Sienna's POV

The library was supposed to be a safe zone.

It had been my sanctuary for the last two years. No loud music, no annoying roommates, no shirtless boys leaving sticky notes like they were Romeo with a Sharpie.

Just books. Structure. Sanity.

But of course, the moment I slid into my usual seat near the back—my iced coffee sweating beside my open law text—he appeared.

Rhett Carter.

Wearing all black, earbuds slung around his neck like an accessory, and that maddening smirk that made girls forget how vowels worked.

I spotted him two tables away, half-reclined in his chair with his long legs stretched out like he owned the floor. Of course he was here. He probably followed the scent of peace just to ruin it.

I bent my head, forcing my eyes on a dense section about cognitive dissonance. Fitting. My whole life was a contradiction right now.

A quiet giggle broke my focus.

“Did you see his back tattoo?” one girl whispered.

“Oh my God, yes. When he bent over to grab that book? I almost passed out.”

“Same. He helped me open a Snapple bottle and I nearly proposed.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I was shocked they didn’t audibly creak. I didn’t even need to guess who they were talking about.

I dared a glance.

Sure enough, Rhett was looking straight at me now. His eyes sparkled with amusement, like he’d heard every word and expected me to join the Rhett Carter Fan Club.

No chance.

I refocused on my textbook, but I could feel his gaze on me like a sunlamp.

A chair scraped.

No.

No, no, no—

“Hey, roomie,” he said casually, sliding into the seat beside me like this was study group hour and not my personal space.

I kept my eyes on the page. “This is the library. People come here to concentrate.”

He leaned in, his voice soft and smug. “Thought you might need help studying.”

“I don’t.”

“You sure? That textbook looks heavy. You might sprain a nerve.”

“Go away, Rhett.”

“You say that,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief, “but you keep looking at me like that, Ice Queen, and I might think you’re flirting.”

I turned to him, deadpan. “Please. You flirt like it’s a side hustle. You’re probably on payroll.”

He chuckled. “That’s a good one.”

“Thanks. Here’s another: don’t you have anything better to do? Or is charming college girls the peak of your ambition?”

That did it. His smirk faltered—just for a second—but it was enough.

Then it was back. “Ouch. You wound me.”

“Good. Now leave me alone so I can enjoy the silence.”

He held up his hands. “Fine. But you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Not even a little.”

He rose, slowly, like he was in a movie. “You know, Sienna... for someone who claims not to care, you sure do keep track of where I am.”

And then he walked away, leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and popcorn and ego.

I tried to study again.

I really did.

But his words stuck in my brain like a splinter.

Later that night…

The house was quiet when I came downstairs.

Angela and Dad were probably at another fundraiser or dinner party where everyone smiled with their teeth but not their eyes. I didn’t care. I was hungry, and if I didn’t eat soon, I’d chew through drywall.

I padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing an oversized sleep tee and fuzzy socks. My hair was in a claw clip. I looked nothing like one of the girls from earlier—soft curls, lip gloss, cleavage angled just so.

I was fine with that.

Mostly.

The fridge was stocked like a Pinterest board—Angela’s influence, no doubt—but I ignored the organic hummus and went straight for the frozen dumplings.

Water. Pan. Heat.

Easy.

The oil sizzled as I dropped them in, a satisfying hiss that made me feel productive, in control.

Until I reached to flip one—and the oil splattered.

“Shit!” I gasped, jerking my hand back as pain bloomed across my palm.

Cold water. I needed—

“Move.”

I turned and nearly collided with Rhett.

He was already at the sink, grabbing my wrist gently, pulling my hand under the faucet before I could argue.

“Let go—”

“Hold still.”

His fingers were steady, warm despite the chill of the water. I watched the way his jaw tightened, the crease between his brows. He didn’t look smug now. Just… focused.

The sting faded a little.

So did my resolve.

“You didn’t have to—” I started.

“Yeah, I did,” he said simply.

Our eyes met.

And something shifted.

I felt it in my chest, in the way my breath caught—like I was standing too close to a fire and forgot what cold felt like.

Then he had to ruin it.

“See?” he said, voice dropping just slightly. “You’re already letting me hold your hand. This is progress.”

I yanked away. “God, you’re exhausting.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

I turned my back on him and grabbed the pan off the stove, hating the way my pulse was still jittering under my skin. Not from the burn—at least not anymore.

“I didn’t ask for help,” I muttered.

“You’re welcome anyway.” His voice had that frustrating mix of cocky and amused, like he knew exactly how much he was getting under my skin and loved every second of it.

