Chapter 5 #2
Not touching. Not yet. Just close enough to invade my space, close enough that I can sense his presence pressing in on all sides. I can smell him—soap, smoke, and something darker underneath.
“Are you always this intense?” he asks.
“Only when it matters.”
“And this matters.”
I ignore him and start explaining the thesis again because talking feels safer than thinking.
I point at the screen. I speak quickly, loudly.
I talk because if I stop for even a second, I’ll notice that his attention isn’t on the work but on me.
On my mouth. On how my hands move when I get worked up.
“Here,” I say, jabbing the trackpad harder than needed. “We split the sections. I’ll handle the analysis. You do the case study.”
He hums. “Bossy.”
“Competent.”
He laughs quietly, a sound that lingers in my chest whether I want it to or not. “Same thing.”
I keep my eyes on the screen because I refuse to look at him. Refuse to give him anything.
Then he fucking shifts.
This time, his thigh presses against mine. It’s solid, warm, and way too close. It’s not an accident, and we both know it. My sentence stumbles halfway through a word, and I hate myself for it and how my body reacts faster than my pride.
“Sorry,” he says, voice smooth and unrepentant. He remains still. “Is that better?”
“No.”
“Tell me to move.”
My throat tightens. I swallow. “Move.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he leans over my shoulder, bracing one hand on the floor on the other side of me, trapping me. His chest brushes against my arm. Heat seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt. His breath ghosts my neck, and I freeze, every nerve firing at once.
“Relax,” he murmurs, close enough that his voice slips over my skin. “I’m just looking.”
Bullshit.
His fingers catch the end of my hair where it curls over my shoulder. He twirls it once, casually in a manner that feels dangerous. As if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
My pulse kicks hard. Loud and embarrassing.
I suddenly become very aware of the space between us and how it’s not enough. I notice my own breathing, how badly I want to push him away, and how much worse it would feel if he pulled back on his own.
I push myself to keep talking, even though my voice sounds weaker now. “You need to focus. This isn’t a joke.”
His mouth moves closer to my ear. “Neither is this.”
I close my eyes for a moment and hate him for noticing everything.
I open my eyes again, determined to put an end to this.
“Don’t,” I say.
He doesn’t move or pull away. His fingers remain tangled in my hair.
“Don’t what?”
My voice sounds thinner this time. “Touch me.”
“Do you always get this tense?” he asks, fingers still touching my hair.
I lurch forward, tearing free of him so quickly I lose my balance. My cheeks flush, heat spreading across my face. “What is wrong with you?”
“Plenty.” He grins
“I am serious,” I snap. “You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.” I gesture wildly in the space between us, hands shaking despite my best effort to steady them. “Do not invade my space. Play with my hair. Act like this is some kind of game.”
Something in his expression shifts. The grin fades, not completely, but enough. His eyes darken, sharpen.
“You’re the one who came to my house,” he says.
“For school.”
“Sure.”
“I mean it,” I say, firmer now. “This isn’t whatever bullshit you think it is.”
He watches me for a long second without speaking. The room appears smaller. Quieter. Even the hum of the speaker seems to fade, leaving nothing but the sound of my own breathing.
“You’re shaking,” he says finally.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
I press my palms flat against my thighs, trying to stop the tremor. Or at least I try to. “Let’s get back to the assignment.”
He doesn’t reply right away. Instead, his gaze stays fixed on mine, as if he’s trying to peel me apart layer by layer and figure out where I’ll crack. I hold his stare even though every instinct tells me to look away.
I guess he’s not used to a girl saying no to him.
Most girls allow him to invade their space and touch them as if resistance is just part of the dance.
But I don’t soften.
I don’t back down.
And I see it land.
Something flickers in his eyes, then he leans back, creating distance between us.
“Fine,” he says. “Professor Carter. What’s next?”
The tension doesn’t go away. It just lingers.
I exhale slowly and force my shoulders to drop.
We work this time. No baiting or touching. No crowding my space.
And annoyingly, he actually listens.
He asks questions. Genuine ones. Even pushes back on a few points in ways that make sense, not just to be difficult.
He challenges my logic, and I have to pause, reread, then grudgingly admit he’s right.
I hate that he’s smarter than he pretends to be and prefers to hide it behind jokes, arrogance, and that reckless grin.
Time passes by without me noticing.
My phone buzzes on the carpet as I glance down.
Lola: Are you alive? Blink twice if you need rescuing.
I snort before I can stop myself and turn the screen black.
Reece catches it, of course he does; he sees everything. “Your friends worried?”
“They know you’re a problem.”
His mouth curves, as if he’s pleased with my answer. “Smart girls.”
We finish outlining the sections, the core structure laid out clearly. I close my laptop and slide it back into my bag, my heart still pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with deadlines or grades. I fucking hate this.
“I’ll send you the outline tonight,” I say, standing. “You need to actually do the work.”
“I will.” No sarcasm or smirk. Just a promise.
That bothers me more than the teasing ever did.
I swing my bag over my shoulder and turn for the door, already halfway gone in my head.
“Sam.”
I stop with my back to him, fingers gripping the strap until it cuts into my palm. I do not turn. I will not give him anything.
He walks around until he’s standing in front of me, close enough that I have to lift my chin to look up at him. I notice his eyes drop to my lips. The way he focuses on them feels intimate, even though I didn’t agree to it.
“No goodbye?” he says. “You just walk out?”
My thoughts scatter. I hate how easily he can do that.
I meet his gaze directly. “Move.”
His mouth curves into a smirk, and I know without a doubt he’s enjoying this.
For a heartbeat, I think he won’t move, that he’ll keep pushing, testing that line again.
But he steps back, giving me space to leave before I do something stupid. Before I stay... or worse, soften.
Sleep refuses to arrive. The room is dark and quiet, but my mind is anything but. Every time I close my eyes, I’m immediately back there. On his floor. In his space. Too close. Too aware.
My mind keeps replaying everything I don’t want it to.
The heat of his thigh pressed against mine, grounding in a way that felt wrong to notice.
The weight of his presence at my back, close enough that I could feel him without touching.
His fingers twisting in my hair as if they belonged there, as if my body had already agreed to something my brain was still fighting.
His breath brushing my neck, soft and infuriating, sending my pulse into chaos like it didn’t know how to behave around him.
I stare at the ceiling and swallow hard.
I hate that it stays with me. That it followed me home, crawled under my skin, and now refuses to come off. I dislike that my body remembers it so vividly, as if it’s recorded every moment and won’t let it fade.
And I hate myself the most for the thoughts I can’t turn off, for wondering what would happen if I stopped fighting them.