the nausea curling tighter. “So they do think—”
“They don’t think anything that matters.” His voice was firmer now, sharper, wrapping around my ribs like a vice. “They don’t know the truth.”
I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief second, my mind still spinning, still clinging to the question that would not go away.
What if I wasn’t the first?
What if I wasn’t the only one?
I forced my breath out, trying to ignore the sickening twist of paranoia in my gut. “You swear to me—”
Liam didn’t let me finish. His fingers curled beneath my chin, tilting my face up to his, his bruised knuckles brushing against my cheek. “Caroline.” His voice dropped lower, thick with something darker. “You were always the only one.”
My pulse stuttered, my entire body locking into place.
“No one else,” he murmured, his grip tightening slightly. “No one before you. No one after you.”
My stomach lurched, but my body betrayed me, leaning into his touch, clinging to the certainty in his voice, the assurance in it.
“You don’t have to be afraid of me.” The words were soft, quiet, but absolute. “Because you already know you’re safe with me.”
He pulled me closer, positioning me so I was seated on his lap.
“I know what I did.” His jaw flexed, his thumb still pressing into my skin, grounding me. “And so do you.”
I inhaled sharply, something thick and heavy settling in my chest.
“Do you think I regret it?” His voice dropped lower, threading through the space between us, curling around my ribs like a vice. “Do you think I lose sleep at night, wondering if I went too far?”
I tried to look away, but his hand on my face wouldn’t let me.
“I don’t”
The certainty in his voice sent a shiver down my spine.
“I don’t regret any of it, Caroline.” His fingers slid into my hair, fisting gently at the nape of my neck, tilting my face up. “Not the way it started. Not how we got here. Not a single second.”
My breath caught.
His bruised knuckles brushed against my cheek, softer now, careful, his next words almost reverent.
“I told you, I don’t need to drug you to keep you in my bed.” He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against my lips. “I never did”
A sharp pang bloomed in my chest, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
Was he right? Those early weeks, he just needed to threaten me with reputational and academic ruin. Drugging me at the Halloween party - that was a game for him. I hated confronting the past because he was right. I was still here.
Liam tilted his head slightly, his fingers tightening ever so slightly in my hair. "And tell me, sweetheart.” His lips barely grazed mine. “Where would you be right now, if I hadn’t done what I did?”
The air between us crackled.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Because he already knew the answer. And so did I.
The cafeteria buzzed with a sharper edge today. Not the usual white noise of students discussing classes or weekend plans, but something more electric—focused.
I could feel it, the weight of glances, the half-laughs that cut off when I passed, the whispered comments just loud enough to be heard but not clear enough to confront. I sat next to Liam, picking at my breakfast, my fork dragging lazy lines through syrup I had no intention of eating. My phone buzzed twice on the table—more notifications. More tags.
The whispers weren’t even whispers anymore.
“That’s the one. That’s her.”
“You think she really cheated?”
“I heard the guy Liam fought was her dealer. Or an ex? Maybe both.”
“Freshman girls are so easy to control. She’s practically his puppet.”
I swallowed hard, the buzz of voices pressing in around me, claustrophobic despite the wide, open cafeteria. I tugged at the sleeve of Liam’s hoodie—the one I was wearing. Oversized, soft, amberwood and bergamot still clinging to it. It should have made me feel better, safer, like it was my armor. Instead, I felt like I was drowning in it.
Liam, of course, was perfectly calm. One arm draped lazily over the back of the bench behind me, the other wrapped around a mug of black coffee. He hadn’t touched his food. He didn’t need to. His composure was marble - smooth, flawless, beautiful.
My phone buzzed again. I didn’t even have to check. Another tag. Another rumor.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Stop reading that shit,” Liam’s voice cut through the noise. Calm, steady. Like none of it mattered.
I tried to smile, to brush it off, but my hands trembled slightly as I picked at my pancakes. “It’s just… bad,” I whispered.
His hand slid from the back of the bench, resting on my knee under the table, squeezing just hard enough for me to feel it. “Caroline.” His tone dropped, layered with warning. “Look at me.”
I did, my eyes burning.
“None of this touches you. You’re mine. You know that, right?”
