Chapter 2

I rolled my eyes. "He has no idea who I am, okay? He thinks the person lying there was you."

"Exactly!"

Stanley slapped his thigh. "He thought the person giving off peach vibes and feeling all soft and delicate was me! You know what that means? It means he's been into me all along, just can't handle this linebacker bod I'm rocking now!"

"You know what they call this online? It's like Wattpad fanfic coming to life!"

I stared at him blankly. "You need to stop reading that garbage."

Stanley had zero shame as he sidled up to me, hands clasped together like he was begging for his life:

"Come on, Stella. Just help your brother out this once. Rent this semester is like three grand. If this works, I'll split the savings with you—enough to wipe out that credit card bill from your car repairs."

At the mention of "credit card bill," I instinctively pulled back. "What kind of scheme are you cooking up now?"

"Tonight, you go lie there one more time." Stanley held up a finger. "Just once. Wear a hoodie, keep your head covered. When he comes back, stick to the story that you're Stanley. Just get him to fall asleep, and we're golden on rent."

"Did you actually get a concussion? Jesus, I'm a girl!"

"We literally have the same face! You're buried under blankets in the dark—who's gonna tell?"

"Besides, Jensen's the hottest guy on campus."

Stanley had the audacity to look smug. "Girls would kill to get in his bed. If he cops a feel, you're getting the deal of a lifetime here!"

I wanted to smother him with a couch cushion.

But the worst part? I couldn't argue.

Jensen's personality was absolute trash—arrogant like some control-freak ice king. But his looks? Walking sex appeal.

I couldn't help picturing him coming off the field—

Yanking off his helmet, expression blank, sweat trailing down that razor-sharp jawline.

Sliding down those cut abs, disappearing into the V-line carved out by those criminally low-slung athletic pants.

Watching him train shirtless should honestly be illegal.

Half the girls at school would freeze their asses off in the bleachers just to catch him peeling off his shirt.

But that absolutely did not mean my own brother could pimp me out as rent collateral.

I grabbed a throw pillow and whipped it at his face. "Screw you! Stop trying to sell out me to cover your bills!"

Stanley didn't even dodge, and it caught his bruised lip. He winced and immediately switched tactics to guilt-tripping.

"Stella, you know my financial aid all went to training camp. If I pay this rent, I'll be living off ramen and Quad grass for months. You really gonna watch your only brother starve?"

"Happily."

"If I die, who's bringing you iced Americanos during finals week? Who's blocking creeps at frat parties? When you're dying from cramps, who's making that midnight CVS run for ibuprofen and heating pads?"

He was a walking disaster ninety percent of the time, but he was actually decent at the whole brother thing when it counted.

And half that rent money would solve my current financial nightmare.

I wavered for a split second.

Stanley caught it immediately.

"Done deal! Tonight at eight, I'll keep watch downstairs. You slip in. And remember—spray that damn peach body mist!"

Before I could get a word out, the door slammed in my face and I was holding a spare key.

At eight that night, standing outside Stanley's off-campus apartment building in the freezing wind, I was absolutely certain I'd lost my mind.

To pay off a stupid car repair debt, I'd actually agreed to this insane plan.

Though, if I was being honest... I was kind of curious.

Someone like Jensen—with his whole "don't breathe my air" vibe, the star QB who acted like everyone was beneath him—what was he actually like when no one was watching?

I slipped into the apartment and eased open the bedroom door.

Lights off, just streetlight spilling through the window. The air smelled faintly of mint and cedar—Jensen's scent.

I wasn't into cologne or aftershave usually, but this clean, almost cold woodsy smell was surprisingly... nice. Clinical, but in a good way.

The plan was simple: lie there and play dead. But one look at Stanley's bottom bunk—basically a biohazard site—and I couldn't do it.

With a sigh, I climbed back into Jensen's bed like a burglar.

His mattress was perfectly firm, sheets obsessively neat, smelling like they'd just come out of the dryer with one of those fancy cedar sachets.

I cocooned myself in the blanket and pulled out my phone to Snap Stanley: [Where are you?]

Instant reply: [Downstairs. Grabbed Doritos from 7-Eleven. Stay cool and don't blow it. Our rent for the semester is riding on this!]

I'd barely locked my screen and shoved the phone under the pillow when I heard the front door.

Click.

The deadbolt turning.

Heavy footsteps on carpet. One, two, heading straight for the bedroom.

My breath caught. Heart hammering. Palms sweating through the blanket.

A tall shadow filled the doorway, then approached the bed.

The mattress suddenly dipped as he dropped his full weight onto it beside me.

Before I could react, a large hand with calluses came down hard through the blanket, fingers digging into my waist with bruising force.

Then his voice—low, dangerous—right against my ear, hot breath on my neck:

"Stanley, how many times are you gonna pull this fake-sleeping bullshit?"