C3 Chapter 3

My sneakers hammered against the blistering concrete as my lungs burned with every uneven breath. It was physically painful to inhale, and even with my music cranked to its absolute limit, I couldn't drown out the frantic pulsing of my heart in my ears. Sweat was practically dripping off me under the oppressive weight of the Florida humidity. Whoever invented the myth that girls merely glisten instead of sweat clearly never witnessed me attempting cardio. A sharp, relentless cramp was locked into my left side, and when I finally risked a glance over my shoulder to check my progress, my own apartment building was still frustratingly visible.

Sabrina and I had made it a grand total of five buildings away from my front door, and I was entirely ready to call it quits. My best friend was literally running laps around me. While I was actively dying on the pavement, she hadn’t even broken a sweat. Instead, she wore a bright, effortless grin. She had always genuinely loved running, a psychological defect I will never fully comprehend. I forced myself to keep moving, but my gait had deteriorated into a pathetic shuffle somewhere between a sluggish jog and a tense power walk. My brain was entirely consumed by a singular craving: my bed. I tried to mentally push myself to the intersection, but athletics were never my forte. Even just the abstract concept of physical exertion was enough to spike my heart rate and flush my face.

Yielding to the exhaustion, I ripped the earbuds out, which only seemed to make the cramp in my ribs flare up with a vengeance. My legs had dissolved into complete jelly, refusing to carry my weight another inch. Sabrina looked down at me with a judgmental shake of her head, easily pivoting into high-knees on the spot while I bent over, hands on my knees, desperately gasping for oxygen.

"Oh, come on, Zoe. You haven’t even completed a single lap yet."

"And I have absolutely no intention to," I managed to choke out between ragged breaths.

If there is a hierarchy of things I despise most in this life, running occupies the absolute top slot. Coming in at a very close second, however, are the unhinged individuals who actually enjoy doing it. Part of me wished I possessed that wiring; I’d undoubtedly be in much better shape, but reality was a bit different. My thighs had a habit of rubbing together until they wore through the denim of my favorite jeans, and my midsection was far from a flat canvas. But frankly, my devotion to carbs outweighed my desire to complain about it.

Abandoning all dignity, I drifted over to the grass at the edge of the road and collapsed flat on my back. The blades felt wonderfully cool against my overheated skin, and I was lucky enough to land under the sprawling shadow of a tree. My pulse was still racing, but my breathing was slowly stabilizing. Even from my pathetic vantage point on the turf, I could still see the cars parked in my own driveway. I was tragically out of shape.

"Oh, look at you, baby," a familiar voice chimed in, followed by the heavy thud of a car door swinging shut. "Did the resident tyrant drag you out into the elements again?"

I offered a weak, pathetic nod in Ivan’s direction. Charles was trailing just a pace behind him. Ivan had pulled his car onto the shoulder, and the two of them were strolling across the grass toward us. When he reached my perimeter, he stood right at my feet, his shoulders twitching as he fought back a massive smirk.

"She needs the exercise, otherwise she's going to get soft," Sabrina interjected self-righteously. "There is a strict biological limit to how much junk food you can consume and how many days you can sleep away before it completely catches up to you."

"I am entirely conscious and sitting right here, you know," I muttered from the ground.

"Come on, sweet girl. Let's get you back inside." Ivan reached down, locking his hands around mine and pulling me effortlessly up onto my feet.

"Promise me you won't let her subject me to that ever again," I pleaded, leaning into him as he wrapped a heavy, comforting arm around my waist. Ivan tossed his car keys over to Charles, and we began the incredibly brief, three-minute walk back to my place.

My apartment was situated in a weathered, vintage complex. The exterior red brick was flaking away in small patches, and the structure capped out at three stories, with just four units per floor. My place was on the second tier, complete with a small balcony that gave me a clear view of the street below. Despite the older facade, the interior layout was surprisingly generous. The floor plan boasted two full bedrooms, a bath, and a sprawling, open-concept living area that flowed right into the kitchen.

I’d opted for a strictly monochrome aesthetic, punctuated by only a few deliberate bursts of color. Agreeing on the interior design had been an absolute war zone with my mother. She had come armed with an endless supply of decorating concepts, every single one of which I flatly vetoed. I kept the drywall a crisp, sterile white instead of the soft pastel blue she was pushing, and I held my ground on all-black appliances when she tried to force vibrant reds and blues into my kitchen. To throw her a bone and keep the peace, I displayed framed family photographs on almost every flat surface, which seemed to satisfy her need for control.

