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Rose wakes up midday on Dead Day to the sound of Rey getting home. She opens the door before the other woman has the chance to sneak into her room and meets Rey’s guilty expression with a stern frown—which melts into a grin as Rey blushes and smiles herself. Then Rey notices Rose’s sweatshirt—that is, Hux’s sweatshirt—and fingers the giant black hoodie she’s come home wearing over her concert dress.
“You didn’t,” Rey says, in a tone that shows she already knows Rose very much did, and they agree to recap over studying after a few more hours of naps.
.
Rose texts him around dinner time—How’s the studying?
Abysmal, he answers right away, and she giggles.
Rey is very hard at work across the kitchen table from her, recopying some notes she’s already done once already. They’ve eaten almost all the popcorn in the cabinet, a bag of pretzels, the last of Rose’s strawberries, and a few cups of ramen. Rose had overestimated how much food they still had left in their suite; she’ll definitely need to drop by the grocery store tomorrow if she’s to survive until the Cal III final on Tuesday. This sucks, Rose texts back. What if we ditch finals and find something else to do?
Spoken like a true menace, Hux snips back, and Rose bites hard on her lip so as not to make her glee too well-known.
Her roommate, having hooked up with The Evil Cal TA, the man the soprano section had taken to calling Cryptid Boyfriend but whom Rose realizes she’s known all along as Kylo Ren, is strangely full of motivation to get her exams studied for. School has always been important to Rey, but her night with Kylo—whose real name is apparently Ben?—seems to have lit a new fire beneath her. From the way she’s talked, Rey and Kylo went all the way—and seem to have some sort of deal around her exams. Rose pretends not to have seen the text Rey got from Ben that says, “Good girl.”
What do you say to a study break? About two hours from now?
Rose doesn’t hesitate to say “yes.” Her exam is tomorrow morning, but she doesn’t care, even though she knows the “break” he’s proposing will last all night. She’ll make it—she’s good at that, forcing him into things he’s not bold enough to try, egging him on. It’s why the rest of the choir started calling her “Dick’s freshman”—she has a way with him, and she’s proud to know other people have noticed it.
Where are we going? Rose follows up, her leg already bouncing in anticipation.
I figured we can grab some food and go back to my place, he says, all casual.
Rose’s heart is pounding in her throat as she stares down at her phone, reliving the prior evening that had stretched late into the night—how Hux had kissed her there in the kitchen, then moved her to his couch, where between sipping on cups of tea they’d made out for the better part of about five hours before Hux’s sense of responsibility had kicked in and he’d insisted on taking her home.
Rose remembers the feel of his mouth on her, the weight of his body, the strength and leanness of his limbs. She’d been interested in more than kissing, but Hux apparently couldn’t get enough of it, and he’d grown flushed like a cherry tomato in a way that Rose couldn’t help but find adorable.
Perfect, Rose texts him back. She eyes her backpack—she can bring her books, tuck in some nightclothes and toiletries. Say it’s all for studying. Be prepared.
I’ll pick you up.
.
“Hi,” she says brightly, breathlessly, climbing into the passenger seat of his BMW again. She fits her backpack onto the floor between her feet. “I brought some books. In case we get to studying.”
Hux lifts an eyebrow at her from the driver’s seat. “So you’re not prepared for your first exam tomorrow?”
Rose scoffs as they pull away from her dorm. “I mean, I’m fine. Just, you know. Finals.” It’s already full dark, but she sees him smirking in the street lights. “And don’t make any freshman jokes.”
“Thai takeout?” he asks, and Rose agrees enthusiastically.
It’s just as cold tonight as it was last night, and—absurdly—he’s wearing leather gloves to drive. His apartment isn’t a long drive from hers, so the car hasn’t fully had time to warm up yet; as they pass beneath other streetlights Rose can’t help but stare at his leather-covered hands on the wheel and the little sliver of pale wrist between the end of the glove and his coat.
