Chapter Text
Steam curled around my face like ghostly fingers, coaxing beads of sweat from my pores as I sank deeper into the heated stone bench. Beside me, Chloe's skin flushed pink, her perfectly manicured hand languidly swishing through the eucalyptus-scented mist. The spa's dimmed lighting cast shadows that soften the edges of reality, making this pocket of luxury feel like a dream state where finals and family expectations couldn’t quite reach us. I close my eyes, exhaling slowly, grateful for this borrowed peace that I know won't follow me home for winter break.
"I needed this more than I realized," I murmured, my voice nearly swallowed by the humid air.
Chloe stretched her legs, toes pointed like a ballerina's. "That was the point, babe. You've been living inside your textbooks for weeks." Her smile was genuine beneath the thin layer of sweat glazing her forehead. "Consider it an early Christmas gift."
The stone beneath me radiated a steady heat that melted into my muscles. This place costs more per hour than I made in a day at my high school job, but Chloe flipped her father's credit card with the casual confidence of someone who's never had to check a price tag. I used to feel uncomfortable with her generosity, but I've learned that friendship with Chloe means accepting that sometimes she pays—her love language written in receipts and reservations.
"How are your finals looking?" she asked, reaching for her water bottle with its perfectly preserved lipstick mark on the rim.
"Manageable, actually." The word felt strange in my mouth, unfamiliar but pleasant. "Just one in-class exam for Politics. Everything else is essays or a problem set for calc. I've already drafted most of them." I didn’t add that Liam had outlined every single one, broken them down into manageable chunks that my ADHD brain could process without spiraling. "Liam's been really helpful."
Chloe's eyebrow arched slightly. "Mmm, I bet he has."
"Not like that," I laughed, though it's exactly like that. "Well, not just like that. He's good at structure, planning. Makes sure I stay on track. You know how he is."
"Good for you." Her voice softens, “That’s what he is.”
My chest tightened as the memory of midterms creeps into the back of my head. Memories of crying in library bathroom, the hyperventilating, my work space constantly surrounded by scattered notes and empty coffee cups. Midterm papers piled up, deadlines converging like freight trains while my brain froze on the tracks. Too many Adderall pills swallowed in a desperate attempt to focus, to keep up, to be perfect, chased with wine to calm my nerves and finally the deadly combination that nearly killed me. Chloe and Alex had been the one to find me. Liam had been the one to take control afterward. Liam saved me — he saved my life, my future, he saved me from loosing everything.
"Yeah," I exhaled the word. "Unlike midterms."
"You seem better now. More... I don't know. Centered? Happier."
I nodded, watching droplets of condensation race down the glass wall. "It’s just easier now. I don’t know, I try not to think about it too much anymore."
A spa attendant appeared, a spectral figure in white, gesturing for us to follow. She escorted us to massage tables draped in heated blankets, our bodies still glowing from the sauna. As hands worked scented oil into my shoulders, Chloe's voice drifted from the neighboring table.
"So you're really going home with him for break?"
The masseuse's thumb dug into a knot beneath my shoulder blade. "After I spend Christmas with my parents, then I’ll be with him between Christmas until after New Year’s." The pain was sharp then sweet as the muscle releases.
"Nervous?"
"Terrified," I admitted, turning my face into the cushioned opening. "Home was bearable with Liam; without him there, I don’t know what I’m up against. Chloe, don’t just me" She let out a groan, more from the massage, I told myself than for what I was about to explain. “Liam keeps my medicine for me. I don’t trust myself having unsupervised access to it anymore.”
Since I nearly poisoned myself trying to be the perfect student. Since Liam stepped in and took the bottle from my shaking hands. Since he instituted the daily ritual: one pill placed in my palm each morning, his fingers closing mine around it, his watchful eyes as I swallow.
"What do you do when he’s at away games?," Chloe asks, I can’t read her face.
“He’ll leave me just one or two. He’s never gone long enough for me to worry about abusing 1 or 2 pills.”
Satisfied, Chloe continued, “You’re stronger than you were a month ago, Carly. Remember that.” She paused, measuring her next words, “I think Liam is really good for you. I don’t think you could have avoided rehab without him, but you do need to stand on your two feet again. And you can do it.”
"It's not just the Adderall." My words muffled against the table. "It's my mother."
The masseuse's hands paused infinitesimally before continuing down my spine. Everyone has parent issues, but not everyone speaks them aloud in high-end spas.
