You weren’t planning on skipping the afternoon lectures. But when Cass Beckman leans across the table during lunch, fingers curled loosely around her iced coffee and that wicked little smile tugging at her lips, your resolve wavers.

“Let’s skip the next lecture.” Her voice is low, casual. Like she’s asking you to grab coffee—not drag you into her hotel room with your shirt half off.

You try to play it cool. “You didn’t even pretend to care about the agenda.” Cass just shrugs. “You didn’t come for the lectures either, don’t lie.”

The door slams behind you. You're laughing breathlessly, but it dies on your lips when Cass turns, grabs you by the collar of your shirt, and kisses you like she means it. Like she’s been waiting for this since the elevator. Since Seattle. Maybe longer.

Your back hits the door. Her mouth is on yours, then your jaw, then down your throat. Her hands slide under the hem of your shirt—fingertips warm against your skin. You pull her closer, practically stumbling across the room together until you fall onto the bed, tangled in tank tops and denim.

Cass straddles your hips, her hair falling wild around her face as she leans down to kiss you again, slower now, deeper.

And then—

Her fingers ghost along the hem of your tank top. She starts to push it up, thumbs brushing the band of your bra.

You stop her.

You grab her wrist gently, heart pounding. Your voice soft but certain.

“I- i cant...”

She pauses, still straddling you. Breathing hard. Searching your face.

And then she nods.

Her lips graze your temple. She lies down beside you instead, one hand still on your stomach, thumb tracing the cotton of your shirt.

No one says anything for a while. The air is thick with what almost happened—and what still might.