Page 62 of Collateral Love
Not in the plan but in me.
And that kind of shift was the most dangerous variable of all.
I didn’t seehim for three days after that.
That wasn’t unusual; we lived in different worlds an hour apart. I had classes, labs, and shifts at the dorm's front desk. He had his own routes, his own fires to put out in Crestwood.
But three days felt louder after that night in the study room.
The quiet between us had weight.
I tried not to read into it, but I failed.
On the fourth day, he texted.
Zayden:
You on campus all night?
Me:
Sadly.
Zayden:
I’m coming through. We gotta talk distribution.
Me:
You mean we gotta talk about your ego.
Zayden:
That too. Be ready.
I tried not to let my pulse jump.
By the time his car pulled up near the engineering building, it was already late. The kind of late where security guards started cutting corners on their rounds, and drunk freshmen started crying on the sidewalks about nothing.
I slid into the passenger seat, the familiar smell hitting me—leather, cologne, and the faintest hint of weed he thought he hid better than he did.
“You good?” he asked.
“Barely,” I said. “Midterms have been trying to jump me.”
He smirked. “You winning, though?”
“Always.”
He started the car and pulled away from the curb.
“You hungry?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to say no, then my stomach embarrassed me with a loud growl.
He laughed. “I’ma take that as a yes.”
There was a greasy little spot off-campus, open late. We grabbed burgers, fries, two sodas to go and ended up in one of the back parking lots that overlooked the athletic fields.