"Oh yeah, your mom is a bitch. The passive-aggressive queen herself," Chloe laughed. "And your dad—"
"Will say nothing, do nothing. Just bury himself in the newspaper and pretend he doesn't hear her picking me apart." I could hear the familiar script playing in my head: Caroline, did you gain weight at school? That scholarship doesn't cover laziness. Why don't you ever call? Those grades better be perfect for what we're paying (like they paying for anything other than room, board and meal plan). Where did all these new clothes come from? I hope Liam doesn’t think you’re some gold digger, or worse, that you’re paying for them in favors? You look washed out.
"At least when Liam was around, he ran interference," I continued as the massage eases from my back to my calves. "He manages her. Makes me sound impressive. But without him there..."
"You are still impressive," Chloe interrupted. "Top of our class. One of, what, 15 scholarships in the whole school! And you managed to lock down the most eligible bachelor on campus."
I smiled faintly. "My mom doesn’t know what he sees in me and as soon as he gets bored, he’ll go for someone more worthy."
"Your mom is a cunt." Her words through the masseuses off, each of them pausing for a half second before resuming their work.
"And I’m headed into the lion’s den alone."
The masseuses finished in synchronized movements, like dancers completing a routine. Once they leave with the promise to return with refreshments, Chloe propped herself up on one elbow, her blonde hair falling in short tousled waves above her shoulders.
"Enough about your drama. Want to hear about Professor Markham practically begging me for an extension on my paper?"
I laughed, grateful for the shift. "You mean you asking him for an extension?"
"Same difference." She flicked her hand dismissively. "He's desperate to keep his star student happy. Especially after that presentation where I basically rewrote half his outdated syllabus."
For the next hour, Chloe filled the space between us with stories—her ongoing battle with Alex over the thermostat — I guessed I missed this with all the time I’ve spent at Liam’s dorm — the teaching assistant who keeps "accidentally" emailing her after hours, her younger brother's latest arrest for something that would land anyone without their family name in actual trouble. I listen, asking questions in the right places, laughing when expected. This is our rhythm, comfortable and familiar.
Afterward, wrapped in plush robes with cucumber-infused water in hand, we reclined in the relaxation room. As soft lighting illuminated Chloe's profile in gentle shadows, I'm struck by how little she's changed since we met 5 months ago. Still confidently taking up space, still speaking her mind without fear of consequence. I wondered if I’d gain that same confidence one day.
"My aunt’s bringing the new boyfriend to Christmas," she says suddenly, staring at the ceiling. "Forty-three. Finance guy. Terrible comb-over." Her voice remains steady, but her fingers tighten around her glass. "Dad's bringing his secretary. Again. He swears there’s nothing going on, that she has no local family, but there is something so tacky about bringing your mistress to family Christmas!"
I reached across the small table between us, squeezing her hand. "I'm sorry."
She shrugged. "At least they're predictable in their awfulness. Your mom's the type who makes you think maybe this time will be different."
"Hope is a cruel thing," I murmured , and she nodded.
"Hence, spa day." She raised her glass in a mock toast. "To surviving family and finals."
"To surviving," I echoed, though surviving feels like the bare minimum these days.
As we dressed to leave, Chloe stopped me, her hand on my arm. "You know you can always call me, right? If things get... intense at home. With your mom or the meds or whatever."
I nodded, the familiar pressure building behind my eyes. "I know."
"I mean it, Caroline. You don't need Liam to run interference. You've got me too."
Her eyes, usually dancing with mischief, were serious now. I swallowed hard, wondering if she saw what I sometimes glimpse in the mirror—a girl slowly disappearing into someone else's idea of perfection, into this world’s definition of perfect. But those thoughts slip away as quickly as it forms, replaced by gratitude for this moment of normalcy, this breath before plunging back into the careful routine Liam has constructed around me.
"I know," I repeated, and kissed her cheek. "Thank you for today."
Outside, winter air slapped our spa-flushed cheeks. Chloe looped her arm through mine as we walked back toward campus, our breath creating twin clouds in the December chill. For a moment, I felt untethered from the complex web of expectations and control that has become my daily life. Just a girl walking with her best friend, finals approaching, holiday lights twinkling in shop windows.
The feeling lasted exactly three blocks, until my phone buzzes with Liam's text: "Done with your spa day yet? Need you back here. Got your evening pill ready."
