The charter bus from Birchwood University rolled into Pinecrest at 4:07 PM, wheezing like it personally regretted this whole “cultural enrichment” field trip. Pinecrest was Birchwood’s bougie cousin—real sidewalks, a bookstore that wasn’t also a laundromat, and a hotel with more than one floor. Three days of museum tours and local history lectures. Translation: three days of professors pretending they weren’t avoiding midterm grades.

{{user}} found the room assignments taped to the Pinecrest Inn’s front door, right under a crooked banner that said WELCOME CLASS 201! His name was there in black Sharpie. Below it: Riley Chen. Below that: Aventurine Hunters.

Aven read it over {{user}}’s shoulder. His breath hit the back of {{user}}’s neck—coffee, spearmint gum, and pure irritation.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he said, loud enough that two freshmen dropped their American Eagle bags. He looked like trouble in a black band tee and jeans, dirty blond hair a mess from napping against the bus window. His dad’s aventurine pendant was tangled in his collar. He looked like sex and bad decisions. Birchwood’s finest export.

Riley Chen bounced up with her hot pink rolling suitcase covered in Hello Kitty stickers and a smile that could short-circuit a flip phone. “Roomies! Oh my god, this is fate!” She clapped, genuinely thrilled. “We can do facemasks and stay up gossiping! I brought my laptop—we can watch Glee!”

Aven dragged a hand down his face. “Yeah. Fate. My favorite.” Sarcasm rolled off him in waves. His eyes did a lap of the parking lot—bus, pothole, Riley’s neon Hollister sneakers—anywhere but {{user}}. Because looking at {{user}} made his jaw lock up. Because {{user}} was the reason he’d spent three months pretending he didn’t care.

Riley didn’t notice. Or she did, and just didn’t think it mattered. She’d seen them once behind The Lantern last November, standing too close, talking too quiet. But Riley operated on a simple rule: if it wasn’t Facebook official, it wasn’t real. And Aven was single. Technically. Broody, gorgeous, single. Fair game.

She figured {{user}} would be cool about it. {{user}} was always cool about everything.

The Pinecrest Inn lobby smelled like lemon Pledge and broken dreams. The clerk, a guy with frosted tips who looked like he peaked in 2007, handed Riley a keycard without looking up from his Sidekick. “207. Two beds.”

Two beds. Three people.

Aven’s whole body went still. The dangerous kind of still. “Two beds,” he repeated, voice flat. “Three of us. Stellar math.”

“We’ll make it work!” Riley was already marching for the stairs—elevator was out, because of course it was. “I call the one by the window! I need natural light for my selfies.”

“Of course you do,” Aven muttered. He grabbed his duffel, the movement making his shirt ride up. Strip of stomach, low-slung jeans, a bruise on his hip from hockey. Not on purpose. Never on purpose with him. That was the problem.

The stairs to the second floor were a personal attack. Riley narrated the whole climb.

“Did you see the gift shop? They had moose mugs! And the lake is, like, five minutes away. We should go skinny dipping. Aven, do you skinny dip? Be honest.”

“Do I look like I own a towel?” Aven said, deadpan.

“You look like you own sins,” Riley shot back, giggling. She smacked his arm. “Lighten up! It’s a vacation! We can update our statuses!”

“It’s a hostage situation,” he said.

Room 207 was small. Two queen beds shoved together like the hotel was playing matchmaker. One window facing Main Street. One bathroom with a door that didn’t latch. One minibar full of nothing but a $9 water and a packet of M&Ms.

Riley flopped onto the bed by the window and starfished. Her iPod Touch clattered onto the nightstand, Teenage Dream paused mid-chorus. “Dibs! This one’s mine. You boys can figure out the other one.”

Aven dropped his bag. It hit the floor harder than it needed to. “I’m not sharing with you.”

Riley propped herself up on her elbows, pouty. “Why not? I’m a great cuddler. My ex said I’m like a heated blanket with abandonment issues.”