I swallowed hard, nodding, even as my chest ached with the weight of everything swirling around us.
Before I could say anything, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Good morning, lovebirds.”
Ethan dropped his tray on the table with a loud clatter, sliding into the booth across from us like he belonged there. His lip was split, the bruise on his jaw a deep purple, but his grin was infuriatingly intact. He gave me an exaggerated wink before taking a bite of his bagel.
I sat there, stomach twisted in knots, watching them.
Ethan gestured vaguely around the cafeteria with his fork. “Quite the buzz today. “
Liam didn’t flinch. He let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back further in his chair. “This bullshit?”
They both laughed, that strange, easy kind of laugh only guys like them could share after a fight—like it was all just another game.
“Did you hear some of the crap they’re saying?”
Liam’s jaw tensed, but his smirk never slipped. “I’m sure you’ll tell us.”
Ethan grinned wider, like that was permission. “Oh, it’s wild. Apparently, Caroline’s a gold-digging drug dealer who’s been sleeping with half the hockey team and supplying the other half.” He waggled his brows at me. “Honestly, I’m offended you didn’t even offer.”
I let my head fall into my hands.
Liam chuckled, more bored than anything. His fingers tapped against the table—calm, deliberate—but the tension radiating from him was suffocating.
Ethan leaned forward, dropping his voice, like we were in on some private joke. “And my personal favorite? That the guy you beat the shit out of was her ex. Or maybe her dealer. Or maybe both? People can’t seem to decide.”
Liam’s smirk deepened, but his eyes darkened. “People talk.”
Ethan’s grin turned sharper, more predatory. “No hard feelings, princess. This kind of shit comes with the territory.” He gave me a long, lingering look. “You’re in the big leagues now.”
I lift my head back up and forced a tight smile. “I can handle it.”
Ethan raised his brows, like he was impressed. “That’s the spirit.”
Liam chuckled, finally lifting his coffee to his lips, but there was a steeliness behind the laughter. His thumb traced idle circles over the back of my hand under the table—a grounding touch, but also a claim.
Ethan’s eyes flicked down, catching the movement. Something dark flickered in his expression for a split second before the grin returned.
“You’re lucky, Barnette.” He jabbed his fork in Liam’s direction. “Most guys would kill for a girl who sticks around after all this shit.”
Liam’s smile was slow, indulgent. “She’s not going anywhere.”
Ethan leaned back, crossing his arms. “No, I guess not.”
I felt Liam’s hand tighten on my leg again—an unspoken warning, not for me, but for Ethan. The energy between them was electric—charged, volatile, but somehow still laced with familiarity. Like two wolves circling but never quite attacking.
Before either of them could speak again, another voice chimed in.
“What’s up, fam?” Mason’s booming voice broke through the tension as he dropped his tray onto the table, the force making the utensils rattle.
He squeezed into the seat next to Ethan, sandwiching him in, his golden retriever energy on full display. “Man, that was a wild game.” He shot me a warm smile. “Caroline, you doing okay? Heard the stands were buzzing with some real horseshit.”
His kindness made my throat tighten again, but I nodded. “I’m fine.”
Mason wasn’t convinced but didn’t push. He turned his attention to Ethan. “You causing trouble again?”
Ethan raised his hands, feigning innocence. “Me? Never.”
Mason gave him a suspicious look, “yeah, sure.”
Ethan just laughed.
“That’s her. I heard she’s just with him for the money.”
“I mean, she could do a lot worse for a black card.”
“He’s so obsessed he probably doesn’t even care.”
“It explains why she’s always all over him.”
I flinched.
Liam’s hand tightened around my knee under the table. I squeezed his hand, letting him ground me.
Ethan noticed, of course. He always noticed. His grin faltered, just for a second. “It’ll blow over. It always does.”
But Liam wasn’t listening to him anymore. He was focused entirely on me.
His hand slid up to my chin, tipping it gently so I was forced to look at him. His gaze was dark, but steady. “Hey, you’re better than this. You’re mine and that means you’re untouchable. No lie they spew changes that.”
And somehow, despite the buzz, the stares, the swirling chaos around us, I believed him.
“It just feel so high school” I admitted, leaning against Liam for support. His hand dropped to my side, pulling me closer to him. Anchoring me, protecting me.
