Chapter 3 – Let Me Forget My Worries
1201 Words
POV: Seraphina Marcell
The car ride feels longer than usual.
Maybe it’s because I can’t stop looking at him.
Alex’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, a rhythm too quick to be casual. His eyes stay glued to the road, jaw tight, knuckles pale under the passing glow of streetlights. Every few seconds, he glances at me, then looks away before our eyes can meet.
I shift in my seat, pretending to adjust my coat, but really just trying to breathe past the perfume still clinging to him. Avery’s perfume.
He doesn’t notice me watching him, but he feels it. I can tell. His shoulders tense more each time I move, like he’s bracing for something.
“So,” he says finally, voice too light, “are you going to tell me what happened back there?”
I stare out the window. “Just another fight. You know how they are.”
“Yeah, but the way you texted me, ‘come get me now,’ that didn’t sound like ‘just another fight.’”
I meet his gaze then. His eyes flick toward me, cautious, softening like he wants to read between my words.
“I didn’t want to be there,” I say simply.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You could’ve called earlier. I would’ve picked you up before it got bad.”
“Would you?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He glances at me again, frowning slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Seraphina.” His tone sharpens. “Don’t start that thing where you say ‘nothing’ and make it sound like everything.”
I cross my arms, sinking back into the seat. The rain outside blurs the world into streaks of gold and black. “Forget it.”
He sighs, turning his attention back to the road. The car fills with the low hum of the engine and my own racing thoughts.
I try to push the scent from my mind, the jasmine, the vanilla, the soft trace of Avery that shouldn’t be there, but it sticks, stubborn and cruel.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter. “You trust me, right?”
It’s not a question he should need to ask.
“Yeah,” I say, but it comes out thin.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. “Then stop looking at me like you’re waiting for me to confess to something.”
I force a smile. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”
He glances over, surprise flickering across his face. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The tension cracks, if only a little. He grins again, the kind of grin that used to make my stomach flip. For a second, I let myself believe this moment, this version of him, is still real.
By the time we reach campus, the rain has softened to mist. The gates open automatically, revealing wide lawns and tall dorm buildings with warm lights glowing in the windows. The place always looks like something out of a catalog, perfect, polished, expensive.
Alex pulls into the private parking lot behind the west wing. His building rises ahead, sleek and quiet, reserved for students with last names that open doors.
I used to think it was impressive. Now, it just feels distant.
He grabs his jacket from the back seat, and we step into the cool night air. The path to his room is lined with trimmed hedges and marble benches. My breath fogs as we walk.
“You cold?” he asks.
“A little.”
He slips his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. “Better?”
I nod, even though my mind is still miles away.
When we reach his door, he unlocks it with a swipe of his ID card. The room smells like cedar and detergent, everything meticulously neat, the way he always keeps it. A desk cluttered with open notebooks, a small fridge humming in the corner, a couch too nice for a dorm.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, tossing his keys on the counter.
I drop my purse beside the bed, sinking onto the couch. The silence between us feels charged, like we’re both waiting for the other to speak first.
He leans against the wall, watching me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I did,” I murmur.
He tilts his head. “At your house?”
“Something like that.”
He moves closer. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Then what do you want?”
His voice drops slightly, and the way he says it sends a ripple down my spine. I lift my eyes to his, and the world seems to shrink to just that space between us.
What do I want?
To forget.
To stop feeling like the ground under me is always about to break.
To stop hearing that vase shatter every time I close my eyes.
“I want to stop thinking,” I whisper.
He studies me for a heartbeat, then crosses the room. The air shifts as he kneels in front of me, resting his hands gently on my knees. “Then don’t.”
I search his face, every familiar detail, the scar on his jaw, the faint dimple that shows when he smirks, the shadow in his eyes that I always pretended not to see.
“Alex…”
He leans closer. “Let me help you forget.”
I should say no. I should ask about Avery, about the perfume, about the red streak on his wrist.
But when his fingers brush my cheek, my thoughts scatter. His touch is warm, steady, too easy to fall into.
Our lips meet, soft at first, almost hesitant. Then deeper, more desperate. His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me as if he can pull me away from everything waiting outside that door.
I let him.
Because for once, I don’t want to be the girl worrying about what’s breaking behind her.
I want to disappear into the warmth, the quiet, the lie that feels like comfort.
His breath mixes with mine, the taste of rain still lingering on his lips. My heart beats against his chest, fast and confused. The world narrows to the rhythm of it, the soft sound of our breaths, the whisper of his voice against my ear.
“Stay,” he murmurs.
I nod without thinking.
The storm outside fades to nothing but a faint hiss against the windows. His hands find mine, his touch tracing over the lines of my palm as if he’s memorizing me.
Maybe he is.
Maybe I’m letting him.
Maybe that’s the only way I know how to feel safe anymore.
The room spins softer, slower. I close my eyes, losing myself in the space between his words and mine, in the illusion that none of it, the fight, the silence, the perfume, exists.
For a moment, I almost believe it.
Almost.
His lips move against my skin as he whispers, “Forget everything tonight, Seraphina,” and I try…
- Writer
