Chapter 21 

your Finals season at Harvard is basically academic Hunger Games-may the odds be ever in favor, and fuck anyone who took the last Adderall. Our ragtag study group has colonized the library’s third floor like we’re establishing a new nation. Population: stressed. Main export: anxiety. 

“If I have to look at one more statistical model, I’m going to calculate the probability of my own death,” Jake groans, face-planted in his textbook. “Spoiler alert: it’s approaching one hundred percent.” 

“Drama queen,” I mutter, highlighting my fifteenth page of International Relations notes. “You literally aced the midterm. Stop fishing for sympathy while some of us are actually drowning.” The thing about group study sessions? They’re ninety percent complaining, ten percent actual studying. But somehow, we’re all passing, so the system works. 

“My apartment’s available tomorrow if you want a change of scenery,” Gabriel offers casually, like my heart doesn’t do a full Olympic routine every time he suggests hosting. “Better coffee than the library, and no one shushes you for existing too loudly.” 

Elijah perks up from his coding nightmare. “Sold. Your coffee maker is basically the only reason I’m still conscious. That and pure spite.” 

I catch Gabriel’s eye across the table-a split-second glance that says everything. These apartment study sessions are torture and bliss combined. Playing “just friends” when all I want is to climb him like a tree? Deserves a fucking Oscar. 

But we’ve gotten creative. A brush of fingers when passing books. His hand on my lower back, guiding me through his kitchen-totally innocent to observers, electrifying to us. That thing where he leans over my shoulder to “check my work” and breathes against my neck just long enough to scramble my brain. 

“Earth to Leo,” Ashley snaps her fingers in my face. “Stop eye-fucking your study buddy and help me understand why Kant thought categorical imperatives were a good idea. Because honestly? Seems like pretentious bullshit.” 

“Everything’s pretentious bullshit,” I deflect, cheeks heating. “That’s literally the point of philosophy. Sound smart while saying nothing. It’s perfect training for diplomatic dinners.” 

Gabriel’s fighting a smile. Bastard knows exactly what he does to me. 

The next few days blur together-coffee, cramming, minor mental breakdowns. Gabriel’s apartment becomes our second home, and I become an expert at maintaining platonic distance while internally combusting. 

“Okay, but real talk,” Jake says during our final session, “Naomi’s birthday tomorrow. We’re all going, right? Because I need this. My brain is just economics formulas and regret right now.” 

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Gabriel confirms, and there’s something in his voice-lighter, less controlled. “I could use a break from being responsible.” 

I nearly choke on my coffee. Gabriel? Not being responsible? It’s like hearing the Pope say he’s considering atheism. 

“Holy shit, did Gabriel Torres just admit to having fun?” I tease, because our whole dynamic is built on me being an asshole and him pretending to hate it. “Someone check the temperature in hell.” 

“I have fun,” he protests, but his eyes are warm, amused. “I just have a different definition than your ‘make terrible decisions and call it living’ philosophy.” 

“My philosophy is fantastic, thanks. It’s gotten me this far.” I gesture at myself like I’m a prize. Which, let’s be real, I kind of am. “Speaking of which-Jake, my closet. You and I have a date with fashion.” 

Jake looks stricken. “Leo, no. I can dress myself. I’m a grown man with functioning motor 

skills.” 

“You wore cargo shorts to a wine tasting,” I remind him mercilessly. “Your fashion sense is a crime against humanity. Trust me, Victoria will thank me later.” 

Back in our dorm, I’m rifling through my wardrobe like a man possessed. Jake stands there in his boxers, looking like he’s facing execution. 

“How do you even have this many clothes?” He’s holding a shirt that probably cost more than his laptop. “This is excessive. You have a problem.” 

“I have taste,” I correct, throwing outfit combinations on his bed. “There’s a difference. Try this -no, wait, this one brings out your eyes. Victoria likes green, right?” 

Jake freezes mid-reach. “How do you even know about—” 

“Please.” I roll my eyes so hard I see my own brain. “You’ve been stalking her Instagram for weeks. Your phone screen lights up with her stories. You’re about as subtle as a neon sign. Basic observation skills, my dude.” 

“I hate you,” he mutters, but he’s already trying on the outfit. 

And damn, I’m good. He looks like a whole different person-still Jake, but elevated. Like Jake 2.0: Now With Style. 

“You’ll thank me when Victoria can’t keep her hands off you,” I say, adjusting his collar. “Remember-confidence is ninety percent of attractiveness. The other ten percent is this shirt that makes your shoulders look incredible.” 