Before I could spiral any further, the familiar sound of trays clattering against tabletops broke through the haze. Chloe’s voice—bright, grounding—cut through the murmurs.
“There she is—our little campus celebrity.”
Her words were light, teasing, but I felt the weight of her eyes—searching, calculating—assessing just how deep the damage had gone. She dropped into the seat beside me with an exaggerated flourish, her tray landing with a soft thud. Alex followed, quieter but no less deliberate, slipping into the space next to Chloe. Her gaze flicked over me, taking in the tight grip Liam had on my knee beneath the table, the untouched food on my tray, the way my shoulders curled inward.
“Ignore them,” Chloe said, her voice a forced kind of casual. She bumped my shoulder with hers, the contact sharp enough to make me jolt. “People here love drama. Give it a week—someone else will do something stupid, and they’ll forget all about this.”
I swallowed hard, feeling the buzz of my phone still vibrating against the table, notifications piling up like a countdown I couldn’t stop. Liam picked it up and slid it into his pocket. “You don’t need this.” Final. Complete. Fair.
“Seriously,” Alex chimed in, her tone calm, but there was an edge to it, like she was holding something back. “It was a hockey fight. People act like it’s some Shakespearean tragedy, but it’s just… noise. All of it.” She shot a sharp look at Ethan, who sat there, too relaxed, spinning his fork between his fingers like he was waiting for the next spark.
Ethan’s grin widened, catching her silent accusation. “What? I didn’t start the rumors. I’m just appreciating the chaos.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “No hard feelings, Greer. This is just what happens when you date the campus golden boy.” His eyes flicked to Liam, then back to me, daring me to challenge him.
Liam didn’t move. He didn’t need to. His thumb traced slow, methodical circles along my thigh under the table, grounding me—or maybe staking his claim. I couldn’t tell anymore.
“You okay?” Chloe’s voice softened, pulling me back. Her hand found my wrist, fingers curling gently around it. “I know it feels awful right now, but this? It’ll pass.”
I wanted to believe her. I wanted to feel the comfort her words offered, but the weight in my chest refused to lift. I could still hear the whispers, the not-so-subtle stares. It was suffocating.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say. Finally, I forced the words out. “I just… it feels pathetic. All of this.” My voice wavered, betraying my resolve, my fingers tightening around Liam’s sleeve.
Chloe smiled, bright and easy, like she could carry the weight of the room on her own. “Then treat it that. Roll your eyes, toss your hair, and act like you’re better than them. Because, newsflash—you are.”
That earned a low chuckle from Mason, looked the most relaxed. “Honestly, I think we’re all focusing too much on the chatter and not enough on what’s important - the end of semester hockey house party.” He shot me a warm look before digging into his food, completely unbothered.
I felt the tightness in my chest ease, just a fraction.
But then there was Ethan.
His grin faded, just for a second, as he watched me. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “Then you can show off all you want,” he said, almost to himself. “Really give them something to talk about.”
Liam’s hand tensed on my leg, his thumb halting its slow circles.
“Back off,” Liam murmured, his voice low, dangerous.
Ethan raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m just saying—people are always going to talk, might as well control the narrative.”
But his words sat there, heavy, lingering.
The conversation drifted towards discussions about finals and the eagerly awaited house party at the hockey house scheduled for the day finals concluded. As soon as the topic arose, the usual clamor in the cafeteria seemed to dissolve, fading into a distant murmur, a mere whisper compared to the excitement of the plans being made.
Within a few days, the initial frenzy had mellowed. The once-vibrant buzz had quieted, leaving behind only a few lingering glances exchanged between classmates and the occasional disgusting meme still circulating among us. Yet, it all felt trivial, insignificant, almost as if the anticipation of the upcoming celebration had rendered everything else mundane and unimportant.
Finals loomed in the near future and with hockey season in full swing, a free afternoon felt like more of a reward than a given.
Liam’s dorm room was surprisingly warm and inviting. The soft light from the desk lamp bathed the room in a golden glow, and the faint hum of the heater filled the quiet space. I laid in his bed, clad in just his practice jersey and panties, my hair still wild from a few moments early. I watched him, casually dressed and relaxed, as he stirred something at the counter by the mini-fridge.
