the girl who plays ch 7

We’re alone in the library again, and the air feels different. Less sharp, more loaded. Like someone lit a fuse and we’re both pretending not to notice the sparks.

Books stacked between us like a fortress neither of us is actually hiding behind. His eyes keep finding mine, and for once, he isn’t wearing that infuriating smirk.

Thank God. I can’t handle cocky Grayson right now.

“I want to make you a deal,” he says, leaning back, arms crossed.

I arch a brow. “Does it involve blackmail or just garden-variety manipulation?”

“One real question. One real answer. No jokes, no sarcasm, no bullshit.”

My heart does something acrobatic. He says it like a challenge, but there’s something quieter underneath. Something that makes my skin prickle.

“And if I lie?”

“I’ll know.”

Of course you will. You see everything, don’t you?

I hesitate for exactly 0.2 seconds before my mouth makes decisions my brain hasn’t approved. “Fine.”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, and the way he watches me is really unnerving. Like I’m a puzzle he’s halfway through solving and really enjoying the process.

“What’s one thing you’ve wanted someone to do to you… but never said out loud?”

The silence doesn’t just hit me—it demolishes me.

My breath catches. Throat goes Sahara-level dry. I glance toward the doorway like the librarian might materialize and save me from this conversational landmine.

Think. Say something. Anything. Literally anything except the truth.

But my mind is racing with answers I absolutely cannot say. Not here. Not to him. Not when his voice makes my skin feel like it’s on fire and his eyes strip away every defense I’ve spent years building.

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Nothing.

My heart is hammering so hard I’m genuinely concerned about cardiac arrest at seventeen.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t laugh or look smug or make some cutting remark. Just studies me like my silence is the most fascinating thing he’s ever encountered.

“That’s what I thought,” he says softly.

I drop my gaze, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. Should be furious. Should throw something sharp and sarcastic back at him. But I don’t.

Because part of me wanted the question.

Screw my entire life.

“Why would you ask me that?” I don’t look at him.

“Because you’re the only person in this school who pretends not to want anything. And I call bullshit.”

“That’s not—”

“It is,” he cuts me off. “You act like being untouched makes you morally superior. Like desire is something disgusting.”

“I don’t think it’s disgusting.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

I hate you. I hate that you’re right. I hate that my entire body is suddenly hyperaware of every inch between us and every inch I wish didn’t exist.

“This isn’t part of the project.”

“Sure it is. Moral agency. Restraint. Impulse control. You said it yourself.”

My fingers dig into the table edge. “This feels like entrapment.”

“Maybe. But maybe you walked into it on purpose.”

That stings more than it should because it’s probably true.

I stare at book spines, pretending to focus while feeling his eyes on me like a physical weight.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me, Juliet.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what are you afraid of? That I’ll see something you’ve worked too hard to hide?”

Finally look up. “Don’t pretend you know me.”

“I don’t. But I’m trying to.”

“Why?” The word comes out as a whisper. “Why do you even care what I’m hiding?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Eyes flickering over me like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.

“Because I see something in you that feels real. And I don’t get much of that.”

I shake my head. “You don’t know anything—”

“I know you’re not as perfect as they think. I know you sit in back rows like it makes you invisible, but you don’t miss anything. I know you need control because you’re terrified of losing it.”

My throat constricts. “Stop.”

“I know you didn’t answer because the real answer would destroy everything. Your rules, your image, your precious vow.”

I shove my chair back. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me for entertainment.”

He stands, slow and deliberate. “I’m not entertained.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“The real you.”

“You’re not going to get it.”

“I already have more than anyone else.” His voice drops. “And you know it.”

Something explodes in my chest. Panic, heat, want—all tangled into one devastating knot.

He moves closer, not touching but close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel his body heat.

“You have no idea what silence gives away, Alden.”

Before I can process what’s happening, his arms are around me. Not rough, not demanding—just sudden and warm and completely overwhelming.

Oh God. This is—

I can feel his heartbeat against my chest. His breath in my hair. The solid reality of him pressed against me, and every single defense I’ve ever built crumbles like wet tissue paper.

For exactly three seconds, I melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of being held like I matter, like I’m something precious instead of something perfect.

Then reality crashes back.

“No.” I push against his chest, stumbling backward. “No, I can’t—”

“Juliet—”

“I have to go.”

I’m already moving, grabbing my bag, my books, my rapidly disintegrating composure.

“Running away again?” he calls after me.