“We’re doing that again,” he mutters.
He dries himself and then pulls on his jeans. I watch him move around my small dorm room like he belongs here. Like this is normal.
Maybe it is now. Maybe this is our new normal.
I get dressed—jeans, a clean shirt, my backpack. Koa waits patiently, scrolling through his phone, and when I'm ready he stands and takes my hand.
We walk across campus together in the morning light. Students pass us, some glancing, some staring.
At the liberal arts building, Koa stops and pulls me close. "See you tonight?"
"Maybe. I've got a study group, and Thea wants to get dinner."
"Text me when you're done. I'll come get you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He kisses me, soft and possessive all at once. "I always want to."
I watch him walk away, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like any other college athlete heading to morning practice. Nobody would guess what he's capable of. What we've all done.
And that's exactly how we want it.
I head into class and take my usual seat near the back. The professor is already setting up, writing discussion questions on the board about "The Sun Also Rises" and lost generation masculinity.
My phone buzzes. Three texts.
Atticus: Made it back. Already missing that ass, sexy.
Revan: Practice in an hour. Thinking about you.
Koa: Forgot to tell you—you're fucking perfect.
I smile, typing back quick responses to each of them. Different messages for different people, because they each need something different from me.
And I need different things from each of them.
The professor starts class and I put my phone away, pulling out my notebook. But I can't focus on Hemingway and disillusionment and the aftermath of war.
I'm too busy thinking about my own aftermath.
About how I killed my father and don't regret it.
About how I have three men who want me, and I want them all back.
About how theparasitein my chest finally stopped feeding because it found something better than power.
It found belonging.
Broken, bloody, violent belonging—but belonging nonetheless.
The lecture continues. Outside, the world spins on. And I sit in my seat, taking notes on literary theory, looking like any other college student trying to pass her classes.
Nobody knows.
Nobody needs to know.
This is mine. Ours. The secret we carry between the four of us.
