Page 9 of Well That Happened

“I’m not drama,” Rilee says, voice sharp. “I’m desperate, okay? My apartment flooded. Campus housing is full. This is hopefully temporary, just until I can figure something else out.”

Her phone buzzes. She ignores it.

The room goes quiet.

Then a door opens down the hall, and Grayson appears. Sleepy and in sweatpants, his hair’s a mess.

His gaze sweeps the room, lands on Rilee, and lingers. No expression. Just… watching.

“This is Grayson,” Caleb says. “Goalie. Doesn’t talk much.”

Grayson nods once. “Hey.”

Rilee blinks. “Hi.”

They hold eye contact for one second too long.

I clear my throat. Loudly.

“Tour?” Caleb asks, already stepping past me. “Come on. You should see the upstairs before Hunter has a coronary.”

She snorts, grabs her bag, and follows him. Grayson trails behind them without a word.

I don’t move.

I just stand there.

Watching her disappear down the hall like a storm we just invited inside.

Chapter Three

Rilee

The house is bigger than I expected.

Spacious. Clean-ish. That specific brand of male-chaotic tidy, like someonetriedbut also thinks Febreze counts as a cleaning strategy.

Caleb leads the way upstairs, his voice easy. “There’s one spare room—technically it’s a guest room, but it has a bed, a closet, and blackout curtains, so that’s a win.”

“Does it have a ceiling that won’t collapse on my head?”

“Mostly,” he says with a grin.

Grayson follows behind me, silent as a shadow. I glance back at him once—just to be polite—and find him watching me with that unreadable intensity.

Like he’s not seeing me, exactly. More like…studyingme.

I look away before I can do something weird, like blush.

Caleb opens the door to the spare room and gestures dramatically. “Welcome to your humble oasis. Ignore the pile of jerseys on the chair. And the broken lamp. And the suspicious dent in the wall.”

I step inside and drop my bag. The room is small but warm, with wood floors and a decent-sized window. It smells like linen and Axe body spray, which is surprisingly comforting in amale-college-householdkind of way.

“It’s perfect,” I say, turning in a slow circle. “Does it come with complimentary mental breakdowns, or are those extra?”

Caleb smirks. “We run a full-service operation here.” Then he gathers up the pile of jerseys.

Grayson steps into the doorway, arms crossed, pinning me in place with that heavy stare. “You need help unpacking?”

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