“If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you for the rest of my life,” Jake warns, but he’s checking himself out in the mirror with obvious approval. 

“It’ll work. I’m never wrong about these things.” I pause. “Except that one time with the purple blazer, but we don’t talk about that.” 

The party’s already chaos when we arrive. 

Naomi’s friends have transformed someone’s rental house into what looks like a Pinterest board exploded-fairy lights, flowers, music that doesn’t suck. It’s actually… nice. 

“Where’s your 

shadow?” Elijah asks, appearing with drinks. “Usually Gabriel’s attached to your hip like a fashionable tumor.” 

“Finishing some project,” I say, proud of how casual I sound. Inside, I’m tracking every second he’s not here. “You know him-work first, party later. If at all.” 

What I don’t say: he’s finalizing a report for my father. 

The monthly check-in that used to make me rage now just feels like routine. Because everything’s different now. We’re different. 

I’m not even mad he’s late. I’m… content. Secure. In love. 

Fuck, when did I become this person? 

The kind who uses words like “content” unironically? The kind who takes one drink and nurses it all night because he wants to remember everything? 

“You’re smiling weird,” Ashley observes. “Like, genuinely happy weird. It’s freaking me out. Who are you and what did you do with bitter, sarcastic Leo?” 

“Still bitter and sarcastic,” I assure her. “Just… selectively. Character growth or whatever. Very touching.” 

When Gabriel finally arrives, my entire world shifts into high definition. He looks… fuck. 

Relaxed. Happy. Like the weight he constantly carries has been temporarily lifted. 

Dark jeans that fit perfectly, a soft gray henley that makes his eyes look impossibly darker. No surveillance face, no professional distance. 

Just Gabriel, at a party, looking like every fantasy I’ve ever had. 

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, joining our group, and his hand brushes mine-deliberate, electric. “Work took longer than expected.” 

“All good,” I manage, trying not to stare at the way his sleeves are pushed up, forearms on display like he’s trying to kill me. “You missed Jake actually talking to Victoria. It’s like watching a nature documentary-fascinating but occasionally painful.” 

“Your outfit suggestions worked then?” He’s fighting a smile. “Jake might actually owe you his firstborn.” 

“I accept payment in coffee and eternal gratitude.” 

I’m hyper-aware of how close he’s standing, how his cologne makes me want to bury my face in his neck. “Want to grab some air? It’s getting crowded here.” 

It’s not subtle, but fuck subtle. 

We’ve been dancing around each other for weeks, months. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want him every second of every day. 

The garden is a revelation—someone’s been taking care of this place. Roses climbing trellises, jasmine making the air sweet, little lights creating shadows that feel like privacy. 

The party noise fades to a distant hum. 

“This is nice,” Gabriel says, and his professional mask is completely gone. He looks young, vulnerable, mine. “Really nice.” 

A slow song drifts through the trees-something acoustic, romantic, the kind of music that makes believe in forever. Gabriel turns to me, extends his hand like we’re in some period 

drama. 

you 

“Dance with me,” he whispers, and how the fuck am I supposed to say no to that? 

We come together like magnets-inevitable, necessary. 

His arms around me, my face in the crook of his neck, bodies swaying to music that might as well be playing just for us. This is what I’ve wanted since that first confrontation in the courtyard. 

Maybe before. Maybe always. 

“I love you,” I murmured against his shoulder, because I’m done pretending otherwise. “In case that wasn’t obvious from all the pining and dramatic gestures.” 

“I love you too,” he breathes back, and his voice cracks slightly. “More than I should. More than’s safe. More than anything.” 

We find a bench half-hidden by shrubs that smell like summer and the kiss starts soft-a question, a promise. 

Then it deepens, weeks of restraint dissolving into desperate touches and whispered names. His hands in my hair, mine under his shirt, trying to get closer even though physics won’t allow it. 

Time stops existing. There’s just Gabriel’s mouth on mine, his body warm and solid, the feeling that everything in my life has led to this moment. 

We kiss until our lips are swollen, until breathing becomes necessary, until— 

“Is that the sun?” I pull back, blinking at the horizon where pink and orange are painting the sky. “Did we just make out until dawn?” 

“Apparently.” Gabriel’s hair is wrecked, lips kiss-bruised, and he’s never looked more beautiful. “Worth it though.” 

“So worth it.” I curl back into him, watching the sunrise paint everything golden. “We should probably head back before someone realizes we’re gone.” 

“Five more minutes,” he bargains, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Let me have this.” 

Like I could deny him anything. Like I’d even want to.