“You’re going to love this,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smirk.
“If you poisoned me, I’m going to haunt you,” I muttered, though I couldn’t keep the small smile off my face.
“Relax,” he said, picking up the mugs. “Hot chocolate. My mom’s recipe—well, technically her childhood au pair’s, but she likes to claim it as hers.”
He handed me one of the mugs and sat on the bed next to me. I cradled the cup in my hands, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. The aroma was rich, with a hint of cinnamon and something else I couldn’t place.
I took a tentative sip and nearly sighed. “Okay, this is really good.”
“I told you,” he said, his smirk softening into something more genuine.
We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the quiet broken only by the occasional scrape of his mug against the desk as he set it down. I stared at the books piled haphazardly on his desk and the hockey stick propped in the corner. There were flashes of him everywhere—controlled chaos, confidence, and something sharp lingering beneath the surface.
I took another sip, the cocoa warming me from the inside, and then, before I could overthink it, I asked, “What were you like as a kid?”
Liam raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall. “What kind of question is that?”
“A serious one,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t deflect.”
He considered me for a moment, then tilted his head slightly. “Aggressive.”
“Aggressive?” I chewed on the word. It fit him but it didn’t feel complete.
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “I was the kid who got into fights during recess. Didn’t matter if it was over something stupid like the monkey bars or a bad call during kickball—I couldn’t let it go.”
I stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. “Your parents let you get away with that?”
He snorted, shaking his head. “Not really. My dad thought it was great. Said it showed I had a competitive edge. My mom, though…” He trailed off, his smirk fading slightly. “She thought it was an image problem. They pulled me out of soccer and lacrosse after I got into too many fights. My mom didn’t want me embarrassing her at games.”
“So they put you in hockey?” I asked.
“It was my dad’s idea,” he said, his tone light but tinged with something darker. “He figured it was a better fit. Fighting on the ice isn’t just allowed—it’s part of the game. He threw in a few martial arts lessons for good measure - you know, self control while learning how to throw a proper punch.”
I frowned, my chest tightening. “That’s awful.”
He shrugged again, his gaze drifting toward the window. “It worked out. Hockey gave me something to focus on, and my mom could still brag about my accomplishments. ”
“That doesn’t make it okay,” I said softly.
“No, it doesn’t,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But that’s just how they are. My dad’s all about winning. My mom’s all about appearances. And I’m just… stuck somewhere in the middle.”
I traced my finger around the rim of the mug, the cocoa now lukewarm. “So, when was your first fight?”
Liam’s head tilted, amused by the question, but there was a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “You mean, like, on the ice? Or in general?”
“In general,” I said, though I already knew which story I wanted. “The one that… mattered.”
He chuckled under his breath, a low sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s a loaded question.”
I let the silence stretch, waiting. Liam thrived on control, but he also liked being asked—prodded gently to reveal just enough.
Finally, he spoke. “I was eight. Private school. Tucked-in shirts, blazers two sizes too big. The kind of place where everyone’s dad was someone important — you know, like here” He laughed as he swirled the cocoa in his mug, watching it as if the memory was playing out in the ripples. “Some rich kid—his dad owned half of Wall Street or something—said something about my mom. I don’t even remember what, but it was nasty. About how she wasn’t really one of ‘them.’ Said she married down, slumming it with my dad just to look respectable.”
He shrugged like it was nothing, but I caught the way his hand tightened around the mug.
“I broke his nose,” he said simply. “Punched him right in the face during recess.”
I blinked. “At eight?”
His smirk returned, razor-sharp. “Yeah. Got suspended for two weeks. My dad told me it was about time I stood up for myself.” A beat passed, then his smile faded. “My mom was furious, though. Said it was a stain on the family’s reputation. She reminded me my brother never pulled any of these ‘stunts”.”
I hesitated before asking, “Were you scared? You know… after?”
Liam’s eyes met mine, unwavering. “No. I liked it. It felt good.”
The room suddenly felt smaller. His honesty was unnerving, but there was something hypnotic about it too—the way he didn’t flinch from the darker parts of himself. The vulnerability in his voice made my throat tighten. For all his bravado, there was something undeniably lonely about the way he talked about his family.