She makes the call to the restaurant, then sits back comfortably as they drive across town, only occasionally offering her unsolicited opinion. “You could’ve gone,” she tells him once at a yellow light. “It’s clear,” she complains when he doesn’t turn immediately at a stop sign.
“It says ‘Stop,’” he indicates with one gloved hand, his tone testy.
Rose bites her lip to contain her smile.
.
Hux sets up their meal on his kitchen counter instead of taking it to the couch, because of course he does. Rose hops up onto one of the stools beside him as they open the Styrofoam clamshells, sorting out side salads and entrees and appetizers.
Just before they’re all set, Rose grabs at his upper arm, stilling him. “Hey,” she says, tugging him just a bit closer and then kissing him sweetly on the cheek. It’s their first kiss in hours—since he’d pulled her to him one last time in his idling car in her parking lot at 4 a.m.—and Rose watches with delight as a flush flares into existence on his neck.
Hux swiftly deposits his utensils back onto the counter and turns toward her fully, stepping down from his barstool so they’re eye level and taking her face in both his hands. He kisses her long and deep, several times, desperate and breathless, and Rose rests her hands on his forearms, keeping them there, leaning in. Finally he manages to tear himself away, pulling back and murmuring in an unusually deep tone, “The food will get cold.”
“Right,” Rose breathes, watching as he takes his seat again and slowing her breathing to a normal pace before she focuses on the food. It’s good—they chat some about finals, about Rey and Mothman. “Is this what women want?” Hux says of the other man. “A sparkling personality?”
“I mean, his terrible attitude aside, it’s not like I had a hard time understanding, and he wasn’t ever rude to me,” Rose shrugs between bites of hand-pulled noodles. “I know he got real frustrated with our classmates, but Rey’s not taking a class he TAs.”
Hux gives her a deliberate side eye. “She better not.”
“We know ethics!” Rose protests.
“Well, it seems Kylo Ren is only nice to select personalities. He always bit my head off when I requested slides.”
“You were asking for the slides?” Rose kicks at him lightly with one foot.
“On behalf of my group, who were terrified of him.”
“Too terrified to read the part of the syllabus that says ‘notes to be posted after class’?”
Hux gives her a dead-eyed stare. “It was that or re-teach the entire lesson, again. Believe me. He was my last resort.”
Rose hums, watching as he spoons rice out of its carton directly into the container of curry—he’d rolled his sleeves up his forearms and out of the way, and she revels in his pale, exposed skin and sinewy muscle. She remembers a day, earlier in the semester, when she’d overheard someone calling him “Skinny Dick”—the way his jaw muscle had jumped, the way he’d disengaged. She likes him lean, she thinks, watching him eat another spoonful of curry.
“Yes?” he asks coolly.
“You’re cute,” Rose says quietly, feeling herself blush at the omission—he may not notice the color on her cheeks, but she feels the warmth there all the same. To her delight, his cheeks flare with a similar redness.
“So this isn’t about my sparkling personality?”
Rose taps her fork against the clamshell. “Anyone can be cute.”
They keep eating, and after a time Rose kicks at him again. “Your turn.”
“To what?”
“To tell me you like me.”
“I can’t stand you,” he says automatically.
“Huh.” Rose stabs the last dumpling with her fork, glancing over to see if he challenges her for it before going ahead. “I didn’t think ‘making out for five hours’ was the kind of thing you do with someone you ‘can’t stand.’”
“I just got tired of you wearing me down.”
Rose returns Hux’s dead-eyed frown from earlier but to less effect, as he’s too busy eating to care. They’re just teasing—she knows it—but a silly little part of her really wants to hear it from him. She pushes again. “So how often do you spend five hours kissing your classmates?”
“How many bedrooms have you been in to judge whether they use sheets?” He mutters the retort, but Rose’s mouth falls open in offense.
“That is—so way not cool,” she protests.
But he’s already talking over her. “Do you really think—after last night—after this whole semester—that I do not actually like you?” He seems genuinely upset, the muscle in his jaw jumping again, his spoon dropped with a clatter to the counter.