Ivan carried me straight up the stairwell to the second floor, my legs hooked around his hips and my arms locked around his neck, our torsos pressed flush against each other. He nudged the unlocked front door open with his shoulder and deposited me right onto the plush gray sofa in the center of the living room. By the time my feet hit the cushions, my heart rate had normalized and the ache in my ribs had completely vanished. I still had absolutely zero desire to move an inch.

"Thank you," I breathed, draining the glass of ice water Ivan had slid into my hand.

"Anything for my girl."

Ivan made himself entirely at home, flicking the television alive before dropping his frame onto the cushion directly beside me. Without asking, he hoisted my legs up and draped them across his lap. His thumb began tracing an idle, repetitive pattern against my shin as he mindlessly toggled through the cable channels. It was clearly an unconscious habit of his, but it was the only thing my brain could focus on. I couldn't quite decipher the shape he was drawing, but his touch never left my skin.

I lost track of how long we sat there in the dim light of the screen. His fingers remained anchored against my leg, and I made absolutely no move to shift our alignment. We just drifted into the quiet gravity of the moment, anchored entirely by the simple friction of skin against skin. Words were entirely unnecessary; we didn't even need to exchange glances. We were just entirely content occupying the exact same pocket of space.

Eventually, the daylight burned out, leaving a dark, bruised sky visible through the cracks in the window blinds. It wasn't until the sudden, violent rumble of my stomach shattered the quiet that he finally turned his head to speak.

"Takeout?"

I shook my head instantly. "Cook for me?"

"Not a chance in hell."

I tilted my head back, letting my blue eyes lock directly onto his green ones. Shifting my weight, I climbed completely onto his lap, straddling his thighs. I looped my arms loosely around his neck, my fingers immediately weaving into the dark strands of his hair.

"Please?"

Ivan shook his head again, a stubborn refusal. I leaned in closer, narrowing the gap between us.

"Please cook for me?"

His gaze dropped entirely to my mouth, his second refusal taking significantly longer to leave his lips. I narrowed my eyes, dropping my face until our noses were practically touching. I held him there in that tense, static suspension for a few agonizing beats before giving his hair a firm, playful tug, tilting his head to the side. I pressed my lips directly to the warm skin of his neck, trailing a slow sequence of soft kisses up toward his ear. His frame went entirely rigid for a fraction of a second before he melted into the gesture. I shifted my focus to his jawline, deliberately hovering just a millimeter away from his actual mouth. He leaned in, trying to force a real kiss, but I pulled back just enough to keep him guessing, giving my head a slow shake. His eyes were entirely dilated, burning into mine with an obvious hunger. He wanted my lips on his.

"Cook for me?" I whispered again.

"What's my incentive?"

"The sheer moral triumph of keeping me from starving to death on my own couch."

Ivan rolled his eyes, his large hands sliding down from my waist to anchor firmly against my upper thighs. "I think I’m going to need a significantly higher return on my investment than that."

"I'll give you a kiss."

"A real one?" he pressed. I nodded. "More than one?"

"Multiple," I promised.

A slow grin broke across his face before he leaned in and caught my lips in a hard, crushing kiss. Maintaining his grip on my thighs, he stood up effortlessly, hoisting my body with him. I locked my legs tightly around his waist as he carried me straight into the kitchen, setting me down gently on the edge of the counter before turning to rifle through the pantry.

Ivan was an exceptionally talented cook and secretly thrived in the kitchen, but because he felt it compromised his carefully curated bad-boy reputation, he strictly avoided doing it in front of anyone else. I was the sole exception to the rule, and even I had to practically beg to get him behind a stove. The very first time he ever cooked for me was back in our sophomore year when a brutal flu had me pinned to my bed for five straight days. Every single afternoon, he would show up with a completely different homemade soup, never leaving my side and doing absolutely anything to make the fever bearable. Since that week, the moments he actually caved and cooked for me could be counted on one hand.

Our unlabelled arrangement might lack a formal rulebook, and it was almost guaranteed to shatter my heart in a few months, but it carried a fierce, unspoken set of obligations. We were each other's absolute default setting. Whenever the world fell apart, whenever boredom set in, or whenever we just needed a warm body to sit in total silence with—we showed up. I was his anchor through every bout of heartbreak, and he was mine. To the outside world, our dynamic was entirely toxic and baffling; honestly, half the time I couldn't even make sense of it myself. He had a natural talent for driving me completely insane, and there were days I couldn't stand him, but we never wavered. Despite every defense mechanism I possessed, he was my best friend, and I couldn't imagine navigating this final stretch with anyone else.

