Page 28 of My Freshman Mate
"I know." His hand strokes my back in slow, soothing circles. "But running is never the answer. Not for us."
I pull back just enough to look at his face, taking in the dark shadows under his eyes, the exhaustion etched around his mouth. I'm still terrified, but seeing him like this—exhausted but fighting for us—makes me want to be stronger too. "What are we going to do?"
A faint smile touches his lips. "We fight. Together."
"But how? Nash's dad is on the board. They've already decided you're guilty."
Wes's eyes go hard. "Then we make them change their minds."
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, still shaky, still terrified, but something else is starting to push through the panic—my brain is clicking back into gear, the part of me that’s always needed to fix things, to make plans. Fighting. Together. Not running away but staying right here. This changes everything. Suddenly I know what to do.
"We need proof," I say, my voice gaining strength. "Evidence that this isn't just a one-time thing. That Nash has a pattern."
Wes’s eyebrows lift, surprise and a flicker of pride in his eyes. "What are you thinking?"
I disentangle myself from his arms and scramble to my feet, a new kind of energy taking over. Not panic anymore. Not that desperate scrambling. I'm determined now.
"I need my laptop."
Wes pulls a chair up beside me at the kitchen table, his thigh pressed against mine, a constant, grounding pressure.
My fingers fly across the keyboard. Social media is the first and easiest place to start. Nash is arrogant, and arrogant people are sloppy. They brag. I pull up every account I can find—Instagram, Twitter, even a cringey old MySpace page. I start screenshotting, saving, and organizing everything into a folder on my desktop labeled 'ARSENAL.'
A picture from two weeks ago: Nash with his arm slung around a terrified-looking freshman, a pledge from some frat. The caption reads:Teaching a pledge some respect. #tradition.The kid's eyes are red-rimmed. My stomach twists. This isn't just about us. This is a pattern.
I cross-reference the pledge's face with the university's online directory until I find a name: Tyler. I make a note.
I dig deeper. Campus newspaper archives. I find three separate articles about "unsportsmanlike conduct" during games, all naming Nash. A fourth about a fraternity party that was shut down due to a fight. Nash isn't named, but the date matches a series of boastful posts on his Twitter. It's all circumstantial, but patterns aren't built on single events. They're built on a mountain of small, damning details.
I spend the rest of the day in a hyper-focused trance. I track down every social media account Nash has ever had, screenshotting posts that hint at his aggression. I find three campus newspaper articles about "unsportsmanlike conduct" during games, all naming Nash.
"The text," I say, looking up. "The one he sent with my picture. You still have it?"
Wes nods, pulling out his phone. "Right here."
My stomach churns as I look at the picture of myself, so lost and vulnerable. I forward it to my email, adding it to the growing file of evidence. It takes me less than ten minutes to find Tyler in the campus directory. I draft a careful email, explaining what happened, asking if he’d be willing to make a statement. He replies almost immediately.
I've been waiting for someone to finally stand up to that asshole. Tell me what you need.
By midnight, I've put together everything we need: all the screenshots, Tyler's statement plus two others who came forward after I reached out, the threatening text, and a whole history of Nash's bullshit going back two years.
"This is..." Wes stares at the neatly organized files on my laptop, his eyes wide with something that looks a lot like awe. "Braiden, this is incredible."
My cheeks get hot with pride, and for the first time in hours, the knot in my stomach loosens a little. "It's just organization. Facts."
"It's a fucking arsenal," he says, his expression turning serious. "But you know what this means, right? If you present this, you're putting yourself right in his crosshairs. He'll come after you even harder."
The words come out fiercer than I expected, surprising both of us. I feel something shift inside me, something I didn't know was there before—a kind of strength I never thought I had. "Let him try. I'm not running anymore."
Wes's face softens, and he pulls me into his arms, his lips finding mine in a kiss that's gentle but full of promise.
We finally fall into bed in the early hours of the morning, exhausted but united. I curl into his side, my head on his chest,the steady thrum of his heartbeat a comforting rhythm in the quiet room.
"Thank you," he murmurs into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For staying. For fighting. For being braver than I ever gave you credit for."
