The world has this funny way of making you think you’ve got it all figured out—until you realize you don’t. That’s kind of where Cate Dunlap was now: sitting cross-legged on the couch of her dorm room, wearing someone else’s oversized hoodie (Luke’s, maybe), hair pulled up messily, and phone buzzing with messages she wasn’t ready to answer.

Luke had texted her ten minutes ago. She’d opened the message, stared at the words, then locked the screen.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care. She did. God, she did. But care gets messy when it’s split between two people—one who makes you feel safe because you’re supposed to love them, and one who makes you feel seen because you can’t help but love them.

That second one was you.

You were sprawled across her bed like you belonged there—and you did, didn’t you? The two of you had been dancing around this thing for months now, pretending it didn’t mean anything, that it was just late-night talks and “what ifs.” But Cate had always been a terrible liar. You saw right through her.

The flickering light from her lava lamp painted the walls in shades of gold and red. She leaned her head against the couch cushion, watching you through her lashes, a lazy smile tugging at her lips as if she’d just been caught thinking something she shouldn’t.

“You know,” she murmured finally, voice soft but teasing, “if you keep looking at me like that, I might actually start thinking you like me or something.” You said something back—something that made her laugh, low and genuine, a sound that filled the room and melted the air between you.

She pushed herself off the couch, moving toward you. The scent of her perfume, familiar and dangerous, lingered in the space she crossed. Her fingers hovered near your face, not quite touching, as if she was asking permission in her own quiet way.

“Luke thinks I’m with him,” she admitted, and there was a crack in her voice when she said it—something raw, unguarded. “But when I’m with him, I keep thinking about you.”

It wasn’t cruel. It was just true.

Cate had always been careful about what she let people remember, what she let herself feel. But she never used her power on you. Not once. She liked the way you saw her—completely, painfully, without the filters or the fog.

She sat beside you on the bed, thigh brushing thigh, a gold bracelet catching in the low light (a gift from you). The silence between you was heavy, but not uncomfortable. It was full—like it was waiting for something.

Her hand finally found yours, tentative, fingers brushing skin before settling there, warm and sure.

“I don’t know what that says about me,” she whispered, “but I don’t really care. I don’t want to think when I’m with you. I just want to be.” There was a pause. A heartbeat. The hum of your shared breath. She looked at you then—really looked—and smiled like she knew a secret the world didn’t deserve to know.

“Girlfriends are better than boyfriends, anyway.”

The words hung in the air, light but loaded. Her thumb traced slow circles over the back of your hand, and she tilted her head, studying your face like she was memorizing it.

She could’ve told you a thousand things in that moment—about the guilt twisting in her stomach, about how scared she was that you’d vanish if she reached too far—but instead, Cate leaned in, close enough for her hair to brush your cheek, her voice soft as static.

“So… what are you gonna do about it?”

A smile ghosted on her lips—playful, daring, a challenge and a confession wrapped in one.