Christian Carlisle POV:

The deafening music pounded against my eardrums, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. I swirled the red solo cup in my hand. The beer inside was warm from my body heat.

Tristan Sinclair nudged me with his elbow, jerking his chin in one direction. "Look, your number one fan is here."

I followed his gaze. A blonde girl I didn't recognize was staring at me, her eyes shining. A classic Puck Bunny. They were a fixture in the life of any Briar hockey player, groupies who chased after us hoping for a hookup.

I pulled my lips into something that might have been a smile, then immediately turned back to Tristan. "Shut up."

He laughed, taking another swig of his beer. "Seriously, where's your girlfriend? Isla didn't come to pick you up? Didn't you just get back today?"

My throat tightened at the mention of her name. I pictured her in the apartment, maybe... waiting for me. The thought made the plastic cup in my hand creak under the pressure.

Why did I come to this damn party?

Because I was afraid to go home. Afraid to see her clean, honest eyes. They would make me feel like the asshole everyone already thought I was.

"She's busy," I mumbled to Tristan.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Busy? Or is there trouble with your 'contract'? I told you, fake dating is the worst idea."

I chugged a large mouthful of beer. The cold liquid did nothing to cool the irritation burning in my gut. "Our business is none of your business."

My tone was harsh. Tristan flinched, then held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, Captain. My bad."

I raked a hand through my hair, a habit whenever I felt anxious. The noise of the party was giving me a headache. Every smiling face looked fake.

I saw Carrie Kelley making her way through the crowd toward me, a perfect smile plastered on her face. I instinctively frowned.

I didn't want to deal with her. I didn't want to deal with anyone.

"I'm out," I told Tristan, and before he could respond, I pushed my way out of the crowd.

The cool night air hit me as I stepped out of the frat house, clearing my head slightly.

I got into my car but didn't start it right away. I leaned back against the headrest, staring in the direction of the apartment.

I pulled out my phone. No missed calls or texts from Isla. A strange wave of disappointment washed over me, followed by a sliver of relief.

She hadn't contacted me. Did that mean she didn't care if I came home or not? Was she texting Logan right now? The thought was like a venomous snake, gnawing at my sanity. My older brother, Logan Carlisle, was the one I was convinced she truly wanted.

Finally, I started the engine. Better to see for myself than to sit here driving myself crazy.

I pulled into my designated spot. The apartment was mostly dark. Only a single floor lamp was on in the living room. A faint light glowed from her bedroom.

I unlocked the door. The air inside was filled with the lingering scent of cooled food, mixed with something that smelled like disappointment.

My eyes landed on the trash can. I could see the bones of a roast chicken inside, on top of a pile of what looked like a full meal. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant hand.

She had made dinner. She had waited for me. And I was at a party, chugging beer like an idiot.

I stood in the middle of the living room, listening. I could hear the faint, even sound of her breathing from her bedroom. She was asleep.

On impulse, I walked to her bedroom door. It was slightly ajar.

I peered through the crack. She was lying on her side, and curled up in her arms was... a cat? A fluffy, orange cat.

I froze. One of the rules of our cohabitation was no pets. Especially not for me. I hated cats.

Did she get a cat on purpose just so I wouldn't come back?

I backed away silently and retreated to my own room. I needed to cool down.

I shut the door and threw myself onto my bed, my mind a tangled mess. Her face, the cold dinner, and that damn cat. They wouldn't leave my head.

The next morning, I woke to sounds in the living room. I walked out of my room and saw Isla feeding the cat.

She was in her pajamas, her hair loosely tied up. The morning sun streamed in, making the scene look unrealistically beautiful.

She heard me and turned. Our eyes met. The air froze.

Isla Owens POV:

I was crouched on the floor, dangling a string for Apollo—the little orange cat I'd adopted from the shelter last week. The sound of a door opening behind me made my hand freeze.

I slowly turned my head. Christian stood in his bedroom doorway. He wore a pair of gray sweat shorts, his upper body bare, revealing the lean, powerful muscles of an athlete.

His hair was a mess, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep. But when his gaze fell on Apollo, they instantly turned sharp and cold.

We stared at each other from across the room. Neither of us spoke first. The air was thick with awkwardness and the tense promise of a storm.

Apollo seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere. He stopped eating, gave Christian a wary look, and let out a soft "meow," shrinking back behind me.

"What is that?" Christian finally spoke, his voice raspy with an edge of displeasure.

I stood up, dusting off my hands, and answered calmly, "A cat. His name is Apollo."

"I know it's a cat," he said, taking two steps forward, looming over me. "My question is, why is it here?"

I straightened my spine, meeting his gaze. "I adopted him. He lives here now."

He let out a short, contemptuous laugh. The faint scar above his eyebrow seemed more prominent in the morning light. It was a sneer I knew well, the one he used to dismiss anything or anyone he found beneath him. "Isla, our agreement was very clear. No pets."

"Your agreement, not ours," I corrected him. "That document was drafted by your lawyer. I just signed it. And it said 'not recommended,' not 'forbidden.'"

I remembered every single word. Signing that paper had felt like selling a piece of my soul.

Christian was clearly not expecting me to argue. He paused, his expression darkening. "I hate cats."

"I know," I said flatly. "But you're barely ever here, are you?"

The words hung in the air between us like a slap. I saw the muscles in his jaw tighten instantly.

He stared at me, his blue eyes churning with emotions I couldn't decipher. There was anger, but also something else.

"Get rid of it," he said, his tone a command. It was not a request.

"No." The word came out just as firm. It was the first time I had ever said a direct "no" to him.

As if cheering me on, Apollo meowed again, rubbing his head against my ankle.

Christian's gaze shifted from my face to the cat, his disgust unconcealed.

We stood in a standoff for a long minute. Finally, without another word, he turned and walked into the kitchen.

I heard him grabbing something from the fridge, then the ding of the microwave. He was probably heating up last night's leftovers. If there were any.

I ignored him and knelt to comfort Apollo, but I could feel his cold stare on my back.

For the next few days, we were locked in a cold war.

We lived under the same roof like two complete strangers. We'd pass in the hallway without making eye contact. In the living room, he'd watch his sports channels, and I'd put on my headphones to practice my music.

Apollo became the only thing we shared. Christian never touched him, but sometimes I'd catch him staring at the cat with a complicated look in his eyes.

One afternoon, I came home from class to a strangely quiet apartment. Christian wasn't there, and Apollo wasn't on his usual scratching post.

A knot of panic formed in my stomach. I started searching the apartment, calling his name. "Apollo? Apollo?"

I checked every room. Nothing. My heart began to sink. He wouldn't actually... get rid of him, would he?

Just as I was about to despair, I heard a faint "meow" from Christian's bedroom.

I froze. His bedroom door was always closed. It was a forbidden zone.

I hesitated for a few seconds, then walked over and knocked. "Christian?"

No response.

I took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. It wasn't locked.

I pushed the door open and saw something that made my breath catch in my throat. Christian was asleep on his bed. And Apollo, the cat he claimed to hate, was curled up peacefully on his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths.