Chapter 1: The Side Chick’s Throne

My boyfriend’s in the shower, and I’m sprawled out on the faded comforter of my college apartment, scrolling TikTok and waiting for him to come out.

Outside, the muffled rush of water from the bathroom blends with the hum of traffic and distant laughter from the street below. The sheets under me are still warm where he just lay, and my phone glows in the dim light—comforting, familiar, almost fused to my hand at this point. The scent of microwaved pizza lingers from dinner, and the glow of my laptop screen bounces off a pile of laundry I keep promising to fold. My half-empty Diet Coke sweats on the nightstand.

The comment section on my screen is going off:

[Sis, step off. Don’t even breathe near him, his real girl’s about to roll back into town. #TeamMainChick]

[Deadass, his first time and it’s with the side chick?]

[Ugh, this messy side chick is wildin’ out. I’m big mad.]

[Girl, get a grip—he’s not yours.]

I swipe through with a half-smirk, feeling that weird buzz when strangers online argue about someone who’s almost you, but not quite. The room smells like his body wash and my cheap vanilla candle, blending into a scent that feels like home, even if it isn’t.

Just then, Mason Hartley steps out of the bathroom.

His towel rides low on his hips, showing off those broad shoulders, tight waist, and a chest that looks like it belongs in a Nike ad. Water beads on his abs, glistening under the yellow light.

I’m practically drooling. My heart does this embarrassing little stutter. God, if my roommates walked in right now, I’d never live it down.

The man is a walking thirst trap. He catches my gaze and, even though he’s just standing there, it’s like time slows for a second—a movie moment, except it’s my cluttered college apartment, with laundry on the floor and a Target throw blanket half-off the bed.

Sorry, but who could resist this situation?

Not me, that’s for sure. I mentally thank whoever invented gym memberships and swipe my phone facedown on the nightstand.

"Hey, hot stuff," I call out, stretching like a cat as I slip off the bed, the sheet falling from my legs. I pad across the hardwood, which creaks under my feet. My voice is playful, just to get a rise out of him.

Mason doesn’t respond, just lowers his head a bit, lips pressed tight, jaw working.

He’s still radiating heat from the shower, his normally fair skin flushed, veins standing out on his arms and just below his abs—absolutely lethal.

He’s got that broody, untouchable thing down cold. The steam coming off him is almost as hot as the look in his eyes—or maybe the way he won’t look at me at all.

I feel a rush and reach out, tracing my fingertip along a droplet on his V-line. "You missed a spot."

Eight-pack abs, exactly as advertised. They feel unreal under my touch.

There’s a flicker in his eyes—somewhere between irritation and surrender. My hand lingers, just a beat too long, drawing lazy circles.

The comments go wild:

[Side chick, what are you doing? Hands OFF!]

[No, because this is making me lose my mind.]

[Main guy, you better shut this down. #Begging]

[Sis, he’s not into you. Move on.]

Not into me?

I arch my eyebrows, glancing up at Mason.

He turns away, dodging my gaze, and after a long, tense beat mutters a quiet, "Thanks."

His usually steady voice drops lower, and his ears are going red.

I almost laugh. "You’re welcome."

My smile lingers as I bite my lower lip. He’s too cute when he’s shy. That little surge of triumph in my chest is addictive.

I let my hands drift over him. "These spots aren’t dry either."

Mason grabs my hand and says, "Aubrey."

His voice is rough—warning, almost dangerous.

I hum, rising on tiptoe to nip at his lips. "Did you leave yourself wet on purpose?"

The comments are flying:

[My heart hurts. With his real girlfriend, he was all sweet and pure—now he’s getting corrupted by this side chick.]

[Whatever, just go for it. No regrets.]

[Help, the size difference is sending me.]

[Yeah, there’s about to be another kind of difference too.]

[Someone drop the link for a hot guy fresh out the shower?]

[Like, why flirt if you don’t have the right equipment?]

That last comment’s got a point.

I’m about to take things further when suddenly Mason’s hand clamps around my waist—hot, steady, and strong.

He leans in, lashes shadowing his eyes, breath warm against my cheek, then his lips crash into mine.

No finesse—just raw, hungry.

He bumps my teeth a couple times, but he’s a fast learner. Soon I’m breathless from his kiss.

His hands wander, touching everywhere at once, and I lose track of time and space.

"Mmm..."

Mason lets out this low, desperate sound—the kind that makes your whole body shiver.

The room heats up in an instant, the air thick with want.

The AC hums in the background, working overtime. Somewhere outside, a siren wails down the block. Inside, it’s just us, the slide of cotton sheets, and the hush that comes before everything changes.

...

"Hold on tight."

Mason’s got a dominant streak, for sure.

He lifts me like it’s nothing, and my world narrows to his hands, his mouth, and the electric buzz between us.