Rose shrugs, still frowning. Her earlier excitement is giving way to a familiar anxiety. It’s one thing to have a crush, to flirt and tease—but it’s quite another to take that next step and keep coming back. “Some people think it means nothing to be physical.”
He turns fully toward her then on his stool. “If some other man walked in that door,” he points, “right now claiming to be your boyfriend, I’d punch him in the throat.”
“The throat?” Rose grimaces.
“Rose Thanya Tico. You—it does not mean nothing.” There’s sincerity in his eyes, an intensity that both excites and frightens her.
“Why,” she says slowly, not breaking eye contact, “do you know my middle name.”
Hux’s facial expression barely changes, but Rose doesn’t think she’s imagining how the color on his cheeks deepens. “When you send an email, it pops up in the campus system. Works for anyone. You just hover over their name.”
“Ok, but you’ve literally never emailed me.”
Hux looks her up and down. “Not for lack of trying.”
With that, he goes to finish the last of his curry and Rose ducks her head to bite back a smile. She tries to imagine it—her name in his “To” bar, his message both too arrogant and vague—an excuse about studying, an attempt to meet at a coffee shop, maybe even an invitation to some other campus music event—the opera theater, maybe, or the concert band. She vows to herself then that she will, should the opportunity arise, go looking through his email drafts.
.
Hux is slow to clean up the counter, deliberate with bagging their takeout trash and wiping down the surface. “You needed to study?” he indicates her backpack.
“Er,” Rose thinks about her morning exam, about how little thought she’s actually given it. “I mean. Kind of.”
Hux nods. “I’ll join you,” he affirms, disappearing down the short hallway. “I’ll just get my things.”
Rose eyes the ice-blue couch. It seems like the better option—sitting at the kitchen counter, from experience, just makes her hungry—even though the couch will just make her think of the night before.
.
Of course Hux actually wants to study.
Rose is careful to extract her books from her bag in a way that doesn’t reveal the other supplies she’s brought. Hux, returned with his own materials, seats himself at the opposite end of the couch; but soon he moves off the thing and onto the floor, hunched over some papers he spreads across the coffee table.
Rose can’t concentrate to save her life. She keeps reading the same paragraphs over and over, can’t remember where she saved the study guide her professor had emailed out to them, can’t stop looking up from the things in her lap at Hux—focused, unbothered, still so buttoned-up. A whole semester’s worth of repressed affection is coursing through her veins. She wants to put her ice-cold hands on the back of his neck. She wants to fuck up his hair. She wants to lean across the expanse of couch and lick the shell of his ear—just to see what he would do, just to have his attention on her again.
Stalling like a teenager, Rose gets up and goes to the bathroom. When she emerges, she follows an impulse—instead of returning to the living room, she peers into the next room on the left.
It’s surprisingly organized for a guy’s room—surprisingly organized for any college student’s room, really. Were Hux to set foot into her bedroom, she’s pretty sure he’d find at least two piles of clothes—one dirty, on the floor, and one clean, on her desk chair—and a jumble of items strewn across her dresser. It’s the end of the semester, after all. But Hux’s dresser and nightstand are uncluttered, the former bearing an elegant leather tray apparently for holding his watches and wallet and the latter holding only a simple lamp and the cord of a phone charger. The lamp is on; though the color palette is the beige of the walls and a simple navy for the bed linens, the glow of the warm light makes the room look especially cozy.
He’s made his bed, neat as a pin, and left the door open like an invitation. Rose wonders whether that’s an everyday occurrence or a calculated move—whether his room always looks like this or if this is his space at its best, if he’d not spent the hours before coming to pick her up on organizing and cleaning.
“You left your lamp on,” Rose reports when she returns to the couch.
“So you could verify the existence of my bed.” Hux glances over his shoulder at her.
“Do you have a fitted sheet?”
He frowns. “Obviously.” He turns his attention back to his study guide.
“And a top sheet?”
“Obviously.”
“Do they match?”
“What kind of barbarian do you take me for?” Hux turns fully, gesticulating with his pen. “For your information: bamboo pillows, matching sheets, and a down duvet.”