“You’re not shocked,” he noted, leaning in slightly.
I swallowed, my throat dry. “I don’t know what I expected.”
Liam’s gaze softened, his thumb brushing over the edge of my mug. “Good. Because I don’t want to hide anything from you. I’ve always fought for what’s mine.” I nodded, satisfied.
The air between us thickened, his meaning clear. It wasn’t just about playground fights or bloodied noses. It was about now—about me.
I hesitated, staring down at my mug. “What about… relationships?”
“What about them?” he asked, glancing at me curiously.
“What were they like? What were you like with them?” I chewed my cheek, regretting the words once they were spoken
“I’ve dated before,” he said, his tone calm and measured. “Hooked up, had fun. It was nothing ever serious — I knew the right things to say, the right moves to make. It was easy.” He gave himself a proud smile, “But this? What I feel for you? What we are” He shook his head. “It’s different. This is the only ending I’ll allow.”
His honesty made my chest tighten, but I couldn’t tell if it was from fear or something warmer. I shifted closer, setting my mug down and moving so that I was in his lap, my legs draping over his. He stiffened for a moment before relaxing, his hands finding my waist, grounding me.
“You’re different with me,” I said softly.
His fingers tightened slightly, almost possessively. “Because with you, there’s no contingency. There’s no version where I lose.”
I swallowed hard, the words sinking deeper than I wanted to admit. There was a calmness in his voice, like he was stating a fact—unchangeable, inevitable.
We sat there in the warmth of the room, the snow falling outside in thick, soft flakes. Liam’s hand trailed absentmindedly up and down my back, his fingers pressing lightly into my spine, a grounding touch that felt both comforting and possessive.
I swirled the last bit of cocoa in my mug, the sweetness now lukewarm and dull. “Do you ever think about it?” I asked, my voice soft.
He tilted his head. “Think about what?”
“Being different. Not so… controlled.”
For a beat, he didn’t answer. His fingers stilled on my back, the warmth of his touch suddenly heavier, anchoring. “No,” he said finally, his voice low, deliberate. “Control is everything. Why do you want me throwing punches at every guy who looks at you?”
I stifled a laugh through my nose, the weight of his words sinking into my chest. It was the kind of answer that should have scared me, should have made me pull back. But instead, it felt safe. Protected.
His hand moved to my chin, tilting it upward so I was forced to meet his gaze. His eyes, dark and sharp, searched mine with that familiar intensity—like he was reading thoughts I hadn’t even formed yet.
“That control? It’s how I protect what matters. Which means you never need to question it.” he murmured, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “I take care of it for both of us, no matter what that ‘it’ is.”
I felt my heart tighten, the room suddenly too quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the heater and the snow tapping against the window. I wanted to protest, to say something about agency, about choice—but the words never made it past my throat.
Instead, I nodded. Because in reality, it was easier that way. It was always easier with him guiding me.
Liam’s smirk returned, softer now, almost indulgent.
Without warning, Liam stood up, and held his hand out for me. “We should probably get ready for finals.” He was right, they were only a week away. Luckily, most of my work were papers, but I did have an in class politics final, focusing on justice.
Taking his hand, he helped me off the bed and led me to his desk, his books and notes scattered in perfectly imperfect piles. I made myself comfortable on the floor, leaning against his leg.
Liam sat at his desk, one hand flipping through the pages of my political theory notes while the other trailed through my hair in slow, deliberate strokes. I was on the floor beside him, cross-legged, my back resting lightly against his knee. His fingers moved absently, brushing over my scalp, grounding me.
The room was steeped in quiet, broken only by the hum of the heater and the occasional scrape of paper when Liam flipped a page. A soft layer of snow pressed against the dorm window, muting the world outside. It was peaceful. Still.
At least on the surface.
“Explain the difference between Locke’s social contract and Rousseau’s.” Liam’s voice was calm, almost gentle, but there was an edge—something firmer beneath it. His fingers twisted a strand of my hair between his fingers, not pulling, but waiting.
I bit my lip, my eyes scanning the open notebook in front of me. “Locke believed in the protection of individual rights—that the social contract exists so people can preserve life, liberty, and property. Rousseau’s was more about the general will—the idea that the collective good outweighs individual interests.”