Chloe pretended not to notice my quickened pace as we near the dormitories, but her arm tightened briefly around mine before letting go. A small resistance, a silent question that I choose not to answer.
#
Liam's desk lamp cast a golden pool across his slightly scattered yet organized workspace, illuminating my organized and color coded notecards along with his precise annotations on my latest essay draft. His single dorm room—a luxury afforded to those with the either in a Sport house, or with right family name or donation history—has become our study sanctuary during the last few weeks. My own shared room across campus, with its perpetually chattering roommate and temperamental heating system, felt more like a distant memory. Here, everything had its place. Even me, curled in his desk chair in one his hoodies, my hair twisted into a messy bun that he'll inevitably unravel with deliberate fingers once he decided we've studied enough.
"Your analysis of the economic implications is solid," Liam commented, his fountain pen hovering over my paper. "But the transition to political consequences feels abrupt." He marked a small mark in the margin, a gesture so understated yet so definitive that I instinctively reached for my laptop to fix it immediately.
"I can rework that section now," I offered, fingers already poised over the keyboard.
Liam caught my wrist gently, his thumb caressing against my pulse point. "Finish your Psychology essay first. One thing at a time, remember?" His voice carried the quiet authority that once irritated me but now felt like a safety harness keeping me from falling into the chaos of my own thought patterns.
I nodded, returning to the half-finished draft on my screen. The words came easier now, flowing in coherent paragraphs rather than the fragmented bursts that characterized my writing before Liam. Before he taught me to channel my scattered thoughts, to harness the racing nature of my mind into something productive and controlled.
For thirty minutes, the only sounds were keyboard clicks and paper rustling. Liam occasionally making a note on my finished essays while I constructed arguments about the ethics of human psychology experiments. The routine was familiar, comforting in its predictability. Until Liam stretched, the movement deliberately drawing my attention from the screen.
"You've been staring at that screen for hours," he observed, his expression shifting to the half-smile that always precedes a deviation from our schedule. "Let's make this more interesting."
I raised an eyebrow, saving my document automatically. "Interesting how?"
"A game." He leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with that particular intensity that made my stomach flip. "For every page you finish, I remove an article of clothing. And vice versa."
Heat crept up my neck. "Strip studying? Is that even a thing?"
"It is now." His confidence never wavered. "Motivation works best with immediate rewards. Behavioral psychology 101."
I laughed despite myself. "Pretty sure this isn't what Professor Winters meant by 'positive reinforcement.'"
"Maybe not, but I guarantee it'll be more effective." Liam stood, sliding my other essays into a neat folder. "What do you say, Caroline? Ready to test the theory?"
The way he said my name—stretching each syllable like he's tasting it—makes my decision before my brain can catch up. I turn back to my laptop, fingers suddenly energized. "I have about two pages left on this draft."
"I'll start counting."
The words flew faster now, my arguments sharper with the weight of his gaze on me. I finished the first page in record time, hitting save with flourish. "Page one, done."
Liam unbuttoned his shirt slowly, methodically, revealing a strip of skin that I allow myself one quick glance at before returning to my work. The stakes felt higher now, the intellectual exercise infused with physical awareness that makes every sentence both harder and easier to write.
By the time I finished the second page, Liam's shirt is draped over his chair, and my focus is fragmenting despite my best efforts. I hit save again, announcing, "Page two."
"Impressive pace," he commented, unbuckling his belt with deliberate, unhurried movements. The soft hiss of leather sliding through belt loops punctuated the quiet room. "Keep going."
I started on my conclusion, but my attention kept drifting to the periphery where Liam was reviewing another of my essays, shirtless, his posture unchanged as if his state of undress is entirely irrelevant to the academic task. His studied nonchalance, this control over his own desire while he systematically dismantling mine—it's the essence of him, of us.
When I finished the essay, Liam has reviewed another complete paper of mine. "Your turn," I pronounce, voice raspier than intended.
He passes me my graded essay, red marks precise and minimal. "Psychology, complete. B+, but could be an A with those revisions I suggested."
I scanned his corrections, absorbing his guidance while unbuttoning my cardigan with clumsy fingers. My body felt both heavy and weightless, anticipation building with each small movement. Liam watched, his eyes following the progress of my hands with an intensity that makes me fumble the last button.
