The Placement
If there was a degree in being an unpaid, underappreciated personal assistant to a lazy older brother, Ashley Kingston would be graduating summa cum laude.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, slamming a gallon of whole milk onto the top shelf of the refrigerator. “Bribe me with a twenty-dollar coffee gift card, and suddenly I’m hauling half of the grocery store up two flights of stairs.”
The off-campus house that her brother, Asher, shared with his two best friends was, as expected, a structural disaster zone. Gym bags were dumped in the hallway, empty energy drink cans lined the counter, and the lingering scent of expensive cologne mixed with sweat hung in the air.
Ashley grabbed a stack of cereal boxes, standing on her tiptoes to reach the highest cabinet above the island. She stretched her arm as far as it would go, her canvas tote bag slipping precariously over her shoulder.
“Just put it on the second shelf, Asher, it’s not that hard—”
Her foot slipped slightly against the hardwood.
The heavy tote bag slid straight down her arm, hitting the edge of the granite counter with a dull thud before crashing onto the floor. Cans of soup rolled out across the tile, and her notebooks, lip balms, and loose pens scattered in every direction.
“Great. Perfect.” She dropped to her knees, cursing under her breath as she scooped her belongings back into the canvas bag as fast as her hands could move. The front door unlocked down the hall, followed by the heavy, boisterous sound of male laughter echoing in the foyer.
Panic flared in her chest. The last thing she needed was Asher and his crew catching her looking like a frustrated maid in their kitchen.
“Ashley?” Asher’s loud voice called out from the hallway. “That you in there?”
“Yeah! I’m leaving!” she yelled back, shoving the last fallen pen into her bag. She zipped it shut, hoisted it over her shoulder, and grabbed her car keys off the island.
She shoved past her brother in the hallway, giving him a quick glare. “Groceries are in the fridge. You owe me big time.”
“You’re the best, Ash!” Asher called out, already distracted by whatever Ace was showing him on his phone.
Ashley hurried out the front door, letting it slam shut behind her. She took a deep breath of the crisp air, totally unaware that tucked neatly beneath the deep, dark overhang of the kitchen island—hidden completely in the shadow of the baseboards—lay a small, nameless, black leather-bound journal.
Five minutes later, the kitchen was standing room only.
Ace threw his gym bag into the corner, tossed a protein bar into the air, and caught it with one hand before leaning against the island. Brandon walked in quietly behind him, pulling a cold bottle of water from the fridge and leaning his shoulder against the counter frame, his dark eyes scanning the room.
“Tell me she bought the good chips,” Ace said, tossing his head back. He bent down to open a lower cabinet, but as he lowered his head, something caught his eye in the narrow gap under the island overhang.
“What’s this?” Ace muttered. He reached down, his long fingers hooking around a smooth, black leather cover. He pulled it out, blowing a speck of dust off the surface.
“Did you drop your notebook, Asher?” Ace asked, holding it up by the spine.
Asher looked up from his phone, frowning. “No. I don’t use notebooks. I barely use paper.”
“It’s not mine,” Brandon said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his water. “Looks like a diary.”
“A diary?” Ace’s eyes lit up with instant, devious amusement. He flipped the cover open. “No name on the front. Probably left by one of those girls Asher had over last weekend.”
“Hey! My guests have respect,” Asher protested, though he looked curious. “Flip to a random page. See if there’s a phone number.”
Ace smirked, cracking the spine open to a page near the middle. His eyes scanned the messy, looping handwriting, and within three seconds, his smug expression froze. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
“Oh… wow,” Ace whispered.
“What?” Asher chuckled. “Is it bad?”
“I don’t think 'bad' is the right word,” Ace said, his voice dropping an octave as a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Listen to this: ’I watched him stretch his arms over his head during practice today, and all I could think about was what those hands would feel like pinned against—’”
“Okay, stop!” Asher laughed, waving his hand. “Whose hands? Who is she talking about?”
Ace’s eyes darted down the page, and this time, a genuine, stunned laugh escaped his throat. “Bro. She’s talking about me. She literally wrote my name right here. ‘Ace’.”
Asher groaned, rolling his eyes. “Great. Another fan. Flip the page, let’s throw it in the trash.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Ace said, turning the page with eager fingers. “There’s more. Oh, this girl is unhinged. She didn't just write about me.” Ace looked up, his eyes locking onto Brandon with absolute disbelief. “Brandon. You’re in here too.”
Brandon didn't move, but his hand tightened slightly around his water bottle. “Me?”
“Listen to this,” Ace read aloud, leaning over the counter: ’Ace is a distractor, but Brandon is a slow poison. The way he looks at me like he’s picking me apart piece by piece drives me completely insane. If the two of them ever—’”
“Alright, hand it over,” Brandon interrupted, stepping forward and yanking the book right out of Ace’s hands before he could finish the sentence.
