Chapter 13 Eli
THIRTEEN
ELI
The dorm halls are dark, the only light coming from the dim glow of emergency exit signs and the light shining in from the doors and windows at the ends of the halls. I trail after Max, close enough that my shoulder keeps brushing his arm.
“Creepy,” I whisper, because the silence is too tempting to break.
“Creepy?” His voice is dry. “It’s just a power outage.”
“Mm, sure,” I murmur, leaning closer like I’m sharing a secret. “That’s exactly what people in horror movies say before something jumps out and eats them.”
I catch the faint curve of his mouth in the half-light, and my chest warms.
“I’ll protect you, Princess,” he says, voice low enough to make my skin prickle.
I bump him with my hip. Princess, I love it. It makes me feel warm inside. “Bold words from the guy who let me walk downwind in the snow last night.”
“Strategic,” he shoots back instantly. “Less snow in my face.”
“Uh-huh.” I grin, ignoring how my stomach does this stupid swoop just hearing him tease me. “Chivalry is dead.”
We’re still tossing quiet jabs when he stops at his door, keys scraping against the lock. The moment it swings open, I’m halfway through a joke—something about him secretly hoarding protein shakes—when the words stall in my throat.
The room is…empty. Not literally—bed, desk, dresser, all the basics are there. But it’s sterile, stripped of anything personal. No photos. No books. No clutter. Just gray sheets, a bare desk, and a closet door half-open on a row of plain hoodies.
It hits me like a sucker punch. After the riot of Christmas that is my dorm room, this place feels—cold. Lonely.
My footsteps falter. I swallow hard, my earlier grin slipping without permission. “Oh.”
Max glances at me, something tight flickering across his face before he looks away, reaching for a hoodie. “What?” His tone is defensive. “Not festive enough for you?”
I shake my head quickly, heat crawling up my neck. “No, I just—” I force a laugh, too loud in the silence. “Guess I was expecting…I don’t know. A poster. A plant. Something alive.”
He freezes for a beat, then shrugs as if it’s nothing. “Never saw the point.”
I want to push. I want to ask why this room feels more like a prison cell than a home. But the way his shoulders are set, rigid and uncomfortable, keeps me quiet. I plaster on a smile instead, pretending my chest isn’t still tight.
“Well, at least it makes finding your stuff easy,” I joke, nodding at the single stack of folded laundry on his dresser. “Minimalist chic. Very high fashion.” Or serial killer chic.
Max huffs a quiet laugh, but I catch the edge in his eyes. I pretend I don’t.
Because if I let myself really think about how empty this room is, how empty it feels, I might start asking questions he doesn’t want to answer.
And for this morning, I just want to hold onto the warmth he gives me instead of the cold he lives in.
I drag my eyes away from the stark room as Max pulls on a fresh hoodie and jacket. He moves with that same clipped efficiency he always has, as if every second is accounted for, like nothing in his world is ever messy.
“So,” I say lightly, rocking back on my heels, “should I be worried?”
He pauses, glances at me. “About what?”
I wave a hand toward the bare walls. “The whole…serial killer chic aesthetic. Zero personal belongings, bed perfectly made, closet organized by shades of gray. It’s very Netflix documentary of you.”
He snorts, tugging his hood up. “I don’t kill people, Eli.”
“Mm-hm,” I murmur, following him toward the door. “That’s exactly what a killer would say.”
He huffs a laugh despite himself, and I grin, filing that sound away. When he brushes past me in the hall, I nudge his shoulder.
“Seriously, though. If I ever go missing, your room’s the first place they’re checking.”
“Good,” he deadpans. “Yours looks like a craft store exploded. No way anyone could dust for fingerprints in there.”
By the time we shove out the dorm doors, the snow’s already halfway up my calves. I let out a low whistle, trudging after him. “Yeah, pretty sure my flight’s toast today, too. Guess I’m stuck here.”
I make it sound casual, as if it’s just another holiday inconvenience. But the truth is, it doesn’t sting the way it did yesterday. Not when Max is beside me, crunching through the snow like he owns the storm.
He glances back, arching a brow. “You complaining?”
I smirk, puffing a cloud of white into the air. “Depends. Are you volunteering to keep me entertained, Calder?”
“What do you call this?”
I scoff. “A sugar run obviously.”
He smirks at my answer, shaking his head like I’m impossible. Snowflakes cling to his dark hair, catching in the lashes around those brilliant green eyes, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets before I do something foolhardy, like stop dead in the snow to stare at him before demanding he kiss me again. “You know,” I say, drawing it out, “for a guy who agreed to body-heat conservation movie night, you don’t exactly scream festive.”
His glance cuts my way, dry. “I’m festive enough.”
“Oh yeah? Where’s your holiday spirit? Where’s your ugly sweater, your candy cane socks?” I grin, leaning into it. “Wait—don’t tell me. Secretly, you own a reindeer onesie and just haven’t worked up the courage to wear it in public.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up, quick as lightning, gone just as fast. “If I did, you’d be the last one I’d tell.”
“Because you’d be too embarrassed, or because you know I’d make you wear it on campus?”
“Both.”
I bump my shoulder against his, letting the silence stretch for a beat before grinning wider. “See? You are imagining it.”