I plated the dumplings in silence, refusing to give him the satisfaction of another glare. But he didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t.

“Midnight dumplings,” he said, peering over my shoulder. “You’re full of surprises.”

“You’re full of something else,” I shot back.

“Touché.” He stepped closer, leaning one hip against the counter beside me. “I figured someone like you would be more of a… I don’t know, quinoa-and-guilt kind of girl.”

“And I figured someone like you would be passed out in a stranger’s bed by now.”

He let out a low laugh. “See? You do think about me.”

I stabbed a dumpling with my fork like it had personally offended me. “No. You’re just… unavoidably loud.”

“You could always ask to switch rooms.”

“I’m not giving Angela the satisfaction,” I said flatly. “She’d love to see me squirm.”

He tilted his head, curious. “You don’t like her.”

“I don’t know her.” I picked at the edges of the plate. “But I know the type.”

“Glossy? Polished? Terrifying in yoga pants?”

“Fake.” I met his gaze. “People like her smile while they’re twisting the knife.”

He didn’t respond right away. For a second, I thought I’d surprised him.

Instead, he said, “You’re not wrong.”

That made me pause. He wasn’t smirking. Not really. His voice had dropped into something lower, more serious. I didn’t like how it made my heart stutter.

“So,” he added, clearing his throat and pushing off the counter, “what’s your major?”

I blinked. “Why do you care?”

“Just making conversation, Ice Queen.”

I sighed. “Law”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Explains all the overjudging.”

“Explains why I see through your crap.”

He grinned. “You sure you’re not majoring in sass?”

“Says the guy who thinks being shirtless is a personality trait.”

He laughed again, full and low. And damn it—why did I like the sound of that?

I shoved a dumpling into my mouth to avoid responding. He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, chugging it like he hadn’t just set my nervous system on fire.

“Try to stay out of the ER next time, princess,” he said as he passed behind me. “I’d hate to see you cry.”

I whipped around. “I didn’t cry!”

“Yet.”

He winked. Again. And just like that, he was gone, his retreating footsteps fading down the hall like he hadn’t just left chaos in his wake.

Later, in my room…

I flopped onto my bed, the dumplings half-eaten and forgotten on the kitchen counter.

The house was silent again. Too silent. No noise to distract me from the fact that my hand still tingled where he’d touched it. From the fact that I couldn’t stop replaying that stupid moment at the sink.

He'd been… gentle.

Not a word I’d ever planned to associate with Rhett Carter.

But there it was.

And worse? My pulse hadn’t calmed since. It was still thrumming at the base of my throat like a warning bell. Not from fear. From something else. Something much more dangerous.

I hated it.

I hated him.

Or at least, I was trying really, really hard to.

I rolled over, pulling my blanket over my head and willing my brain to shut up.

But of course, it didn’t.

It reminded me—in cruel, gleeful detail—how his fingers had cradled my wrist. How his voice had lost all that smug edge for just a breath. How the heat between us wasn’t just from the stove.

God.

This was bad.

This was very, very bad.

The next morning…

I blinked my way through my 8am lecture, sipping burnt coffee and trying to pretend that Rhett Carter wasn’t still renting space in my head like it was a luxury condo.

I had notes to catch up on. A quiz next week. A group project with two girls who thought “email me” was a personality. I had no time for… whatever this was.

Still, as I packed up my bag and headed toward the library again, I couldn’t stop thinking about last night.

And what annoyed me the most?

I didn’t want to think about it.

But I did.

Again. And again. And again.

That evening, as I lay in bed, scrolling mindlessly through my phone…

A notification pinged.

CampusConfessionsForum.com — Trending Post: “The Psychology of Being Hot & Reckless – Featuring Rhett Carter. II”

I froze. Again

I tapped it open.

There it was. A grainy photo of Rhett leaning back on a picnic bench, grinning at something off-screen, tattoos on display, wind blowing through his messy hair. The caption read:

"How is it legal to be this attractive AND get straight As in Behavioral Theory? Asking for my GPA."

Followed by:

“Also, fun fact: he once tutored Harlow’s daughter. Guess what else he taught her? ”

My jaw clenched. I locked my phone and tossed it onto my pillow like it had burned me more than the damn dumpling oil.

Of course he was trending.

Of course people loved him.

And of course none of them saw past the smirk and the swagger and the sharp tongue.

But I did.

That’s what scared me the most.

Because the longer I stayed in this house, the longer I had to see him, hear him, feel him close—and the more I started to wonder if he was really all smoke and mirrors… or if there was something real under all that charm.

I didn’t want to find out.

But my pulse?

My pulse had other plans.