We continued this exchange—completed work for removed clothing—until I'm down to my underwear and he's in boxers, my laptop long since set aside. The pretense of studying has thinned to transparency, yet we tried to maintain the structure, the game that gives shape to what we both want.
"Final paper," Liam announced, handing me my Literature essay. "Nearly perfect. Just one paragraph that needs restructuring."
I took it from him, our fingers brushing in a contact that sends electricity up my arm. "And what do I owe you for this feedback, Professor Barnette?"
His eyes darkened at my teasing tone. "Everything else," he says simply.
I stood, letting the essay fall to the desk, and reach behind to unhook my bra - one of the sets he bought me: a deep rich rust satin that complements the gold and green freckles in my eyes. His gaze never left mine, even as the fabric fell away. This was his favorite moment—the surrender, freely given but carefully orchestrated, a dance where he's always two steps ahead.
In the soft lighting, Liam's voice cut through the air like a knife, smooth yet commanding, "Come here, Caroline." I did as I was told, my heart pounding like a kick drum in my chest. His hands, cool and calm, traced paths down my sides, his touch so deliberate that it made my breath hitch. He was mapping my body like it was his territory, every curve and valley his to conquer.
"Look at you, so obedient," he murmured, his mouth taking over where his hands had been. He circled my nipple with his tongue before sucking it into his mouth, hard. I gasped, arching into him, my body begging for more. He knew it too, the bastard. He knew every reaction before I did, playing my body like a fucking instrument he'd mastered. “and responsive.”
His hands gripped my waist, digging into my soft flesh as he guided me to his bed. He stripped me bare, his eyes never leaving mine. There was no rush in his movements, just a primal certainty that made my pussy throb. He was going to fuck me, and he knew I wanted it just as badly as him.
He spread my legs wide, his fingers tracing the satin of my soaked panties before pulling them aside. "So wet for me, good girl," he praised, his thumb circling my clit. I bucked against his hand, chasing the sensation. He leaned down, his breath hot on my pussy. "Is this what you want, Caroline?" he asked, his tongue replacing his thumb, licking a slow, deliberate line up to my clit. I trembled beneath him, a sharp "Yes," gasped out, while my hands twisted in the sheets.
He hummed against me, the vibration sending jolts of pleasure through my body. "Then give me what I want," he demanded, sliding two fingers into me, curling them just right. "Come for me, Caroline. Let me taste it."
And I did. I came undone on his tongue, my body shaking as he wrung every last drop of pleasure from me, flicking and lapping until the shockwaves dulled. He rose up then, his mouth glistening with my arousal. He licked his lips, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "God, you’re perfect when you let go." He pushed his boxers down with unhurried precision, every movement meant to remind me who was in control.
He pulled out his cock, thick and hard, stroking it slowly as he looked down at me. "You want this?" he asked.
I nodded, my mouth dry with anticipation.
He grinned then, a flash of teeth, a predator's smile. "Then take it," he growled, flipping me onto my stomach.
He gripped my hips, pulling me up so my weight shifted mostly to my shoulders before slamming into me. I cried out, my back arching as he filled me completely. He set a brutal pace, one hand gripping my shoulder for leverage as he fucked me hard and deep. His other hand snaked around my throat, anchoring me to him.
"Feel that?" he growled into my ear, his breath hot on my neck. "Feel how well you take me?"
I could only moan in response, my body on fire with sensation. His hand tightened around my throat slightly-just enough pressure to make me gasp-
He rode me with pure, primal need. He rested his forehead on mine as I watched him disappear into me. “You like seeing yourself take me like you were made for this? Watching me ruin you— taking what’s mine?” I could only pant in response.
His rhythm was relentless, my body moving in sync with his, and the world began to blur at the edges from the intensity of our breaths and the raw passion between us. The room echoed with the sounds of our lovemaking, drowning out everything else until it was just the two of us, lost in this wild, passionate embrace. It was a brutal, yet grounding claim, as raw and real as we were.
My hands gripped at his thighs, his back—anywhere I could find purchase in this storm of passion that Liam had created. He gently caught both my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand, my face pressed against the pillow, and my body open and vulnerable to his touch. I could feel every inch of him deep inside, stretching me, making me feel alive. The erotic sensations washed over us both—this was good, healthy sex. I cried out, throbbing with pleasure.