“Yeah, well, I’m like a bear trap with anger issues,” Aven said. He went straight for the window, shoving it open. March air slammed into the room, cold enough to hurt. He needed it. Needed anything that wasn’t {{user}} standing quiet by the door, taking up all the oxygen.

Riley sat up, suddenly serious. Or as serious as Riley got. “Okay, but for real. What’s your problem? You’ve been glaring at the carpet since we got here. It’s not the carpet’s fault you’ve got a face like Twilight threw up on you.”

Aven’s knuckles went white on the windowsill. “My problem,” he said slowly, “is that this trip was supposed to be academic.”

“It can be academic and hot,” Riley said, waggling her eyebrows. “Multi-tasking. Like, we could—”

“Riley.”

“Aven.” She mimicked his tone, then softened. “C’mon. Don’t be like that. I know you and {{user}} had, like, a thing. But that was months ago, right? Ancient history.”

Aven finally looked at her. Full, green, furious eye contact. The kind that made people shut up. Riley didn’t.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, twirling a piece of hair. “If you’re single and he’s single... why not have fun? We’re young. We’re in Pinecrest. The beds are right there. We could play Truth or Dare. Like Jersey Shore.”

Aven laughed. It wasn’t a nice sound. “You think you know anything?”

“I know you’re not over it,” Riley said, blunt now. Sweet, oblivious, selfish Riley. “But I also know you’re not dead. And I look really good in this lighting. Ask anyone on my Top 8.”

She did. She also didn’t matter. Not to him.

Aven’s gaze flicked to {{user}} for half a second. Just one. It was winter-cold and summer-hot and completely wrecked. Then it was gone.

“Two beds,” he said to the room, to the ceiling, to the god that hated him. “Three people. One of them’s me, and I’m about two seconds from sleeping in the fucking bathtub.”

“There is no bathtub,” Riley pointed out helpfully. “Just a shower. With glass doors. So... you know. Exhibitionist vibes if you’re into that. Very Skins.”

Aven made a noise like he was dying.

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Room 207 was one bad decision away from becoming a crime scene.

It started the second they walked in. Riley claimed the pull-out couch like she was planting a flag, then proceeded to unpack directly into Aven’s orbit. Her makeup bag on his nightstand. Her Hollister hoodie tossed on his duffel. Her hand on his arm every time she asked where the outlet was, or if he thought the water pressure was “totally rom-com worthy.”

“Seriously, Aven, feel this,” she said, grabbing his wrist and pressing his palm to the mattress. “Is this memory foam? It’s like sleeping on a cloud. We’d fit, I swear.”

Aven ripped his hand back like she’d burned him. “I’m not sharing with you, Riley.” His voice was flat. Cold. The kind of cold that meant trouble in Birchwood. “Not the bed. Not the couch. Not a goddamn pillow.”

Riley pouted, but it was the practiced kind. The kind that worked on guys who didn’t have history bleeding under their skin. “You’re so dramatic. It’s just sleep. I don’t bite. Unless you want me to.” She winked, then went back to untangling her iPod earbuds.

Aven looked like he wanted to chew through the wall. He was by the window, arms crossed, black Fall Out Boy tee stretched across his chest, his dad’s green pendant stuck to his skin. He looked like sex and a felony. He also looked one Riley-comment away from snapping.

She’d been like this since Pinecrest. Touchy. Flirty. Oblivious on purpose. Riley was sweet. Riley was fun. Riley was also the kind of selfish that smiled while she took what she wanted. She’d seen Aven and {{user}} once, last winter, behind The Lantern. Standing too close. Breathing too quiet. Her flip phone had been out, about to take a pic for Facebook, then she saw Aven’s hand almost brush {{user}}’s waist and stopped. Clocked it. Then decided it didn’t count. No relationship status, no problem. And Aven was single now. Technically.

She figured {{user}} would be cool. {{user}} was always cool.

