The Spring After Winter

The night of the department party smelled like whiskey and wet asphalt, the kind of Seattle rain that came down in thin, needling sheets. Claire Miller was already tired before the game even began.

They were seated in a circle in the student lounge, the music loud, the lights low. Someone had brought out a deck of cards for Truth or Dare. When it was Ethan Torres’s turn, the crowd cheered louder than usual. He was the department’s golden boy — charming, brilliant, always composed. The question came:

“Ethan, among all the girls here, is there someone who’s made your heart skip a beat?”

The room quieted.

Every gaze turned toward Claire. Everyone knew. She’d chased him for three years — tutoring him, buying his books, organizing his events. All that devotion hung in the air like a fragile secret no one needed to say out loud.

Ethan’s expression didn’t flicker. His smile stayed perfectly polite. “Next question,” he said. “Or I’ll drink.”

He drank. Three shots, one after another.

The laughter around them turned awkward. Claire stared at the amber liquid glinting in his glass and felt something inside her quietly snap.

So when the bottle spun her way and the dare landed, she didn’t hesitate.

“Kiss someone in the room for at least a minute.”

Ethan shifted, half reaching for her. “Just my hand, okay?” he murmured. “Let’s not make it worse.”

Claire’s smile froze. She glanced around — at all the curious, pitying faces — and her gaze stopped at the boy in the corner wearing a baseball cap pulled low.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Do you know how to kiss?”

The boy — Ryan Lee, a freshman — blinked, startled. Then, with that kind of calm confidence only nineteen-year-olds had, he tilted his head. “Yeah,” he said. “And I don’t mind helping you find out.”

For one second, the whole room held its breath.

Then Claire leaned in and kissed him.

He tasted faintly of citrus, clean and unexpected against the sharp scent of beer and perfume. Ethan’s glass hit the table hard enough to crack it. When he yanked her away, the hourglass they’d been timing fell and shattered on the floor.

Claire didn’t even flinch. “Did anyone time it?” she asked the stunned crowd. “Was it a full minute yet?”

No one answered. Only Ryan, reclining on the sofa, eyes bright with amusement. “Not yet,” he said lazily. “You still owe me thirty seconds.”

When the party ended, Ethan stormed out with Grace Liu close behind. Claire was the last one left, collecting her bag. Ryan was still there.

“You’re not leaving?” she asked.

He grinned. “Waiting for you. Thought you might need a ride back.”

She was too tired to argue. “Fine,” she said.

In the car, under the dull hum of streetlights, he said, “So… can I trade those thirty seconds for your number?”

She laughed — the first real laugh in weeks. “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll just ask for another kiss.”

“You’re incorrigible,” she said. But she handed him her phone anyway.

The next morning, her messages were full of gossip. Her friends wanted the details; Ethan had blocked her again. It wasn’t the first time — every time he got angry, he shut her out like flipping a switch.

For years, she’d chased his approval, mistaking his indifference for mystery. But now, watching his name grayed out on her screen, she felt only relief.

It was over.

A week later, she went to his apartment to collect her things.
It was a modern condo near campus — she’d been the one paying the rent, buying the furniture, even the white sofa he’d insisted on.

When she opened the door with her copy of the key, she froze.

Grace Liu stood inside wearing Ethan’s sweatshirt, her hair still damp from the shower.

“Oh,” Grace said, pretending to be surprised. “Ethan’s asleep. He had a rough night — drank too much. I just stayed to make sure he didn’t get sick.”

Claire looked around. The apartment was immaculate as always — except for the detail that told the truth. There was no juice in Ethan’s fridge. He hated anything sweet.

“Really?” she said coolly. “What kind of juice was it?”

Grace’s smile faltered.

Ethan stumbled out of the bedroom, hair tousled, expression clouded. When he saw Claire, his face hardened. “You again? Shouldn’t you be out with your new boy toy?”

The words hit harder than they should have.

She didn’t answer, just nodded to the movers behind her. “Take everything except the couch and the table.”

“Claire!” Ethan’s voice rose, sharp. “You’re overreacting. I forgave that stunt at the party, didn’t I? Why are you doing this?”

“You didn’t forgive me,” she said quietly. “You just assumed I’d stay.”

He laughed, bitter. “God, you’re dramatic. Fine. Take your things. I’ll replace them tomorrow.”

When the movers accidentally broke the plaster figurine they’d painted together one New Year’s Eve, he shouted again. “See? You just have to destroy everything, don’t you?”

She turned to him then, calm as a lake. “Ethan, I’m not destroying anything. I’m just cleaning up what’s left.”

Later that week, she went to the bank and froze when she saw the statements. Six hundred thousand dollars over three years — tuition, gifts, dinners, rent. One transaction stood out: three hundred thousand dollars to a real estate company.

A down payment.

So that was the dream house he’d described: the one he said he’d build “for them,” with her favorite color walls and a display room for his model kits. He’d built it all right — only Grace Liu was the one living in it now.

Something inside her went very still.

That night, she sent the receipts to a printer and ordered a thousand copies.

