Boys Like Him

Monday morning slipped in before I even felt the night settle. I surfaced from sleep slowly, only to stop short the moment awareness fully hit me. There was heat between my thighs, a soft, unmistakable dampness that made my breath catch. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling my pulse throb in places I didn't want to think about. I shifted my legs slightly under the sheets, the slickness gathering, reminding me exactly of the dream I hadn't meant to have... and the man who had been at the center of it. A slow flush crawled up my chest and throat. God. I squeezed my eyes shut, mortified at myself, at how little time I'd been in this new place and yet how deeply the thought of him had settled into me. I threw the blanket back like it was contaminated, scrambled to my feet, and stood in the center of the room as if distance might dissolve the evidence. But nothing dissolved. The sheets were damp, and my underwear clung to me in a way that made me want to peel off my own skin. I hadn't had a wet dream in my life. Not once! Sex dreams? Those belonged to other girls, the ones who whispered and giggled in locker rooms about half-naked celebrities or crushes they imagined pressing them into lockers, or hookups after parties, or complained about professors they'd slept with in exchange for grades. Not me. I'd made it through twenty-one years with my mind safely sterile, too consumed with anxiety and survival to waste time on that. Until him. Until one hallway glance and a shirtless delivery. "Jesus Christ," I muttered, pacing toward the bathroom. "Why? Why now? Why him?" I yanked my clothes off in a frantic heap and bolted for the shower, twisting the knob so hard it squealed. I scrubbed harder than necessary as if shame could be exfoliated. The spray tangled in my hair, ran down my face, and I groaned out loud, pressing my forehead against the tile. Of all mornings, it had to be this one. The first Monday of the semester. The day when professors rattled off syllabi like commandments and parking lots turned into battlefields. The day I'd promised myself I would be calm, prepared, and normal. Instead, I was showering before dawn because my subconscious had staged a private porno starring the neighbor I'd met once. Pathetic. "Perfect," I hissed. "Just perfect." My alarm clock blinked like it was mocking me, reminding me I had forty-five minutes to eat something, find my notebooks, and pretend I hadn't just... yeah. "Get it together, Nyelle," I told myself. I yanked on jeans and a tank top, stuffed the sheets into a laundry bag I'd die before letting Mariah see, and I couldn't stop cursing under my breath. And that made me feel even more pathetic. By the time I shoved my backpack over my shoulder, my vow had already solidified, this would never happen again. I wouldn't allow it. I'd chain my own brain if I had to. My body had no business conjuring him in the dark. The city bus was already packed with bleary-eyed students bumping shoulders. I squeezed into a seat near the window, earbuds jammed in, and pressed my forehead to the glass. I tried to breathe evenly and pretend I was just another returning student, weighed down by dread of textbooks and syllabi. But the memory kept slicing through. I texted Mariah. Meet u before class? Need caffeine x10. She replied instantly, already at Bean & Brew. Save u a seat 💋 When I finally got there, backpack digging into my shoulder, she was perched at a corner table, iced latte in hand, looking obnoxiously alive for eight in the morning. "First day back, bitch!" she beamed. I forced a smile, heading for the counter. The line felt eternal, but I ordered my usual black coffee with an extra shot, because if anything could drown this morning in acid, it was caffeine. When I slid into the seat across from her, she was already talking about a new TA she'd spotted, how unfairly hot he was. I nodded, laughed at the right moments, let her chatter fill the air like plaster over cracks. I couldn't tell her, or even hint. If Mariah knew, she'd pry, tease, and make it into a story we laughed about later. But this wasn't funny. This was a shame that sat like a stone in my gut. So I sipped my coffee, scalding my tongue, and pretended to care about her new class schedule. When the clock chimed half past, we packed up. She looped her arm through mine for the walk across campus, buzzing about her electives, before we split at the quad. "Text me if you get bored in psych," she called. I waved, heart hammering, then turned toward my own building.