Rose whistles appreciatively.
Hux rolls his eyes.
“Where will you go for Christmas?”
Hux’s expression is impassive. “Nowhere.”
When he doesn’t elaborate, Rose scoots off of the couch to kneel beside Hux on the floor. “You’re serious.”
He looks over at her again, shrugging; but then his attention is back on the notes in front of him.
Rose watches him, resting one elbow on the coffee table and propping up her chin in her hand. She wonders what his family is like. Where he’s from. What happened that means he’s going nowhere for Christmas. That means here, right? Or is it he’s going somewhere so inconsequential that it doesn’t bear mentioning? He doesn’t strike her as that kind of person—
“Do you need something?”
She wants to know these things about him, but the timing seems off. She deflects. “I just wondered why you weren’t kissing me.”
Hux closes his laptop. “I thought you wanted to study,” he says lightly. His expression is expectant, as if he’s inviting her to make the first move.
He doesn’t have to ask twice. He doesn’t have to ask at all. If she thinks too hard about it, it’s awkward, the way she has to shuffle across the carpet on her knees; but she’s actually taller than him this way, and immediately her hand goes to his hair, combing through it with her fingers like she’d imagined as she places soft kisses on his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. Hux tilts his head back, seeking her lips; and Rose withholds, teases, kissing at the edge of his mouth and the line of his jaw before finally letting his lips find hers.
She’s so excited, so brilliantly happy to be here, in his apartment, after an entire semester of poking at him, of admiring him from afar. Finally, yes, it is her job to kiss away the dour expression she’s seen on his face.
At some point his hand settles on her lower back, stabilizing her—or maybe himself. Rose rests her other hand on the other side of his face, possessive, and holds him in place while she once again plays a game of kissing everywhere but his lips. Hux makes a sound of protest, and Rose yelps in delighted surprise when he chases her mouth, refusing to let her win again.
Eventually, Rose needs to breathe, and they pull apart, their arms loosely around one another. On the couch behind her, Rose’s phone buzzes, and she glances back at it; when it lights up with the notification, the time reads 10:08. “Shit.”
“What?”
She twists back to face him. “It’s after ten already. What time is your exam tomorrow?”
“Eleven. Yours?”
“Eight.” Rose scowls. “The freaking class wasn’t even at 8 a.m. That this is how finals works is—is inhumane.”
“You’re welcome to stay over,” Hux says, rubbing at her hip with one of his thumbs. “I’ll drive you to your exam in the morning. Or else I could take you home now.”
Rose thinks of putting on her coat, of the walk to the car, the drive home, the walk across campus for her exam in the morning. “It’s super cold outside.”
Hux hums the verse of a song they both know. I really can’t stay…
Rose hums the next line, the man’s part. “I think we’re doing it backwards.” She gestures between them, meaning the song. Then she thinks of his bed. Inviting. Warm. A voice deep down whispers: dangerous.
She hates that she’s thinking about DJ—how he’d followed her around their high school like a puppy begging for a date, how he’d kissed and wooed and fawned over her until he’d gotten her into his bed, and how he’d changed after. He’d called her a whore for giving him exactly what he wanted. She’d dumped his ass—but the memory still stings. Men are only after one thing and all that.
“I just—I really need to sleep tonight. So, like, if you wanted to—?” Rose’s hand fidgets against his shoulder; she nods in the direction of the bedroom. “I’m not sure I’m up for it yet.”
A crease forms between Hux’s brows. “We both need sleep. There’s plenty of time to get—there. And I’d quite like to take my time, actually.”
Rose tells herself the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes are purely the product of exhaustion.
“Plus there’s finals.”
Rose makes a show of rolling her eyes. “Oh my God.”
Hux’s hand squeezes at her hip.
Rose squeezes his shoulder back. “You’ll drive me in the morning?”
“Of course.” His eyes linger on her lips, but he doesn’t press her to kiss him again. “I’d pick you up, too, if I didn’t have an exam myself.”