By morning, the campus was covered in flyers.

ETHAN TORRES: The Man Who Let His Girlfriend Pay His Bills.
Below were the statements. The figures. The truth.

By noon, Ethan’s reputation — and his pride — were both in shambles.

He found her outside the cafeteria, blocking her path.

“You think this makes you right?” he hissed. “You ruined my life.”

“You spent my money,” she said evenly. “We’re even.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“No,” she said. “You just took.”

He stared at her, breath sharp. “You were the one chasing me, remember? No one forced you. You wanted to be my girlfriend so bad you’d buy my love.”

Claire smiled thinly. “Then I guess I’ve learned the price of bad investments.”

That night, she went to a bar, ordered whiskey, and tried to feel angry. Instead, she felt empty.

Until Ryan showed up again.

He didn’t say much — just noticed her limp and left. Ten minutes later, he came back with antiseptic and a roll of bandages.

“Hold still,” he said, kneeling in front of her. “You scraped your heel.”

She blinked down at him. “You followed me here to play nurse?”

“Someone’s gotta keep you from bleeding out,” he said, half-smiling. “And I don’t mind the view.”

Despite herself, she laughed.

When he finished, he glanced up, eyes catching hers. “There. Better?”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “Better.”

By the next morning, a photo of them — him kneeling before her, her hand in his hair — was all over campus.

Claire didn’t care. Let them talk.

That evening, Ryan showed up outside her dorm with a bag of takeout and a grin. “You didn’t have lunch, did you?”

“How do you even know that?”

“I checked your Instagram,” he said, unashamed. “No food posts. Dead giveaway.”

She groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“But you’re smiling,” he said.

She was.

Grace Liu didn’t stop posting. She flooded social media with pictures — her and Ethan in matching aprons, painting ceramic figures together, captioned ‘Some promises take years to keep.’

The irony burned. Claire remembered the night she and Ethan painted their first one, years ago, under a flickering streetlight, both laughing like children.

Now, even that memory wasn’t hers anymore.

She didn’t respond. She simply sent her lawyer the draft of a civil suit — repayment for financial misuse — and blocked Grace’s number.

Days passed. Weeks.

Ryan was always there — bringing her coffee before lectures, fixing the zipper on her dress, reminding her to eat. He was young, yes, but earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in years.

One evening, when he finished hemming her skirt, he asked, “With a guy this useful, do you at least like me a little?”

She smiled. “Maybe a little.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m applying for the same study abroad program as you. London, right?”

Her eyebrows lifted. “Your IELTS score’s high enough?”

He grinned. “Eight point five.”

By the time they boarded the plane, she’d almost forgotten how badly she’d once hurt.

London was rain and cobblestones, tea and freedom. They built a quiet, steady rhythm — studying, exploring, learning how to start over.

One day, Ryan came down with a fever after walking miles in the drizzle to buy her favorite pastries. She found him in bed, burning up, mumbling in his sleep.

“Claire,” he whispered. “I’ll cook for you. I’ll do everything for you. No one’s ever gonna hurt you again.”

She smiled through tears, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Okay,” she murmured. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Months later, when her phone buzzed with a number she hadn’t seen in months, she almost didn’t answer.

“Claire,” Ethan’s voice rasped. “Where are you?”

“Why does it matter?” she said quietly. “Don’t you have Grace?”

“She’s gone,” he said. “I sent her away. It was never about her. It’s always been you.”

“Ethan,” she said, voice flat, “you don’t love anyone. You just love being loved.”

He didn’t deny it. He just cried, broken, pathetic.

She hung up.

Three months later, she and Ryan flew home to renew paperwork.

Outside the university gates, Ethan was waiting. He was thinner now, hollow-eyed, clutching his phone like a lifeline.

“I waited for you every day,” he said hoarsely. “The house — I finished it. It’s for us. I swear, Grace never—”

“Stop,” she said.

He kept talking, desperate, delusional.

“Claire, I made mistakes. I was scared, insecure. I thought I needed to test your love, but I only proved how worthless I am without it.”

“You’re right,” she said softly. “You are.”

He flinched as if struck. “Don’t say that. Please. I still—”

He reached out, but before he could touch her, a hand shoved him backward.

Ryan.

“Back off,” he said coolly. “She’s not yours to talk to anymore.”

Ethan stumbled, eyes wide.

Claire only smiled faintly and reached for Ryan’s hand. “Let’s go home.”

Ryan handed her a small paper bag, warmth seeping through the thin paper. “Chestnuts,” he said. “Fresh roasted. Still hot.”

She cracked one open. Sweet. Soft. Perfect.

Behind them, the wind swept through the fallen leaves.

“Hey,” Ryan said quietly, watching her chew. “What do you want for dinner?”

“Anything,” she said. “As long as you’re cooking.”

He laughed. “Then I’ll make everything you like.”

They walked away together, their shadows melting into the orange glow of the streetlights.

Winter was coming again, but Claire felt only spring — the kind that didn’t ask for permission to bloom.