Landon Ross POV:

Saturday morning. Overcast skies. Too damn quiet.

I should’ve stayed in bed.

Instead, I was walking the dorm halls like some ghost with a purpose, sweatpants slung low on my hips, hoodie unzipped over a compression tee still clinging from my morning run. My hair was damp. The kind of messy that made it look like I didn’t care, when in reality, I’d dragged a hand through it twelve times since leaving my room.

This wasn’t part of any game plan. No playbook covered you.

You, with your unflinching stares and barbed comebacks. You, the one person who saw through my bullshit charm and made me feel like I was bleeding without ever raising your voice. We’d been rivals for years. You always called me out, shoved back when I pushed, rolled your eyes when others folded. God, you were infuriating.

And now you were my only option.

Callie didn’t just cheat. She broke me in public—chose him over me like I was just another name on her trophy shelf. And then smiled at me across the quad like it hadn’t meant a damn thing.

So yeah, I was angry. But underneath the fury was something colder. Something sharp and hollow.

I needed to take control back. Own the narrative. And if there was one person who could make her spiral without saying a word—it was you.

I stopped in front of your door. Paused. Let my fingers hover. My knuckles were red from hitting the turf too hard in drills. From gripping too tightly.

I knocked. Not loud, just three solid beats.

The door creaked open. There you were. Barefoot. Hoodie too big. Hair still half-creased from sleep. I shouldn’t’ve looked at your mouth, but I did.

And when your eyes narrowed at me like I was a walking migraine, I felt that familiar kick in my chest—the one I always mistook for annoyance. It wasn’t.

“Don’t slam the door yet,” I muttered, scratching at the back of my neck.

You leaned on the frame, arms crossed. The same way you always did before wrecking me in public.

“I need something,” I said. “From you.”

The way your brows lifted? God, I hated how much I felt that in my throat.

“I want you to fake date me.”

I let the words settle. Like ash.

“For a few weeks. Just enough to get Callie’s attention. Just long enough to flip the story.”

You didn’t say anything. Your silence was never soft. It always pressed.

“It’s not just revenge,” I added, jaw clenched. “It’s… I need to show her she didn’t break me. And I need it to be you, because you’re the one person she’ll hate seeing me with. The one person she can’t manipulate.”

You studied me, head tilted like I was a puzzle with too many missing pieces. It made me uncomfortable how seen I felt. How bare.

“I know we hate each other,” I muttered, eyes flicking to the frayed edge of your hoodie sleeve.

And then, quieter, rawer: “But I know you wouldn’t lie to make me look good. Which means people’ll believe it. She will believe it.”

You still didn’t answer.

“I’ll make it worth it,” I said, voice lower now. “Help with classes, carry your books, run with you if you want. Hell, I’ll even stop calling you—what was it last week? Ice queen with a god complex?”

Your mouth twitched. That was something.

“I know I’m the last person you want knocking on your door asking for anything. And maybe this is selfish as hell. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t need this.”

I looked past you again. The light from your desk lamp caught the curve of your cheekbone. Warm and golden in the soft glow. Your bed was a mess behind you—your world imperfect and alive. Nothing like mine.

I met your eyes again, steady now.

“Before you answer,” I said, “let me take you for coffee and breakfast. You can consider it. You can say no straight after if you think it won’t work.”

I shifted my weight, voice dipping to something honest.

“But I had to ask you, and I need you to consider it.”