Chapter 208: You Remembered

NORA’S POV

The pale Sunday morning light filtered through the thin blinds of Room 304, casting long, gray bars across my desk.

I woke up to the sound of paper turning.

Across the small room, Priya was already sitting at her desk, dressed in black slacks and a cream turtleneck. Her hair was pulled into a neat, low bun, and three thick binders of constitutional jurisprudence lay open around her laptop.

A steaming mug of peppermint tea sat by her elbow.

Beside it, resting face-down beneath the corner of an administrative law textbook, was her phone.

I sat up slowly, pulling the quilt up to my collarbones.

"Morning," I murmured, my voice raspy from sleep.

Priya glanced up, offering a quick smile. "Morning, sleepyhead. Did you sleep okay?"

"Pretty well," I lied softly.

The truth was, I had tossed and turned for half the night. Every time I closed my eyes, those glowing blue letters from Priya’s phone screen flashed behind my eyelids:

Can’t stop thinking about Thursday night.

We have to be careful. No one can know about us. Especially not Nora.

The words still sat in my chest like a cold stone.

It wasn’t anger that kept me awake. It was the sting of being shut out.

Priya and I had survived three years of college together. We had shared cheap ramen, wept through midterm season, held each other’s hair back during freshman flu bugs, and traded every single private fear.

She knew about the fake-dating contract before Knox and I had even signed it. She knew every terror I had about Garrison Sheridan, my father’s bakery, and my honors stipend.

Yet somewhere along the line, she’s done something that her first instinct was to hide it specifically from me.

Why?

Was she trying not to bother me? Was she not sure about it and trying to figure things out before telling me?

"You’re already into the briefs?" I asked casually, swinging my legs over the edge of the mattress.

"Got an appellate seminar tomorrow morning," Priya said, her blue highlighter dragging sharply across the page. "Flores has zero tolerance for unprepared cold-calls. The guy was a federal appellate clerk in D.C., so he treats undergrads like junior associates he’s actively trying to fire. If you can’t cite the majority opinion from memory, he cuts you to ribbons in front of forty students."

"Sounds charming," I said mildly.

"He’s ruthless," Priya muttered, turning the page without looking up. "If I make it out of his seminar with an A, it’ll be an actual miracle."

Beside her laptop, her phone buzzed once... a short, muffled vibration against the wood.

Priya’s thumb immediately clamped down over the screen, sliding it deeper under the stack of briefs without checking the display.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, keeping my expression smooth.

’Not yet,’ I told myself, looking at the hidden device. ’If she isn’t ready to tell you who she’s texting, pushing her will only make her retreat further. I’m probably just overthinking.’

"Well, don’t let him intimidate you," I smiled gently, grabbing my towel from the back of the chair. "I’m meeting Knox for coffee at the Commons at ten. Do you want me to bring you back a bagel?"

"No, I’m good," Priya said, offering another tight smile. "Just plow through reading until lunch. Have fun with your hockey boy."

"Thanks," I said.

I stepped into the hallway bathroom, turned on the hot water, and let out a long, quiet breath.

—

The winter air bit at my cheeks the second I stepped out of North Hall.

Snow flurries drifted down from an overcast sky, dusting the brick walkways of the campus quad. Students in puffy parkas hurried between dorms, clutching travel mugs and dreading the end of the holiday break.

At ten on the dot, I pushed through the glass double doors of the Briar Commons.

The coffee shop was warm, smelling of roasted espresso beans, cinnamon syrup, and damp wool coats. Indie folk music hummed softly through the overhead speakers.

My gaze swept the dining area and stopped.

Knox was sitting at a corner booth by the frosted window, his broad shoulders easily filling the wooden bench.

He was wearing a dark gray Briar Hockey pullover, worn denim jeans, and a faded charcoal beanie pushed back on his dark, unruly curls. His jaw was lined with dark stubble, giving him that sharp, untamed look that made my pulse stumble every single time I saw him.

He was looking down at his phone, his thumb tapping the edge of the casing with rhythmic, quiet tension.

As if sensing me, his head snapped up.

The line of his mouth melted into a slow, crooked smile the second his eyes met mine.

"Hey, Bennett," he murmured, standing up as I reached the booth.

Before I could answer, his strong arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me straight against his chest. His wool pullover was warm, and the familiar scent of winter cedar and fresh mint wrapped around my senses like a shield.

He pressed a lingering kiss against the crown of my head, right above my ear. "Missed you," he whispered against my hair.

"I saw you yesterday afternoon," I teased softly, resting my palms flat against his firm chest.

"Too long," he grunted, burying his nose in my neck for a second before letting me go. "Sit down. What are you having? Vanilla latte and that blueberry muffin with the sugar crust?"

"You remembered," I smiled, sliding into the booth.

"I remember everything about you," he said smoothly.

He walked up to the counter to place the order.

Sitting back in the booth, I watched him.

When the barista rang up the total, Knox pulled a simple student debit card from his back pocket and tapped the terminal.

For a moment, he went completely still, staring at the small screen until it finally beeped to confirm the payment.

The second the receipt printed, his shoulders relaxed, and he slipped the card back into his pocket.

My brow furrowed slightly.

Knox was a Sheridan. For the first two months I knew him, he didn’t even look at prices. He tossed black cards onto tables like scrap paper and tipped fifty-dollar bills for diner toast.

Now, he was watching a five-dollar coffee register with the laser focus of a man tracking incoming mortar fire.

’Garrison,’ I thought, a quiet ache tightening in my chest.

I knew Knox had walked away from his father’s fortune. I knew the Sheridan accounts had been frozen on Wednesday. But seeing the quiet, stubborn reality of it in plain daylight made my heart clench with respect... and worry.

Knox walked back to the table, carrying a tray with two coffees and a warm muffin.

"One vanilla latte, extra hot," he said, setting the ceramic mug in front of me along with a small plate. "And your sugar fix."

"Thank you, Knox," I said, reaching for my purse. "Let me get the next round, or at least split..."

"Put the wallet away, Bennett," Knox interrupted, his voice dropping into that low, velvet rasp. He slid into the booth across from me, his knees brushing against mine under the small table. "I can still buy my girl a cup of coffee."

There was an edge of pride in his tone... not arrogant, firm.

I looked at him and let the purse drop back into my lap.

I knew that look. It was the same quiet stubbornness he brought onto the ice when the score was tied in the third period.

No matter what was happening with his father, Knox Sheridan was never going to stop showing up for the people he cared about.

"Okay," I agreed softly, resting my hand on top of his on the wooden table. "Thank you."

His fingers immediately turned over, tangling with mine.

"Okay," I agreed softly, resting my hand on top of his on the wooden table. "Thank you."

His fingers immediately turned over, tangling with mine. His palm was callused and rough from hockey grips and tape, his grip warm and grounding.

"How was the rest of your night?" he asked, taking a sip of his black coffee. "And how’s Priya holding up?"

"Night was fine... Priya’s okay," I said, offering a small, easy smile. "Already buried in case briefs for her seminar tomorrow."

I kept my answer simple, letting the subject go. Whatever was happening with Priya and her guarded texts, today was about Knox.

Knox set his mug down on the wooden table.

His sharp gaze narrowed slightly, studying my face with that quiet, intuitive perception he only ever turned on me.

"What’s working in that analytical brain of yours, Bennett?" he asked softly. "You’ve been a little quiet since you sat down."