In 1988 when Dylan Montgomery moves to Beverly Hills after her mother remarries, she must navigate the challenges of fitting into a glamorous but daunting upper-class life. Living across from the charmingly cocky Nicholas and his introspective broth...
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UPPER CLASS | cherriasian
august '89
Nicholas's alarm buzzed sharply at 5:30 a.m., pulling him out of the light sleep he'd barely managed. He groaned, running a hand down his face before shutting it off, the faint glow of early dawn seeping through the window blinds. It was too early for his body to cooperate, but swim practice at six wasn't optional—especially not if he wanted to stay on his coach's good side.
Dragging himself out of bed, Nicholas rubbed at his eyes before grabbing his swim gear from the back of his desk chair. Across the room, Elliot remained dead to the world, his snores the only sound in the otherwise still dorm. Nicholas felt a fleeting pang of envy before shaking it off and heading out.
The cool water of the pool snapped him fully awake soon enough. Practice was grueling but familiar, a rhythm he'd fallen into years ago. Two hours later, muscles sore but adrenaline buzzing, Nicholas emerged from the locker room, his damp hair curling slightly at the ends, the droplets glinting faintly in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
Two hours later back in his dorm, he tossed his duffel bag onto the floor with a satisfying thud, already eyeing his shower bag. The room was quiet, as expected; Elliot had mentioned he'd be out with his family for most of the morning. That left Nicholas with one thought immediately.
Dylan.
He glanced at his clock to check the time. Still early. She might not even be awake yet—but the memory of last night, the way she'd kissed him like she couldn't get enough, told him she'd come.
After a hot shower, the tension in his shoulders loosened, and the chlorine washed away, Nicholas let his hair dry naturally. He didn't bother with a towel for it, knowing it would fall into its usual tousled, damp waves. By the time he was dressed—shorts, a plain black t-shirt that clung just right, and his favorite watch—there was a soft knock at the door.
His pulse quickened, a grin already tugging at his lips.
When he opened the door, there she was. Dylan stood there, her hair slightly mussed as if she'd hurried over after waking, her cheeks flushed from the crisp morning air. She wore an oversized shirt that slipped off one shoulder and one of her usual linen shorts, effortlessly perfect in a way that made his stomach flip every time.
But it was Dylan who felt like her breath had caught in her chest.
His damp hair, still curling slightly at the ends, sent her heart racing. It had always gotten to her in a way she couldn't fully explain—like now, the way it clung just enough to frame his face, darker and messier than usual. It reminded her of Beverly Hills, those moments after swim practice or a late-night pool session when she'd caught him like this. Back then, she'd brushed it off, refusing to let herself admit how much she liked the sight of him like this. Now, she didn't have to pretend.
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"Hey," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, though her eyes were locked on his.
"Hey," he replied, stepping aside to let her in, a faint smirk curling his lips when he noticed her gaze linger a little longer on his hair.
Dylan hesitated for only a second before slipping into the room. Nicholas closed the door softly behind her, leaning against it for a moment as he took her in.
"You made it," he teased, his tone light but his eyes warm.
"Wasn't sure if you were serious about sneaking around this early," she shot back, crossing her arms but unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips.
"I'm always serious about seeing you."
The words hung in the air for a moment before he stepped forward, closing the small gap between them.
"You look good," he murmured, his hand brushing against hers.
"Thanks," she said, her voice quieter now as her gaze flicked to his damp hair again.
Nicholas caught the glance, his smirk growing. "What?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, but the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her.
He leaned in closer, his damp hair brushing her temple as he whispered, "You sure about that?"
She could only nod, her thoughts scattering. It wasn't just the hair—it was all of him, so perfectly at ease yet somehow utterly magnetic.
Nicholas leaned back just enough to meet her eyes, his smile softening as she spoke. "Early mornings suit you too, by the way."
"Don't let Coach hear you say that," he replied, earning a quiet laugh from her. But her mind wasn't on the joke. It was still on his tousled hair, and how impossibly, frustratingly good he looked like this.
Nicholas pulled back just slightly, the air between them charged with unspoken thoughts. Dylan couldn't stop staring at him, her heart doing an erratic rhythm she was sure he could hear. She'd been the one to sneak over, but now, standing this close to him, her confidence felt like it was slipping.
"What?" Nicholas asked again, a teasing lilt in his voice.
"Nothing," she replied, shaking her head with a small laugh. "Just... you really have no idea, do you?"
"About what?" He tilted his head slightly, his damp curls falling perfectly into place.
Dylan pressed her lips together, debating whether to answer or brush it off. But something about the morning—how quiet and intimate it felt—made her bold. "About how good you look when your hair's like this," she admitted quietly, almost daring herself to say it.
Nicholas blinked in surprise before his lips curved into a grin. "Oh, yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head," she added quickly, rolling her eyes to deflect, but the heat rising in her cheeks betrayed her.
"Too late." He stepped closer again, his voice low. "So, that's why you were staring."
"I wasn't staring," she lied.
"Dylan, you were definitely staring," Nicholas said, his tone smug. He reached up, running a hand through his hair, the motion so casual but undeniably deliberate. "Good to know my swim practice is paying off in unexpected ways."
She swatted his arm, though the smile on her face gave her away. "Don't make me regret saying anything."
Nicholas caught her hand before she could pull it back, holding it lightly but firmly. The playful smirk on his face softened as he looked at her, his thumb brushing against her palm.
