EPISODE 19 — The Weight of Want
(Ethan's POV)
The sunlight was harsh and uncompromising when I finally dragged myself out of bed, the warmth of last night's aftermath still lingering like a soft, stubborn shadow. Layla had left my dorm, slipping down the hallway with quiet grace, her presence already echoing in the empty room. The bed felt too large, too cold, and yet the memory of her—her weight against me, the rise and fall of her breath, the taste of her lips—clung to every fiber of the sheets, to every lingering scent of her shampoo and skin.
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to focus, but my mind kept tracing the curve of her cheek, the way her eyes had softened when she'd pressed against me, the small, almost imperceptible smile that lingered after every kiss. That smile had a gravity of its own. I could feel it even now. It was a tether. A warning. And I was willingly caught in it.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Marcus. Not urgent, not yet, but present. "All clear so far. Campus is quiet. No leaks detected. Keep your eyes open."
I exhaled, tension threading through my chest. Quiet or not, I knew the storm had never really ended. It had been temporarily buried—erased with clicks and digital shadowwork—but Gregory Marshall's patience was finite, his anger eternal. I had seen the storm in his eyes when he caught wind of the first video. I'd tried to justify it to myself: one fleeting moment of carelessness, a lapse, a human slip. But the truth was simple: one more misstep, one more headline, and the ripple could destroy more than my reputation. It could destroy her.
Layla.
The thought alone made my chest tighten. My fingers curled around the phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard before sending a brief, controlled message: Lunch? Meet at the quad.
Minutes later, her reply buzzed back: On my way.
I leaned back against the headboard, eyes closing briefly as the pulse of anticipation settled like fire in my veins. The quad. Lunch. Simple. Ordinary. Yet nothing about the world with her had ever been ordinary. Every glance, every brush of skin, every stolen moment carried gravity. She carried it. And I carried the responsibility.
I dressed deliberately, buttoning my shirt carefully, tucking in the edges, straightening the collar, because appearances mattered. To Gregory, to the campus, to the delicate balance between desire and discretion that we were teetering on. Yet even as I smoothed the fabric over my chest, my mind returned to her warmth, her scent, the curve of her lips, the softness of her touch. I had woken up with a hunger I hadn't known I could feel. And it wasn't just physical.
It never had been with Layla.
By the time I stepped into the corridor, the campus was already buzzing with mid-morning movement. Students drifted past, chatter blending into the dull hum of footsteps and distant laughter. I kept my hood low, eyes scanning casually while my mind focused entirely on one thing: her.
The quad wasn't far, but the walk felt interminable. Every step was a countdown, a drumbeat that matched the flutter in my chest. I wondered if she felt it too—the tension, the desire, the fragile thrill of moving forward while shadows of our past mistakes still lingered.
Then I saw her.
She was walking toward me with that effortless poise, hoodie loosely draped over her shoulders, sketchbook clutched in one hand. Her eyes lifted as she noticed me, and for the briefest moment, time suspended itself. That smile—small, quiet, but radiant—lit the space between us like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.
"Ethan," she said softly, voice carrying across the quad, just enough for me to hear, just enough for the world to fade away.
"Layla," I replied, voice low, controlled, though the tight coil in my chest threatened to betray me. "Lunch?"
She nodded, and we moved to one of the quieter benches tucked near the edge of the fountain. The sun hit just right, painting her hair in shades of gold and chestnut, highlighting the curve of her jaw and the gentle rise of her collarbone. I wanted to reach out and touch her, just to confirm she was real, and not some figment of a fantasy I had conjured in the sleepless hours of last night.
We sat, a careful space between us, yet charged with an invisible tension. I studied her face, memorizing, storing, noting the subtle shifts of expression that were uniquely her.
"I—" I began, then paused, the words failing me. Every sentence that could explain, justify, or bridge the gap between us seemed inadequate. "I don't even know what to say sometimes," I admitted finally, voice rougher than I intended.
She tilted her head slightly, eyebrow arched in that way that had always disarmed me. "Try me," she whispered, teasing yet tender. "Or don't. I don't need a speech."
The simplicity of her words was both comforting and terrifying. She trusted me without needing justification, without asking for a guarantee. And yet I felt the weight of her trust like a stone in my chest. One wrong move, one careless decision, and it could all shatter.
