Page 53 of Watching You
I swallow hard, fingers curling around my phone like it’s a lifeline.
But it’s not.
He is.
And that terrifies me.
The ride back to campus is quiet, but not peaceful. Kane’s hand stays laced with mine the entire time, even with the roar of the motorcycle beneath us and the helmet muffling everything else. It’s not comfort, it’s control. A tether. A reminder that last night wasn’t a one-off. It was a shift. A claim. And now I’m being returned to my world with his fingerprints still on my skin.
I don’t speak. I don’t know what I’d say if I did. My body still hums with the memory of him, but my mind is trying to catch up. Trying to make sense of what it means to wake up naked in his bed, watching while I slept, dressed in clothes he washed for me, like I belonged there. Like I was his.
When we pull up to the dorms, the campus is already awake. Students spill across the sidewalks, laughing, talking, sipping coffee. A few heads turn when they see us—Kane’s bike, Kane’s hoodie, Kane’s presence, and then me.
“Thanks for the ri—“
Kane’s off the bike before I can finish the sentence. He turns to me, eyes dark, jaw set, and steps into my space like he’s done a hundred times before.
And then, in front of everyone, he kisses me.
It’s not soft. It’s not shy. It’s a claim. His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me, and his mouth finds mine like he’s sealing something permanent. Like he’s daring the world to watch.
Gasps ripple around us. Someone whistles. I hear my name—half question, half accusation.
But I don’t pull away.
Because in that moment, I’m not just the girl in his jersey.
I’m his.
And he’s not hiding it.
Not anymore.
Eighteen
Kane
Ishouldn’t be walking this way. My class is on the other side of campus, but I haven’t cared about logistics since the moment she walked out of my apartment wearing my jersey and kissed me like it meant something. Because it did. And now I still can’t stop watching her.
She doesn’t know I’m here. Not really. She’s got her earbuds in, head down, curls bouncing as she walks away from the dorms. Her backpack’s slung low, her steps quick like she’s trying to outrun something. I follow from a distance. Not close enough to spook her. Just close enough to see.
Then I hear it.
Laughter. Sharp. Cruel. Three cheerleaders are leaning against the railing near the quad, ponytails high, eyes locked on Blair like she’s a target. Their voices slice through the morning air.
“Guess sleeping with the captain gets you a jersey now,” one sneers.
“Or maybe she just begged hard enough,” another adds, voice syrupy and mean.
The third one laughs. “Slut tax must’ve been high Saturday night.”
My fist clenches.
I stop walking. I don’t move. Don’t speak. Just watch.
Blair doesn’t look up. Doesn’t flinch. But I see it, the way her shoulders stiffen, the way her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. She heard them. And she’s pretending she didn’t.
I take a slow breath, jaw tight, blood thrumming. Not now. Not here. But I’ll take care of it. Later.
