Page 6 of Second Quarter Comeback
“Well,” I say, lifting another fry like it’s a weapon, “maybe you’re just eating them wrong.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, his eyes still locked on mine. “Maybe you should show me how it’s done.”
My heart skips a beat, but I keep my composure—or at least try to—as I dip the fry into the ranch again. This time, I take a slower, deliberate bite, my lips wrapping around it like I’m performing for an audience. His gaze doesn’t falter, fixed on me with an intensity that makes the air between us feel charged, alive.
“You’re killing me, Camille,” he mumbles.
This is definitely not how I pictured my night going. But I’m definitely not complaining.
“I . . . I don’t think I have the experience you do or anything to show you,” I say, the words coming out a little breathless, my nerves betraying me.
His smirk deepens, his dark eyes flickering with mischief. “We could test that theory,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“My theory?” I almost stammer, the words catching in my throat as I force myself to meet his gaze.
“No,” he says, tilting his head as though he’s about to deliver the most scandalous secret. “My theory. I don’t think it’s about experience. It’s about chemistry.” He pauses, letting the word linger, his grin edging toward devilish. “And you know chemistry, right?”
I blink, caught somewhere between a laugh and a gulp. “Uh . . . yeah?”
He leans back, completely at ease, his smirk turning downright sinful. “You mix the right elements together, and boom—magic. No prep, no practice. It just works. You don’t need to know in advance if it’s perfect . . . you feel it.”
The way he says “feel” sends heat curling in my stomach, and for a split second, I forget how to form words. I glance at my plate, breaking the moment just enough to remember how to breathe. “Umm . . . I guess you’re right, that’s chemistry,” I manage, my voice a little higher than I’d like.
He chuckles softly, and the sound is warm, almost reassuring, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me and is giving me just enough space to recover. “See? Told you I was good at theories.”
The tension breaks with a laugh—mine, this time—and the conversation shifts, mercifully, to safer territory. We talk about favorite TV shows, weird family traditions, and, of course, the best way to reheat pizza. His method: stovetop, with a lid to trap the heat and keepthe crust crisp. Mine: microwave, because seriously, who has the patience for oven or stovetop when you’re hungry?
The time slips by faster than I realize, and by the time we leave, the restaurant feels like a little bubble, separate from the rest of the world. Outside, the cool night air hits me, crisp and refreshing after the cozy warmth of the diner. I’m happy—happier than I’ve felt in a long time.
“Thanks for this,” I say softly, turning to him.
“Anytime,” he replies, his eyes catching mine in the kind of lingering way that makes your pulse stumble. There’s a quiet sincerity in his tone, like he means it.
We walk back to my dorm together, the easy conversation from earlier giving way to a comfortable silence. Every now and then, his shoulder brushes mine, and it’s enough to keep my thoughts racing.
When we reach my building, he stops, hands sliding into his pockets as he looks at me. “So . . . I’ll see you around?”
“Yeah,” I say, suddenly shy but trying not to show it. “I’d like that.”
We exchange numbers, and as I tuck my phone away, he leans in. My pulse skyrockets, every nerve screaming for what’s about to happen. He’s going to kiss me—I know it, I can feel it in the way his gaze drops to my lips, the air between us buzzing like static. My breath catches, my lips part, anticipation clawing at me, needy and undeniable. But then his lips brush mycheek, warm and lingering, just enough to leave me spiraling, my heart pounding at what didn’t happen but damn well should have.
“Goodnight, Camille. It was nice meeting you,” he says, his voice low and just a little rough.
“Goodnight, Killion,” I reply, my cheeks flushing as I turn and head inside.
When I reach my room, I catch my reflection in the mirror. There’s a tiny smile on my face, one I can’t quite shake. And somehow this time I hope the guy calls me—he’s going to call, right?
Chapter Four
Killion:You up for breakfast? My treat.
Camille:It’s seven in the morning. I have a test on Monday, can’t be going out.
Killion: Did I wake you up?
Camille: Nope. I’ve been up since six, studying.
Killion: Don’t you need something to eat before you start studying?