“Hey! I was getting to the best part!” Ace protested, laughing. “Whoever wrote that has some wild fantasies about the two of us, man.”
Asher was shaking his head, looking disgusted. “Which one of the sorority girls was it? Who was in the kitchen today?”
While Ace and Asher started debating names, Brandon stood silently, staring down at the open page.
He didn't care about the explicit confessions—not yet. His eyes were locked on the handwriting. The left-leaning slant. The distinctive way the letter ‘t’ was crossed with a sharp, aggressive line. The slight smudge of blue ink on the margin.
He had seen that exact handwriting a hundred times. On shared lecture notes. On study guides. On sticky notes left on their coffee table.
It wasn't a random sorority girl.
It was Ashley.
Brandon closed the notebook with a soft snap, tucking it effortlessly into the inner pocket of his jacket while Asher and Ace were still arguing about who held the girl's preference.
A quiet, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of Brandon’s lips. So that's what you think about when you look at us, firecracker?
An hour later, Ashley was losing her mind.
She had tipped her entire dorm room upside down. Her bed sheets were stripped, her desk drawers were pulled completely out, and her backpack was turned inside out on the rug.
“Where is it? Where is it, where is it, where is it?” she panicked, running her hands through her hair.
The diary wasn't just a journal; it was an absolute nuclear bomb. If anyone found it, let alone Asher or—god forbid—Ace and Brandon, her life on campus was over. She would have to transfer. She would have to fake her own death and move to a remote island.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Ashley froze, her heart leaping into her throat. She swallowed hard, wiping her sweaty palms on her jeans, and walked over to pull open the dorm door.
Brandon was leaning casually against the doorframe, one hand shoved in his jacket pocket, looking effortlessly handsome in that irritatingly effortless way he always did.
“Hey, firecracker,” he said smoothly, his eyes scanning her disheveled hair and the chaotic state of her room behind her. “Did a tornado hit your room, or are you just testing out a new interior design strategy?”
Ashley crossed her arms, trying to keep her voice from shaking. “Very funny, Brandon. What do you want? Asher isn't here.”
“I know. I came to see you,” Brandon said, stepping past her into the room without waiting for an invitation. He walked over to her desk, picking up a stray pen and twirling it between his fingers. “I need a favor.”
“A favor?” she asked suspiciously, keeping her distance.
“Yeah. The notes for Professor Miller’s lecture from Tuesday,” Brandon said, turning around to face her. His dark eyes locked onto hers, heavy and intense. “I missed half the class, and everybody knows you’re the only person in our orbit who actually writes in legible handwriting.”
“I’m busy, Brandon—”
“It’ll take two seconds,” he murmured, his tone softening just enough to pull at her chest. He stepped closer, dropping his voice to that quiet, low baritone that always made her pulse spike. “Come on. Help a guy out. Unless you’re too busy tearing your room apart for something you lost?”
Ashley’s eyes widened slightly, her breath catching. “I’m not… I didn't lose anything.”
“Good. Then write down the chapter headings for me.”
He pulled a blank notepad from her desk, tapped a pen against it, and handed it to her.
Ashley took a nervous breath, stepping up to the desk. She leaned over, taking the pen, and quickly began jotting down the lecture topics from memory: Microeconomics, Chapter 4: Market Dynamics.
Brandon stepped up directly behind her.
She could feel the heat radiating off his chest, inches from her back. His scent—sandalwood and cold autumn night—completely enveloped her. He leaned down slightly, his chin nearly resting on her shoulder as his eyes tracked her hand moving across the paper.
He watched the way she crossed her *‘t’*s with that sharp, aggressive line. The left-leaning slant of her letters.
It was an exact, perfect match.
“You have very distinct handwriting, Ashley,” Brandon whispered right next to her ear, his warm breath tickling the skin of her neck.
Ashley’s hand wavered, a tiny streak of blue ink smudging against the paper. She shivered, trying to keep her hand steady as she finished the last word.
“Is… is there something wrong with my handwriting?” she asked, her voice barely above a breath, refusing to turn around because she knew how close his face was.
Brandon let out a low, quiet chuckle that vibrated right through her spine. He reached over her shoulder, his arm brushing hers as he gently plucked the notepad out of her hands.
“Not at all,” Brandon murmured, taking a step back. He looked down at the page, a slow, wicked smirk playing on his lips. “I actually think it’s my favorite thing I’ve read all day.”
Ashley turned around, frowning in confusion. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Brandon said smoothly, folding the paper and sliding it into his pocket—right next to the black leather journal tucked inside his jacket. “Thanks for the notes, firecracker. Good luck finding whatever you’re looking for.”
He gave her a wink, turned on his heel, and walked out of her dorm room, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Ashley stood frozen by her desk, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, utterly clueless that the quietest, most dangerous boy in her brother’s circle now held every single one of her darkest secrets in his pocket.