"I got you," he whispered against my throat, pausing ever so slightly. "All you have to do is feel. Every inch, every second." And I listened, I followed, surrendering to the pleasure that he orchestrated with the same precision he applied to everything—marking essays, making plans, neatly ordering my scattered life with his influence. His body filled all of me, touching places deep inside. I felt him swell inside of me, then release, his forehead pressed against mine, joining me in brief, perfect oblivion. It felt so good.
My body shuddered beneath him, my muscles clenching around him, milking him for all he had, as we both came undone, collapsing together in a sweaty, sated mess, just like in the movies. It was perfect, it was passionate, and it was everything we needed.
Afterwards, sprawled across his bed with a sheet haphazardly covering us, I felt the familiar post-coital clarity that always brings my anxieties rushing back. Liam traced patterns on my bare shoulder, his touch now gentle, soothing.
"What is it?" he asked, sensing the shift in my mood before I've even formed the words.
I turned to face him, vulnerability raw in my throat. "Break is coming."
His fingers paused. "Are you worried about meeting my family? They'll adore you, Caroline."
"It's not that." Though the prospect of meeting the illustrious Barnette clan, with their political connections and fuck-you-money, were certainly factors into my anxiety constellation. "It's before that — when I go home."
Understanding dawned in his eyes. "Ah."
"Who's going to make sure I'm not taking too many pills?" The question emerged small and pathetic, but it's been circling my mind since Chloe mentioned break. "I've gotten so used to you handling my meds that I'm not sure I trust myself anymore. No, I don’t trust myself anymore."
Liam sat up, back against the headboard, pulling me against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat—steady, unfaltering. "You're stronger than you think," he said, but his arms tighten around me as if he doesn't quite believe it either.
"And my mother," I continued, the words spilling out now. "I can't handle her by myself. Not for two whole weeks. She'll pick apart everything—my habits, my clothes, my life choices. She'll find every weak spot."
"Your mom has a talent for that," he agreed, “Should I come with you?” I chewed my cheek, I wanted him to, could I really ask that of him?
"You make it easier." I pressed my face into his neck, inhaling his scent familiar sent of wood and bergamot, now laced with the sent of his skin. "You know what to say to her, how to redirect her. I'm useless against her alone. But I can’t ask that of you."
His hand strokes down my hair, smoothing the tangles he created earlier. "Or I could take you home for the whole break," he offers, though we both know it's impossible. My parents would be heartbroken: their only child leaving them along at Christmas.
"We both know you can't," I sigh. "And I have to see my parents sometime."
Liam is quiet for a long moment, his mind working in that methodical way that both comforts and unnerves me. I can almost hear the gears turning, calculating variables, constructing scenarios.
"I have a solution," he finally says, his voice taking on that crisp edge that signals a plan forming. "We establish a schedule. Morning and evening check-ins, video calls so I can see you take your medication. I'll have your dosage pre-counted in labeled containers."
"Like one of those elderly pill organizers?" I try to joke, but the relief washing through me is embarrassingly strong.
"Exactly like that," he confirmed without a hint of humor. "And daily FaceTime calls when you're dealing with your mother. I'll be there virtually, helping you navigate her. If things get too intense, you call me immediately, regardless of time. Need me to strategically call you? Send a text. We’ll come up with a code work. And sweetheart, we stay on campus for a few extra days. Tell your parents you have to do some last minute gift shopping that you couldn’t do during finals."
His solution was one of protective and attentive, like a digital tether that connects us from afar, ensuring my safety across state lines.
I felt only relief, the panic receding from my chest as he continued outlining the structure he’d impose on my time away from him.
"You'd do that?" I asked, though I already know the answer. Liam's need to manage, to perfect, to control extended to every aspect of his life—especially me.
"Of course." He kissed my forehead. "I take care of what's mine."
This words filled me with gratitude. Somewhere, distantly, a version of myself from 4 months ago would have been skeptical if not afraid of his words. But that girl seems like a stranger now—lost, scattered, overwhelmed by her own unhealthy thoughts. This new Caroline, the one that had been carefully nurtured, understood his guidance for what it is: protection. Safety. Love, expressed through systems and boundaries that help keep the chaos at bay.
"Thank you," I whispered, melting against him, grateful for the scaffolding he's built to save me from myself.
His smiled against my hair felt like victory, though I'm not sure who's won. "Now, let's get back to that paragraph that needs restructuring. Your essay is almost perfect, and I won't settle for anything less." And with that he slapped my ass and rolled out of bed.