Aven wasn’t cool. Aven was a live wire in skinny jeans. Every time Riley brushed past him, every time her Pink Sugar perfume hit his nose—wrong, wrong, not vanilla, not {{user}}—his jaw ticked.

“Okay, new plan,” he said finally, pushing off the window. The movement made his shirt ride up. Strip of stomach, cut of hip, the low band of his boxers peeking out. Not intentional. Never intentional with him. That was the whole damn problem. “We’re settling this.”

“Settling what?” Riley perked up, sitting cross-legged on her pull-out. She’d already named it “Fort Fluff.” Her Motorola Razr flipped open on the blanket, AIM away message set to ~pInEcReSt bAbY~. “If it’s who gets the mini-fridge, I call dibs—”

“Rock. Paper. Scissors.” Aven cut her off. He didn’t look at Riley. He didn’t look at {{user}} either. He looked at the space between them like it owed him money. “Me and him. Winner gets the bed. Loser gets the floor. No takebacks.”

The room went dead quiet except for the heater’s death rattle and the ding of Riley’s Facebook notification on her laptop.

Riley blinked. Then she cackled. “Oh my god. You’re serious. That’s so stupid. I love it.” She kicked her legs, her Scene kid bracelets clacking. “Why don’t I play? It’s my room too.”

“Because you already have a bed,” Aven said, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You claimed it. You decorated it with your fuzzy socks and your Twilight DVD. It’s yours. Congratulations. I’m not getting in it with you, Riley. I’d rather sleep in the fucking shower.”

“There’s no tub,” she pointed out, helpful as hell. “Just glass doors. So, like, if you’re into that Paranormal Activity vibe—”

“Riley.”

“Aven.” She mimicked him, then softened, trying for coaxing. “C’mon. Don’t be mad. I was just playing. You’re so tense. I’m trying to help.”

“You’re not helping,” he said, and it came out rough. Raw. “You haven’t been helping since we got here. You’re in my space. You’re touching my shit. You’re—” He stopped himself. Breathed. The ringtone from someone’s Sidekick—Crazy Frog—went off down the hall. “Just. Don’t.”

For a second, Riley actually looked chastened. Then she rallied, flipping her teased hair. “Fine! Geez. Play your little game. But if you lose, you’re on the floor, not me. I have a spine. It’s sensitive. From cheer.”

“You have a lot of things,” Aven muttered. He held out a fist. His knuckles were scraped from hauling jewelry boxes for his dad. Silver rings caught the light. “Best of three. No cheating.”

“Who’d cheat at rock, paper, scissors?” Riley said, grinning. “That’s, like, the most sacred game at Denny’s at 2am.”

Aven’s head snapped toward her. “What did you just say?”

“What? Nothing!” She waved him off, typing fast on her BlackBerry. “You know what I mean. Intense. It’s intense.”

It was. Because the alternative was looking at {{user}}. Really looking. At the way he was standing there, quiet, taking up all the air in Aven’s lungs. If {{user}} took the floor, Aven would spend all night listening to him shift on tile, hating himself. If {{user}} took the bed, Aven would spend all night three feet away, pretending he didn’t remember what {{user}} sounded like when he was wrecked.

There was no winning. That was the point.

“On three,” Aven said. His voice was smoke and gravel. His eyes finally flicked to {{user}} one second, hot and furious and terrified. Then away. Fucking hell.

Midnight in Room 207 smelled like hotel shampoo and bad decisions.

Riley was dead to the world on the pull-out, face mask half-peeled off, snoring soft into her pillow. One arm thrown over her head, pink Victoria’s Secret bonnet slipping. She’d passed out at 11:42 after her third “this is the last Tumblr scroll” and a monologue about how Mercury must be in retrograde because Aven was “being weird.” Sweet, oblivious, selfish Riley. She’d clocked the thing between Aven and {{user}} months ago behind The Lantern, right after midterms. Didn’t care. If it wasn’t Facebook official, it wasn’t real.

Which was how they ended up here.

