Chapter 2: Late Nights and Lingering Looks

The popcorn is cold by the time they make it back upstairs. Nawana’s fingers are still interlaced with Jordan’s, slick with faint salt and butter. Neither says anything on the walk down the hallway, the hush of carpet underfoot, the doors labeled with cheap plastic and dry-erase marker. They pass someone sprawled half-conscious in the lounge, empty ramen cup on the floor, and only then does Nawana pull her hand free, shoving it into her hoodie pocket.

In their room, Nawana stands by the window, pulling the blinds open a crack. The campus below is dark, trees shivering in the December wind. Her heart is a migraine pulse. Jordan tosses the popcorn onto her bed and peels off her running shoes, lining them up perfectly as if nothing unusual had just happened.

They are alone, and it’s loud.

Nawana’s voice comes out smaller than she wants: “Is it, uh. Weird now?”

Jordan shakes her head, then seems to realize Nawana can’t see her in the darkness. “No,” she says, voice stripped of its usual armor. “Is it weird for you?”

“No,” Nawana lies, or doesn’t. “I think it’s ... not weird.”

They stand there, pretending to be busy, until Jordan sits on her bed and says, “Come over here?”

It’s a question with only one answer. Nawana sits, the mattress springy under her, the popcorn bowl between them like a peace offering.

After a minute, Jordan starts to laugh—soft at first, then building, not quite hysterical but not entirely under control. Nawana stares at her, wary.

“What,” she says, “is so funny?”

“I’ve been trying to do that for three months,” Jordan gasps. “But I thought you were, I don’t know, not into me. Or maybe just—into someone back home.”

Nawana can’t help laughing too, a nervous squeak. “Back home, there’s no one. Unless you count my grandmother’s dog, but she only licks faces.”

Jordan’s laughter dissolves into something quieter. She reaches out and touches Nawana’s cheek, tentative. “Is this okay?” she asks.

Nawana leans in, and they meet in the middle. It’s less an explosion than a careful unwrapping, slow and deliberate. Jordan’s lips are chapped from the cold and taste faintly of fake cheese powder. Their noses bump, then settle. The kiss is brief, but it’s more than enough. When they part, they’re both breathing hard.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Jordan confesses.

“Me neither,” Nawana says. “It’s probably fine. We can make it up.”

They keep kissing, at first shy, then with more confidence. Jordan’s hands are steady, her body lean and warm. Nawana is startled by the intensity of her own need, how easy it is to lose herself in sensation: the curve of Jordan’s neck, the rasp of her hands, the gentle pressure of a thumb tracing Nawana’s jaw.

Eventually, Jordan pushes them both back onto the bed, the popcorn bowl rolling to the floor with a thud. Their bodies align, awkward at first—Nawana’s thigh twisted under her, Jordan’s knee knocking the wall—but after a moment, it’s as if they’ve always done this. Jordan’s mouth is hot on her collarbone, her breath hitching at every new touch. Nawana closes her eyes and lets herself be wanted.

“Are we going to get in trouble for this?” Jordan whispers, lips brushing Nawana’s ear.

“It’s college,” Nawana whispers back, giddy. “Isn’t this required?”

They dissolve into laughter again, but this time it’s not nervous at all.

After that night, everything changes and doesn’t. In the mornings, Nawana wakes up before her alarm and watches Jordan breathe, eyes fluttering behind their lids as if she’s chasing something down. They fall into an easy physicality: holding hands under the cafeteria table, bumping shoulders on the way to class, sharing earbuds on the library steps. The whole campus seems to contract around them, every moment sharper, every hour shorter.