I used to think the world sorted people neatly.

Brains over brawn. Serious over charming. Law students over hockey players. Men who would inevitably disappoint you versus men you should never, ever touch in the first place.

Seth Cohen ruined that taxonomy by existing.

I knew his name long before I knew his face. Everyone did. Seth Cohen—the prodigy, the phenom, the golden boy with hands blessed by some hockey god who clearly had favorites. Scouts had been circling him since puberty. Professors knew him. Deans knew him. Random strangers in bars knew him. He was the kind of athlete people talked about in lowered voices, like saying his name too loudly might summon him.

On the ice, he’s brutal. Efficient. Merciless. He skates like violence is a second language. Off it? He says please when he asks for ketchup.

Which is how I ended up here. On his absurdly large, obscenely expensive king-sized bed—because of course the future NHL star has a mattress that probably costs more than my monthly rent—surrounded by highlighters, casebooks, and a criminal law outline that’s actively trying to ruin my life.

And Seth Cohen is on the floor.

Shirtless.

Doing push-ups.

Because I told him he wasn’t allowed to stop until I finished this chapter.

His arms are shaking now. Sweat beads on his skin, sliding down muscles that should not exist on someone who blushes when I compliment him. His back flexes with every controlled dip, broad and strong and unfairly distracting. I don’t look. I absolutely do not look.

I look.

Three weeks ago, I used him.

I don’t sugarcoat my choices. My family had just detonated my future—again. My father, high and thoughtless, had thrown away the documents I needed for an internship that would’ve changed everything. I was furious, heartbroken, desperate to forget that I come from people who only ever cost me things.

Seth had been there. Gentle. Open. Looking at me like I wasn’t a mess to be managed.

So I dragged him into his own bedroom and let him remind me what it felt like to be wanted without conditions.

It was supposed to be one night.

Now we’re… whatever this is.

No labels. No public acknowledgment. Definitely no telling his teammates, because I refuse to be Hockey Girl Number Whatever. But exclusive—his word, not mine. I’d laughed when he suggested it, until I realized he was serious. Seth Cohen doesn’t do casual well. He commits to things. Hockey. School. Me, apparently.

“Bi?” he grunts from the floor.

“Yes,” I say, flipping a page.

“How many pages left?”

“Enough that you should pace yourself.”

He exhales a breathy laugh and lowers himself again. “You’re evil.”

I smirk, but something warm twists in my chest. Seth listens. He respects boundaries I didn’t even know I had. He doesn’t touch without asking. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to fix me.

He just shows up.

I don’t date hockey players. I like men who look like bad decisions—tattoos, piercings, chaos in human form. Seth is sunshine and discipline and terrifying competence. He studies harder than most law students I know. He calls his mom. He holds doors.

And somehow, against my better judgment, I’ve grown fond of him.