"I keep thinking about… last night," I confessed, the words tasting like fire on my tongue. "About you. About us. About how… everything feels like it's shifted, and I can't ignore it."
Her gaze softened. "I know," she said. Her hand hovered near mine but didn't touch. "It has. But… it's okay, Ethan. We don't have to define it yet."
I wanted to argue, to claim, to tell her that what we had wasn't about definition—it was about reality, the pull between us, the undeniable gravity. But I stayed silent, letting the words linger in the space between us.
The quad buzzed around us, oblivious to the tension, to the stolen glances, to the silent confessions. And yet, somewhere in the hum of ordinary life, the world felt extraordinary simply because she was there.
A soft breeze rustled her hair, lifting strands across her face. I reached instinctively, brushing them aside, thumb lingering against her cheek. The contact was fleeting, delicate, yet electric. She shivered slightly, and my chest tightened.
"We have… complications," I murmured, voice dropping. "My father—he won't forgive this. He… he hates headlines, public attention. One misstep, and the storm could come back with full force. For you, for me, for… everything."
Her hand brushed mine then, finally. Light, tentative, but deliberate. "I know. And I trust you. You always protect me, Ethan. I feel it."
The words hit me harder than any kiss could. The weight of her trust, her vulnerability, and her desire to be near me despite the risk—it all demanded everything I could give. And yet, I knew the world was not done testing us. The first video, the memories of the second, Marcus' intervention—they were temporary shields, not permanent solutions. The storm always lingered on the horizon.
I took a deep breath, steadying myself. "Then we face it together," I said. "Carefully. Quietly. But together. I won't let anything hurt you. Not Gregory, not the campus, not anyone."
She smiled, a small curve that carried reassurance and challenge all at once. "Together," she echoed.
The quiet was broken by the distant ringing of a campus bell. Classes. Obligations. Reality creeping back into our lives.
We ate quickly, small bites, but the conversation flowed effortlessly, a mixture of light laughter, teasing glances, and lingering touches. Each brush of skin, each shared laugh, was a claim, a declaration, a reminder that no matter the chaos, the warnings, or the potential fallout, we had something undeniable.
Between bites, I studied her in silence, cataloging the way her eyes glinted when she laughed, the subtle movement of her hands, the tilt of her head when she was deep in thought. Every detail was etched into my mind, forming a map I could navigate even in the darkest hour.
And yet, the undercurrent of tension never fully left. I sensed it—a shadow moving near the periphery of my vision, a figure in the distance that lingered too long, watching. My jaw tightened imperceptibly. Marcus had been thorough, meticulous, but no system was infallible. Someone knew. Or at least suspected.
I caught her noticing my brief shift in attention. "Something wrong?" she asked, voice low, curious.
"Nothing," I lied smoothly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "Just… thinking. About us. About… all of it."
Her gaze softened. "Don't overthink. Just… be here."
And that's what I did. I focused entirely on her, on the warmth of her hand in mine, the sway of her laughter, the soft cadence of her words. The world could wait. The campus could whisper. Gregory could rage. None of it mattered right now. She was here. I was here.
The rest of lunch passed in a blur of warmth, sunlight, and the quiet electricity between us. By the time we stood to leave, my hand found hers instinctively, fingers intertwining. She didn't pull away. She couldn't. And I didn't want her to.
"Later?" I asked, voice low. A promise, a question, a tether.
She smiled, eyes shining. "Later," she confirmed.
We parted briefly as she returned toward her dorm, the soft sway of her hair behind her a lingering memory I couldn't shake. Every step she took pulled me along, mentally, emotionally, leaving a trail I couldn't resist.
Alone, I paused by the fountain, tracing the edges with my fingers. The first video's night replayed vividly in my mind—the water, the quiet intimacy, the stolen moments. It was a memory I couldn't erase, no matter Marcus' best efforts. But that was okay. Some things weren't meant to disappear. Some things—some people—were permanent.
And Layla… she was mine.
I exhaled, letting the sun warm my face, letting the tension roll through my shoulders. The storm wasn't over. It never would be. But for the first time in days, I felt like I could face it. And I would. For her, for us.
Because some connections weren't just fleeting. Some were seismic.
And I wasn't letting go.
—