“You can get me after the next one,” Rose retorts, half-joking.
“I will.” Hux’s answer is matter-of-fact, as if—as if this is a done deal. “You’d better get to it.” He points at the abandoned study guide. “Wouldn’t want you to throw away the whole semester for the dictator of the tenor section.”
Rose scoffs. “That guy? Please.”
.
For the next several hours, Rose surprises herself by actually studying. Hux makes them tea, turns up the heat at her request, extracts from the other room a fleece blanket that Rose tucks across her lap.
It’s nearly one in the morning when she starts to feel a headache forming behind her eyes and thinks to check the time.
“It’s late,” she says, breaking their companionable silence.
Hux makes a sound of assent. He clicks on a few more things, then closes his laptop.
We should go to bed, Rose wills herself to say. Because she should just get ready for bed. Just—get ready for bed, and go to sleep, and get up in the morning, and worry about all the specifics later. Because it sounds like he wants this long-term. It sounds like it’s probably exclusive. It sounds like—
“If you want to shower—”
Rose isn’t very good at keeping thoughts to herself. She blurts, “Can we DTR?”
Hux blinks at her, a small frown crossing his face. “Am I supposed to know that word?”
“Acronym. ‘Define the relationship.’ If I didn’t know better I’d assume you were one of those people who carries a flip phone. Or, like, an iPhone 7.” Hux opens his mouth to protest, but Rose waves him away, picking at her cuticles to avoid his eyes. “I know, I know. You just don’t have TikTok.”
“Was I unclear, before, when I pledged to punch your other suitors in the throat?”
“I’m—really having a great time. With you. But I guess I want to clarify. The terms. Of,” she gestures between them. “You know. Because, like, if I had a nickel for every time I kissed a boy I was deeply into and then he told me he was actually gay and only pretending, I would have two nickels—which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.”
By virtue of not having TikTok, Hux probably thinks she’s made an original quip. Regardless, he snorts.
“And obviously I’m cool with anyone being gay, or bi, or whatever, but not—if they, like, take me to Prom and make out with me and then later explain it was all just for show. Or, like, spend all night at a party flirting back only to tell me Monday in class that it was to make their crush jealous and could I go out with him again next weekend for the same purpose.”
“Oh,” Hux says sympathetically, moving up onto the couch beside her.
“Yeah.”
Hux places one hand on her face, gently directing her attention back to him. “I would like you to call me your boyfriend.” His words are clipped, firm. “And I will call you my girlfriend. And we will date, exclusively. And not plan on breaking up.”
“You never know,” Rose says weakly, forcing a breath of a laugh.
“I’d actually say I do.” There’s something almost scary in his eyes then, the same look as when he’d ground out the middle name he’d memorized from not asking her out over email. Rose wonders if he’s about to promise her forever, if she’d really want him to.
So she turns and grabs his hand with her teeth.
His yelp is instantaneous and surprises them both. He propels himself backward, his voice still at a higher pitch when he accuses her, “What the ever-loving fuck was that?”
Rose reaches for her backpack. “I think I will take a shower.”
.
Half an hour later, snuggled under the duvet beside him, Rose refuses to let him win.
“You actually bit me,” he whines as he reaches to shut off the lamp.
The room goes dark, and Rose settles her head against his shoulder. He smells fresh, like soap and mint. “Defense mechanism.”
Hux rustles the duvet, his arm coming up around her. “Defense against what?” He yawns into the question. “Affection?”
Rose squeezes him with the arm slung across his chest. “You can never be too careful. Just last night you told me yourself that you aren’t very nice.”
Hux splutters in protest, something about context.
Rose talks over him. “Good night, dear boyfriend.” She says it in a singsong sort of way, still teasing, but she’s grateful that the darkness of the room hides her smile. He’s so fun, and so warm—literally, like a furnace, but somehow on the inside, too. The altos are never going to believe her. She can’t believe her luck.
Hux sighs, his chest moving beneath her cheek. Without teasing or irony, he echoes her: “Good night, dear Rose.”