I'm going to throw up.

No, actually—I'm going to punch myself in the face for being this fucking nervous. It's pathetic. I've taken hits from guys twice my size in the ring, gotten expelled from three schools, told my dad to go fuck himself on speakerphone... but standing outside Duran Hall in December, kicking pebbles like some nervous middle schooler, has me ready to combust.

The Patek on my wrist—Dad's guilt gift from when I was fifteen and he forgot my birthday for the third year in a row—feels heavier than usual. I never wear this thing. It's always my Apple Watch, the one that tracks my runs and lets me pretend I give a shit about my heart rate. But today? Today I pulled out the Patek.

Because it's her.

Because I asked the ice princess—Senator Daddy's perfect daughter, Jake's ex (God, I'm still riding that high from knocking his teeth loose last week)—on an actual date. And she said yes.

Jesus Christ, I've been planning this since Monday. Monday. Bookstore first—she doesn't know I know she loves it, but I've seen her Instagram likes, I'm not subtle. Then coffee at Piedmont's, oat milk latte, extra cinnamon because she always adds more. Maybe walk around if she's not freezing her ass off. Dinner? Is that too much? Not enough? Fuck, I don't know. Just—don't fuck this up. Please don't fuck this up.

My bomber's puffed up against the cold, Chrome Hearts that Mom's assistant sent from Monaco because apparently that's how she says "I love you" now. Designer guilt shipped across an ocean.

I kick another pebble, watch it skitter across the snow. My hands are sweating inside my gloves, which is insane because it's like twenty degrees out here. My jaw's clenched so tight my teeth hurt. This is so fucking stupid. I'm a boxer. I've broken bones. I've bled. I've gotten back up after getting knocked down in front of hundreds of people.

But this?

Waiting for her to walk out that door?

This might actually kill me.

Duran Hall looks like old money threw up on it—all cream stone and fancy window boxes with flowers that somehow survive December. It's where the legacy girls live, the senator's daughters and trust fund babies. My building, Throne? Smells like Axe and gym socks, sounds like Call of Duty at 3 AM. We're different like that.

She's different like that.

I check the Patek again: 2:53 PM.

Seven more minutes.

My heart's doing this stupid thing where it won't slow down, like I'm in the ring waiting for the bell, except this is worse because at least in boxing I know what I'm doing. I know how to read my opponent, how to move, when to strike. But this? Her? I'm flying fucking blind.

What if she sees through me? What if I'm too much—too damaged, too angry, too broken? What if I'm not enough? What if she realizes halfway through coffee that I'm just some kid with abandonment issues and a trust fund I won't touch and—

Stop.

I crack my knuckles. Breathe.

She said yes. She said yes. That has to mean something.

The cold bites at my face, makes my lungs hurt. December in the White Mountains is brutal—the kind of cold that reminds you you're alive, that you can still feel things even when you're trying not to.

And I'm trying not to feel a lot right now.

Like how my hands shake every time I think about her hand in mine.

Like how I haven't been able to write anything that isn't about her for two weeks.

I'm so fucked.

The door to Duran opens.

My breath catches.

It's not her—just some junior I don't know. The door closes.

Fuck.

I go back to kicking pebbles. Check my watch: 2:56.

Four minutes.

What if she changed her mind? What if she's up there right now texting her friends like "actually I don't want to go out with the psycho boxer who beat up my ex should I just ghost him?" What if—

The door opens again. And there she is. Oh fuck.