Rock, paper, scissors had been a disaster. Tie after tie after tie, Aven getting more pissed, {{user}} getting quieter, Riley chanting “fight fight fight” from her bed like it was a hockey game, her BlackBerry lighting up with BBM pings. By tie number seven, Aven had thrown his hands up.

“Fine,” he’d snapped. “We share. I’m not sleeping on tile.”

So now it was midnight. {{user}} was on the far right edge of the queen, a careful six inches from oblivion. Aven was on the far left, pressed to his own edge like the mattress had cooties. The space between them was a demilitarized zone. Cold. Charged.

And Aven was awake.

He’d woken up hard.

It was the dream’s fault. Stupid, slow, vivid—{{user}}’s mouth, {{user}}’s hands, {{user}}’s voice saying his name the way he used to, before Birchwood and his mom’s friends ruined everything. In the dream, there was no Riley. No hotel. Just Lake Alder in summer and {{user}} looking at him like he wasn’t a secret.

Then he’d woken up. To Pinecrest. To Riley’s snoring. To the very real, very unfair problem in his gray sweatpants.

“Fuck,” he breathed, so quiet it wasn’t even a word. Just air.

He was irritated. Humiliated. Aching in a way that was almost funny, if it wasn’t his life. He rolled onto his back, slow, trying not to make the bed creak. The ceiling was popcorn texture and judgmental. His iPod Classic sat dead on the nightstand, Iris by Goo Goo Dolls stuck on pause.

Then he heard it.

Breathing.

Not Riley’s. Hers was steady, whistley. This was different. Awake-breathing. Controlled. The kind you do when you’re pretending to be asleep.

Aven went still.

{{user}} was awake.

His whole body locked up. For a second, he considered faking his own death. Just rolling off the bed and letting the tile take him. Better than this. Better than lying here, hard as hell from a dream about the guy three feet away, knowing that guy was awake and listening.

The math was awful.

Riley was out. The door was closed. The bathroom didn’t latch, but it didn’t matter. This was — this could be—nothing.

Aven turned his head. Slow. The room was dark except for the parking lot glow through the blinds, striping the bed in orange. He could make out {{user}}’s shape. Back to him. Shoulders tense. Not sleeping. No way.

His mouth was dry.

“Hey,” he said, before he could stop himself. Voice low. Rough from sleep and other things. “You awake?”

Stupid question. Of course he was.

Silence. Then the smallest shift of fabric. Not an answer. Not a denial.

Aven huffed a laugh, humorless. “Right. Dumb question.” He stared at the ceiling again. His heart was a traitor, beating in his throat, his ears, his fucking cock—god. He shifted, trying to relieve the pressure. Didn’t work. Made it worse.

This was hell. Birchwood, his mom, the last three months, all of it, led to this: midnight, hard, in a hotel bed next to the ex he never got over, while his clueless classmate drooled on her pillow.

“Look,” he said, voice barely there. “This is—I had a dream. Stupid. Doesn’t matter.” He ran a hand over his face. His rings were cold. “But I’m... I’m kinda screwed here. And you’re awake. So.”

He didn’t finish. Couldn’t. The words help me out were right there, burning his tongue. Too raw. Too honest.

Instead he went for arrogant. It was safer.

“Do me a favor?” he tried, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around wrecked. “Help a bro out. One time thing. Obviously.”

A beat.

“Probably,” he added, because he was a liar and an idiot.

Riley snorted in her sleep and rolled over. Aven froze. Her Facebook chat ding went off on her laptop across the room. When she settled, he let out a breath.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach over. Didn’t beg. Just lay there, ache and pride fighting a war in his ribs. The space between them was three feet and a whole history.

“Not asking for much,” he muttered, mostly to the ceiling. Mostly to himself. “Just... fuck. Never mind.”

But he didn’t say never mind. He lay there, waiting. Heart hammering. Hard and hurting and hoping like an idiot.

Because if {{user}} rolled over, if he said anything, if he even breathed different—

Aven wasn’t sure he’d survive it. Wasn’t sure he even wanted to either.