Zendaya's POV
When Ransford texted, "Come over. I need to see you."
I stared at the message for five full minutes.
Not because I didn't know what it meant.
But because I did.
Ransford never needed to see me. Not really. He wanted comfort. He wanted distraction. He wanted softness without responsibility. And somehow, I was always available to provide it.
Still, my fingers betrayed me.
"Are you okay?" I replied.
The three dots appeared instantly.
"Yeah. Just miss you."
Miss me.
I swallowed. That word had power over me. It made me forget the way he had laughed too hard at something Beatrice said earlier that afternoon. It made me forget the way his eyes had followed her when she walked out of the lecture hall.
It made me feel chosen.
"I'm stupid," I whispered to myself, already reaching for my bag.
—
His apartment smelled like his cologne and something faintly sweet. He opened the door wearing a loose shirt and that lazy smile that always disarmed me.
"You took long," he said, stepping aside to let me in.
I wanted to say, I was debating whether I should keep choosing someone who doesn't choose me.
Instead, I said, "Traffic."
He locked the door behind me. That small click always made my heart race.
He pulled me into a hug. Not tight. Not desperate. Just enough to remind me that I fit against him.
"I had a stressful day," he murmured into my hair.
"What happened?" I asked immediately.
He sighed dramatically. "Just things."
Things.
He never explained the "things." I was there to soothe them, not understand them.
We sat on his couch. He rested his head on my lap like he always did. I ran my fingers through his hair, slow and careful, memorizing the shape of him like I was afraid he'd disappear.
"You're too good to me," he said softly.
The words should've made me happy.
Instead, they made my chest tighten.
"Is that a complaint?" I tried to joke.
He smiled without looking at me. "No. It's just… you're different."
Different from who?
I didn't ask.
He sat up suddenly and looked at me in a way that made my breath hitch. Intense. Searching. But not vulnerable.
"Come here," he said.
I was already there.
The kiss started slow. Familiar. His hands cupped my face like he cared about what I felt. And for a moment, I let myself sink into it. I let myself believe that this was intimacy and not convenience.
His fingers traced the side of my waist. Mine clutched his shirt.
"Zendaya," he whispered against my lips.
That tone always undid me.
There's a difference between being wanted and being loved. I didn't know that yet. So when he pulled me closer, when his hands tightened, when the kiss deepened, I mistook hunger for affection.
I mistook urgency for emotion.
And I gave.
Not because he forced me.
But because I thought giving meant staying.
The room blurred into warmth and breath and tangled limbs. My heart pounded louder than my thoughts. Somewhere between the closeness and the quiet sounds of his name on my lips, I convinced myself this meant something.
That this was connection.
That after this, maybe he would look at me differently.
Maybe he would finally see me.
And just like that he had his way with me.
—
Afterwards, the silence felt louder than anything that had happened before it.
I lay beside him, staring at the ceiling, my heartbeat slowly settling.
He reached for his phone.
That was the first crack.
I turned slightly. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he muttered, scrolling.
Scrolling.
I swallowed. "Who's texting?"
"No one important."
No one important.
My chest tightened. I forced a smile he wasn't looking at anyway.
He stood up and walked to the kitchen like nothing sacred had just happened between us.
I pulled the blanket around myself, suddenly cold.
"Zendaya," he called casually. "Are you staying over?"
The question felt routine.
Not hopeful. Not tender.
"Do you want me to?" I asked softly.
He paused for a second too long. "If you want."
If you want.
Not stay.
Not I'd like that.
Just neutrality.
I nodded even though he couldn't see me.
While he was gone, his phone lit up on the bed.
I didn't mean to look.
I promise I didn't.
But her name glowed against the screen.
Beatrice.
My stomach dropped.
"Did you get home safe?"
That was it.
Nothing inappropriate.
Nothing dramatic.
Just concern.
The kind I wished he showed me publicly.
I looked away quickly when I heard him coming back.
"You good?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said, pulling the blanket tighter.
He lay back down, not touching me this time.
The space between us felt intentional.
"Ransford?" I whispered.
"Hmm?"
"What are we?"
There it was. The question I'd been avoiding for months.
He exhaled slowly like I'd inconvenienced him.
"Why do we have to label everything?"
Because I need to know I'm not stupid.
Because I need to know I'm not just convenient.
Because I need to know I'm not sharing you with someone who doesn't even realize I exist.
"I just… I care about you," I said carefully.
"I care about you too," he replied immediately.
Too.
The smallest word can wound the deepest.
"But I'm not really looking for anything serious right now," he added.
And there it was.
I nodded even though my vision blurred.
"That's fine," I lied.
He leaned over and kissed my forehead like he had just given me reassurance instead of rejection.
"You understand me better than anyone," he said.
That was the problem.
—
I left his apartment an hour later.
He didn't walk me downstairs.
"Text me when you get home," he called from the couch.
The hallway felt colder than usual.
I stepped outside into the night air, wrapping my arms around myself. The world looked the same, but something inside me felt slightly rearranged.
Not broken.
Just shifted.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Ransford.
"Drive safe."
That was it.
No heart. No softness.
I stared at the screen.
Another notification appeared almost immediately.
Unknown Number.
"You deserve better than crumbs."
My heart skipped.
I frowned.
Who is this? I typed.
The reply came seconds later.
"Someone who sees what you pretend not to."
I stopped walking.
The streetlights flickered above me.
My pulse quickened — not from fear, but from something unfamiliar.
Awareness.
Do I know you? I sent back.
There was a pause.
Then:
"Not yet."
I looked around instinctively.
Nothing.
Just the quiet hum of night.
My phone buzzed again — this time from Ransford.
"Who was that guy you were talking to earlier today?"
My breath caught.
I hadn't even thought about it.
The tall guy near the faculty building. The one who had picked up my fallen notebook when I wasn't looking. The one who had said, calmly:
"You smile like you're apologizing for existing."
I'd brushed it off.
But Ransford hadn't.
"Just someone from class," I replied.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
"Stay away from him."
I stared at the screen.
Stay away from him?
My chest tightened.
You're not looking for anything serious.
You don't label things.
But I can't talk to someone?
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number.
"He doesn't get to decide who you talk to."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
How did he—
I typed slowly.
Who are you?
The reply took longer this time.
When it came, my breath caught in my throat.
"The man who won't make you beg."
I froze.
For the first time in months… I didn't feel small.
I didn't feel like I was waiting to be chosen.
I felt… seen.
My phone buzzed again.
Ransford.
"Zendaya. Answer me."
And suddenly, I realized something terrifying.
For the first time, I didn't rush to.
I looked down at the two conversations on my screen.
One that drained me.
One that unsettled me in a different way.
The night air felt sharper now.
Alive.
My phone vibrated one more time.
Unknown Number.
"You don't have to respond. Just think about it."
I stood under the streetlight, heart racing, mind spinning.
Because for the first time…
Someone wasn't asking what I could give.
They were telling me what I deserved.
And I didn't know which scared me more.
Ransford losing control.
Or me finally taking it.