His fingers tightened, tugging at the strand. Not hard. Just enough to make me feel it.
“And?” His tone was soft, but there was a weight behind it—a silent challenge.
I hesitated. “And Rousseau thought that freedom comes from participating in the general will. That in following it, people are essentially obeying themselves… even if they don’t agree with the majority.”
A low hum of approval vibrated through him. He released the strand of hair and resumed stroking it gently, his fingers combing through in slow, rhythmic movements.
“You’re getting better at this,” he murmured.
Warmth spread through me at the praise, a quiet kind of satisfaction. I didn’t say anything, but I felt my back straighten a little, like I’d earned the space I was in.
Liam flipped to another page. “Alright. Which of the Republic’s theories of justice is more closely aligned with Nietzsche’s view?”
I frowned, my brow furrowing. “Nietzsche rejected most conventional views of justice—he thought it was just a tool for the weak to control the strong. So… Thrasymachus’s definition, right? Justice as the advantage of the stronger?”
For a second, I thought I’d gotten it right. But then Liam’s fingers curled into my hair, tugging sharply enough that I gasped, “ouch!” He chuckled under his breath.
“Almost.” His voice was still calm, still patient, but the tug lingered. “But you missed something.”
I swallowed, my mind racing. “Nietzsche would have rejected Thrasymachus’s cynicism, right? He wasn’t just about power for its own sake. It’s about the will to power—striving for greatness, self-overcoming. Thrasymachus focuses on dominance whereas Nietzsche focuses on transcendence?”
The pressure on my scalp eased. His fingers loosened, returning to soft strokes.
“There you go.” He said it so simply, like it had been obvious the whole time.
I exhaled slowly, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
His hand moved to my back, brushing down my spine before returning to my hair. The movements were casual, lazy even, but the control in them was unmistakable.
“You’ve been sharper lately,” Liam mused, flipping through the pages of my latest essay. His eyes scanned the text, and I watched as his brow lifted slightly. “This is good. Strong thesis. Solid argumentation. You’re a very strong writer.”
I smiled, the praise sinking into my skin like sunlight. “Thanks. I know.”
His head tilted, and I caught the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You weren’t like that before me.”
I blinked, my smile faltering. “Yes, I was. Writing’s always been my strong suit.”
He didn’t correct me immediately. Instead, he set the essay aside and leaned forward, his fingers tilting my chin up so I had to meet his gaze.
“I meant the confidence,” he said, his voice softer now. “You finally see yourself the way you should. Superior.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
I tried to chew on the word as if to accept it but my throat stayed tight. Something about the way he said it—the certainty in his voice, like it was the most obvious truth in the world—made my chest ache. But it wasn’t a sharp ache. It was… warm. Heavy. Like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Liam’s thumb brushed along my jawline, slow and deliberate. “I knew it was in you. You just needed someone to bring it out.”
I didn’t respond. Couldn’t. But my body leaned into his touch without thinking, my head resting lightly against his knee.
We sat there like that for a while—his fingers in my hair, the snow falling outside, the soft hum of the heater filling the space between us.
And for once, my thoughts weren’t racing. There was no buzzing, no tightness in my chest. Just a stillness I hadn’t felt in weeks.
But then, like a shift in the air, the fog started creeping back in. My head felt heavier, my focus slipping.
I tried to push through it, flipping back to my notes, but the words blurred together.
Liam noticed immediately. His fingers paused mid-stroke, then trailed down to the back of my neck, grounding me.
“You’re fading,” he murmured.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t need to.
He unlocked the small safe that stayed on his desk without a word and pulled out the small orange pill bottle.
Maybe I should have hesitated, should have asked if I really needed it, but I didn’t.
He shook one into his palm, holding it out to me. His eyes locked onto mine, steady and unblinking. I took it without thinking, placing the pill on my tongue and swallowing it dry.
Liam smiled, slow and satisfied. “Good girl.”
The words sank deep, curling around my chest like a tether.
And as the edges of my mind started to sharpen again, as the fog lifted, I realized how easy it had all become.
How natural.
And how I didn’t want it any other way.