Page 71 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

Lennox:'Maybe' is better than 'no way in hell' from the prude so I'll take it.

Greta:Oh! Did anyone watch that new Netflix show? The one with the guy from that movie?

Finley:So specific, Greta

Greta:You know the one! With the murder and the small town and the hot detective!

Lennox:OMG yes! I binged it last weekend. When he found out his partner was the killer all along? I died.

Finley:Thanks for the spoiler! I was going to start it tonight.

Lennox:Oh please, that's like the most basic plot twist ever. The real shocker is when you find out the detective is actually the victim's long-lost son.

Finley:LENNOX! Stop!

I find myself smiling at their back-and-forth.

Hannah:For what it's worth, I watched it too and the son reveal was kind of obvious from episode 3. The chemistry with the medical examiner was the real plot twist.

Lennox:THANK YOU! Fin, she gets it.

Finley:You're all so annoying.

Greta:You're just jealous we got to watch it first.

Finley:True. Anyway, I gotta run to class. Later, losers!

Greta:Same, gym time. Those abs won't define themselves.

Lennox:Hannah, I'm stopping by with dinner later. No arguments.

I type a quick protest that I know will be ignored, then set my phone aside. The brief conversation has left me feeling lighter, more connected to the world outside my dorm room. It's a reminder that life goes on, that not everyone on campus is fixated on the Connolly brothers' fight or my role in it.

With renewed focus, I turn back to my practice exam. The Bio Ethics questions are challenging in exactly the way I like—requiring critical thinking, not just memorization. I lose myself in the intellectual exercise, the familiar rhythm of reading, analyzing, answering.

Hours pass. The light outside my window shifts from afternoon to evening. I stretch, my back complaining after too long in one position. I should eat something, maybe take a shower before Lennox arrives with dinner and inevitable questions about my self-imposed exile.

As I gather my shower caddy and towel, my phone buzzes again. Expecting Lennox with an ETA, I glance at the screen.

It's not Lennox.

Sanderson:Hope you're doing okay. I've been respecting your space but wanted to check in.

My heart does a stupid little flip at the sight of his name.

I set the phone down without responding, not trusting myself to find the right words. What can I say?

The shower helps clear my head, hot water washing away some of the tension I've been carrying. By the time I return to my room, I feel more centered.

I pick up my phone again, considering a response to Sanderson. But what's the point? Whatever was building between us, whatever connection we were exploring, it's too fraught now. Too many complications, too much potential for more pain.

Better to let it go. Focus on finals, on finishing the semester strong. Then summer will come, bringing distance and perspective. By fall, this will all be a strange memory—the time I accidentally slept with one brother, dated the other, and somehow ended up in the middle of their fight.

I'm still in my towel, startled from my thoughts by a knock on the door—Lennox with dinner, presumably. I open it without checking, a mistake I realize immediately.

It's not Lennox.

Sanderson stands in my doorway, a bruise still visible around his eye, though less dramatic than it must have been right after the fight. He looks tired, uncertain, so different from the confident hockey boy I first met. My heart stutters at the sight of him, a reaction I can't control and don't want to lean into.

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