Talking with Keara was a relief—she was laughter and blunt honesty, the kind of friend who could make my wounds feel less raw. But speaking with Anthony… it was the opposite. He was a storm I never asked to weather.
That weekend, I should have gone home. Instead, I stayed behind at the boarding house. Most had left for the holidays—only a handful of boarders from the second floor remained. My room was on the first, the quieter side.
It was past eleven when I slipped outside for air. To reach the balcony, I had to pass through the kitchen—the dim light still on. That's where I saw him.
Anthony.Slumped over the table, reeking of beer. His hand curled around an empty glass like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.
I hesitated, then made the mistake of shaking his shoulder. "Anthony? Hey, wake up."
His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first. Then they found me—and something sharp replaced the haze.Before I could pull back, his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist.
"What does it take," his voice slurred but certain, "to make you mine?"
My stomach tightened. I rolled my eyes like it was just another one of his lines. "Anthony, we're already friends."
"Want more than that." His grip tightened, stubborn as ever.
I tried to tug free. "Can you let go?" My voice lowered, teeth clenched. Instead, he caught my other hand too, trapping me there.
I sat down heavily, my patience fraying. His words came faster now, louder, echoing in the hollow kitchen.
"You should be mine. Why not me? Haven't I waited long enough?"
Laughter floated from the doorway—our housemates, amused by Anthony's familiar drunken display. But their laughter faltered when they caught sight of my face.
I wasn't laughing.I was angry.And trapped.
"Anthony, stop." My voice cracked sharper this time.
He leaned closer, eyes bloodshot. "You'll see one day. No one else will care like I do."
The kitchen door creaked. I stiffened.
There he was.Jacob.
He stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, but his eyes—those steady, dark eyes—were fixed on me. Not on Anthony. Not on the drunken spectacle. On me.
For a heartbeat, I froze. Shame burned hot in my chest. I wanted to explain, to tear free and prove I wasn't part of this mess, but his gaze didn't ask for explanations. It simply held me there—quiet, knowing, heavy.
Anthony's voice thundered louder, "Tell them! Tell everyone you're mine!"
The housemates fell silent.
But Jacob didn't move. He didn't need to. His silence weighed heavier than Anthony's shouting.
Finally, Anthony slumped, loosening his grip. I slipped free, brushing past him without a word.
When I reached the doorway, Jacob shifted slightly, giving me space. Our shoulders almost brushed.
That night, after Anthony's tears and the awkward shuffle of his friends dragging him away, the house fell into uneasy quiet. My housemates avoided my eyes as they slipped back to their rooms.
"What?" I muttered, sharper than intended. No one answered.
Frustrated, I grabbed a beer from the fridge and retreated to the balcony. The night air cooled my heated skin. I sank into a chair, staring at the faint glow of campus lights.
I didn't hear him at first—the soft twang of guitar strings blending into the hum of the night. But then I realized.
Jacob.
He sat beside me without a word, the wood of his guitar resting against his knee. His melody was unhurried, soothing.
The sound wrapped around me like a lullaby, and before I could stop myself, I blurted, "I'm sorry."
The words came out raw, absurd. Why was I apologizing? To him, of all people?
"For what?" His voice was calm, steady. His fingers never stopped moving.
I swallowed. "For that… chat."
His hand paused.
My heart plummeted. God, no. He saw it? The message to Mark—the one where I, out of spite, claimed Jacob without his knowledge. I forced a brittle laugh. "Ah, you… saw that."
Jacob finally lifted his eyes. The corners of his lips curved—not quite a smile.
"Yeah. I saw it."
My stomach dropped.
But then he strummed again, casual, as if nothing weighed on him. "You don't have to apologize for other people's words… or for mine, if they ever bother you."
Something in his tone—light, teasing—made my fake laugh break into a nervous, real one. For the first time that night, the tightness in my chest eased.
At first, I thought it would end there. But it didn't.
A week later, I saw it happen. A girl from another department caught him after class, smiling, twirling her hair as she asked for his number.
Jacob didn't hesitate."I already have a girlfriend," he said easily, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
The girl's smile faltered. "Oh? Who?"
Jacob pointed at the bulletin board nearby. My article was posted there—my face beside it in the editor's column.
"That's her."
I almost dropped my notebook. Heat flooded my cheeks as the girl looked from the board to me, then back at him.
"Really?" she asked, skeptical.
Jacob just smirked. "Really."
And that was it.
Later, I hissed at him, "Why did you do that?"
He only shrugged, strumming lazily. "Because it's easier that way. And besides…" his half-smile cut through me, "…you don't mind, right?"
I opened my mouth, ready to deny it—but the words never came. Because the truth was… I didn't know if I minded at all.
The next morning in the common kitchen, the table buzzed with gossip. Angela grinned wide."Well, well. Look who finally woke up—the girlfriend of the hour."
My mug nearly slipped from my hands. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb," Rolan said. "Jacob rejected a girl because he already has you."
Heat climbed my neck. I glanced at Jacob—leaning casually against the fridge, pouring milk into his cereal like it was just another Tuesday.
"Wait—what?!" I hissed.
Jacob looked up, smirking. "What? It's not like I lied."
The table erupted in laughter. Angela clapped like it was the best twist of the season.
"There is nothing going on!" I insisted, but the more I denied, the harder they laughed. Jacob just sat there calmly eating, like my humiliation was his breakfast entertainment.
Finally, I dropped into the chair beside him, fuming. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?" I muttered.
He leaned in, just enough for only me to hear."Maybe. But you could at least play along. Makes things easier for both of us."
Easier for him, maybe. For me—it was the start of a storm I didn't know how to stop.
At first, I thought Jacob was only humoring me. But the more he said it, the more it felt real.
One evening, while I was buried in notes for an article, Jacob appeared with two mugs of coffee. He set one beside me without a word, then strummed his guitar across the table.
I stared at the steam rising from the cup. "Why do you keep doing this?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Doing what?"
"Acting like…" My throat tightened. "Acting like we're really together."
He set the guitar aside, leaning forward. His voice was low."Because maybe, Hallie… I don't mind if it becomes real."