"What exactly is the plan when I'm not around to feed you anymore?" Ivan asked, not looking up as he moved a pan across the burner.

"I'll just have to recruit another attractive boy to take over kitchen duties."

Ivan went entirely still. He turned around slowly, a spatula still balanced in his right hand, his eyes burning into mine with a sudden, intense gravity. He closed the short distance between us, stepping right into the cradle of my thighs as I sat perched on the counter. Even with the height advantage of the counter, he still managed to tower over me slightly, forcing me to look up into his gaze.

"You won't ever find anyone who treats you better than I do," he murmured, leaning down to claim my lips in a swift, demanding peck. A smug smirk immediately recaptured his features as he pulled back, giving my thigh a playful tap with the flat of the spatula before retreating back to the stove.

I kept my mouth shut, refusing to admit that he was entirely right. I chose not to vocalize the deep, heavy dread pooling in my stomach at the thought of him packing up for college and leaving me behind in this town. I had no idea where he was heading; every single time the topic arose, he deflected, claiming he was still weighing his options. I didn't even know which schools had sent him acceptance letters. All I knew was that back at the start of the second semester, Anastasha had cornered him on a Saturday, refusing to let him leave the house until he completed a dozen applications, all restricted to the state of Florida. Knowing how Ivan's mind worked, he’d likely gone a perfect twelve-for-twelve. He was a magnet for trouble, but he was easily the most naturally brilliant person I’d ever met. He would never allow himself to actually fail a course, mostly because his mother would make his life a living hell if he did.

I watched him navigate the kitchen, entirely unsure of what he was actually throwing together as he grabbed random ingredients from the fridge and cabinets. He seemed to move through the space with more familiarity than I did, and I’d actually been paying rent here for two weeks. He was searing chicken, but his broad shoulders blocked my view of the pans. I didn't mind the view. I kept my eyes locked on his back, tracking the movement of his frame. He really was painfully handsome. He hadn't bothered to shave in three days, and the dark stubble tracing his jawline gave him a rugged, unpolished edge. When he turned his head, the sharp angles of his face and those ridiculously thick, dark lashes made his green eyes pop against the dim lighting.

My mind drifted back to the night of that very first party freshman year. What had actually possessed him to kiss me? What variable had made him manipulate that bottle so it pointed directly at me? I certainly wasn't the standard definition of a beauty back then; I was still fully under the delusion that a side ponytail and electric blue mascara were peak fashion. But Ivan had always been gorgeous.

Before I could spiral deeper into the memory, Ivan was sliding the food onto two separate plates and handing one over to me. I hadn't gotten around to purchasing a dining table yet, so we drifted right back to our original positions on the couch, our legs intertwined as a random sitcom hummed in the background.

"So, let's talk about the summer," Ivan said, setting his cleared plate down on the small coffee table. He reached over, took my empty plate, and stacked it on top of his. He looped his arm securely around my waist, pulling me flush against him so our backs were braced against opposite armrests, our legs a tangled mess between us. Before I could offer a response, his hand drifted to his jacket lining, extracting the silver flask and tipping it back for a heavy gulp.

"I want you to stop doing that," I said quietly, staring at the metal container.

Ivan’s gaze dropped, his fingers slowly twisting the cap back into place before sliding it out of sight. "You want me to clean up my act?"

"I want you to quit completely."

He slowly brought his eyes up, locking onto mine with total focus. "I can do that."

"I just want one flawless final summer," I explained, my voice softening. "I want to have stupid fun, I want to completely forget that college is waiting for us in September, and I just want to spend these three months with you, Sabrina, and Charles. I want something real to hold onto when we're gone."

Ivan reached out, wrapping his hand securely around mine, his green eyes completely stripped of their usual sarcasm. "I will give you three months of pure, unadulterated fun. I'll make sure it's the best summer of your life. And I promise you, I’m done with the flask."

I didn't take promises lightly, and he knew the weight of that word. "Maybe your sobriety can officially start after the senior bonfire on Friday?"

He let out a low chuckle. "You just don't want to be the only one drinking out of a red solo cup."

"Does anyone?" I countered.

"I have a singular condition," Ivan said, leaning in closer. "Zero college talk until the boxes are packed. No probing into where I'm enrolled, no discussions about class schedules, no future planning. Just us, right now, having fun. Do we have a deal?"

I leaned across the small gap and pressed my lips to his. It wasn't a rushed movement, but he kept it disciplined, letting the contact linger without trying to push for more. I smiled against his skin as I finally pulled back.

"Deal."