“Christ,” he mutters, but his ears are pink.
That small victory warms me more than my jacket does. I’m still smirking when the golden glow of the coffee shop finally cuts through the curtain of snow ahead. The scent of roasted beans drifts even from here, cozy and perfect.
“Race you,” I say, and bolt forward before he has the chance to argue.
The cold air tears at my lungs as I sprint, boots crunching and sliding over the snow, but the sound of Max’s heavier footsteps pounding right behind me makes it worth it.
He catches up in three strides, and I yelp when his hand closes briefly around the back of my jacket, tugging as if he might pull me down.
“Cheater!” I gasp, laughing so hard I nearly trip.
“You started it,” he fires back, breath clouding white in the air.
We skid up to the coffee shop door, both of us panting, cheeks raw from the wind. I fumble the handle open, and a blast of warmth engulfs us, rich with the scent of espresso and peppermint. It’s like heaven.
“Holy—” I tug my beanie off and sigh, feeling my bones melt as the heat sinks in. “This is heaven. Actual heaven.”
Max mutters something that might be agreement as he stomps snow from his boots, already tugging his gloves off. His cheeks are pink, hair dusted with flakes, and I hate how unfairly good he looks like that.
We peel off layers the same way we would shed armor—me shrugging out of my scarf and tugging at my jacket, him shrugging off his coat and dragging his hoodie up over his head, mussing up his wet hair. He shakes it out, and my fingers itch stupidly to smooth it down for him.
I grab a small table near the window, my legs still buzzing from the run, and drop into the chair with a sigh of pure contentment. “Best. Idea. Ever.”
Max snorts, tossing his gloves onto the tabletop before sinking into the seat across from me. He stretches his legs out, long enough to brush mine under the table, and doesn’t bother moving them.
“So…I’m buying the first round, and I’m thinking peppermint mocha. With extra whipped cream, obviously. How about you?”
Max leans back in his chair as if he’s already made up his mind. “I’m paying.”
I sit up straighter, scandalized. “Excuse me? Absolutely not. You already paid last night.”
“Exactly.” His mouth curves, smug. “Which means I’m on a streak.”
“That’s not a streak, Calder, that’s robbery. I am perfectly capable of buying my own peppermint mocha, thank you very much.”
He arches a brow, unconcerned. “You can buy your next Hobby Lobby haul. I’ve got this.”
I narrow my eyes at him, folding my arms across my chest as though that’ll make me look tough. “You realize if you keep this up, people are going to start getting ideas.”
He doesn’t even blink. “What kind of ideas?”
Heat prickles up my neck. He knows exactly what kind of ideas. I wave a hand, grasping for my dignity. “The kind where you look like some chivalrous sugar daddy, and I’m not sure I can live with that rumor following me into the winter semester.”
Max smirks, leaning forward just enough that his voice dips low, conspiratorial. “Pretty sure it’s too late for that rumor. But I’m sure you can keep it under wraps, no one will know unless you tell them. Right?”
My mouth opens. Closes. I sputter, half-flustered, half-delighted. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re not getting your wallet out,” he says, already standing and snagging his own from his back pocket.
I groan dramatically, dropping my head into my hands as he strides toward the counter as if he didn’t just casually destroy me with one smirk and a couple of words.
Max comes back balancing two steaming cups and a paper bag, setting them down like some kind of smug barista. “They had fresh pastries. Figured you’d want one.”
My brows shoot up. “Figured, huh? Calder, this is dangerously close to thoughtful.”
He just shrugs, sliding the bag toward me like it’s no big deal. But it is a big deal.
“I’m thoughtful.”
I tear into the bag, pulling out a croissant dusted with sugar and a drizzle of chocolate, and glance at him over the rim of my cup. “So tell me…” I lean back, all fake casual. “Is this because I let you fuck me last night?”
His eyes snap to mine, sharp as a blade, and his glower could melt the snow right off the sidewalks. I love his grumpiness. Strange thing to realize, but pressing his buttons and seeing that glare on his face does things to my stomach, turning it into an acrobat.
I bite into the pastry, grin widening around a mouthful of buttery, chocolatey flakes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
He mutters something under his breath, low and dangerous, but the pink dusting his ears totally betrays him.
I swallow my bite, licking sugar from my thumb as I lean across the table. “Careful, Calder. Keep this up, and people are gonna think you’re boyfriend sweet. And by people, I mean me.”
His jaw flexes, and for a second—just a second—I swear his eyes soften. But then the shutters slam down, that glower sharpening into something meant to cut.
“We’re not that,” he says flatly. “Don’t start thinking we are. It’s not more than what it is.”
The words hit hard, knocking some of the sparkle out of the air. I force a smile anyway, bright and careless, because I refuse to let him see it sting. “Relax, Grinch. I was joking. I know it was just fucking. I’ve had fuck buddies before.”
I sip my mocha to cover the twist in my chest, the sweetness grounding me. Fine. He doesn’t want labels. Doesn’t want more. I can live with that.
For now.
Because here’s the thing—I’ve wanted Max Calder for months.
And now that I’ve had him, now that I know what his mouth tastes like when he’s smiling into a kiss, what sound he makes when I touch him just right, or the moan that leaves his lips when he comes—I’m not going to waste what time I do get drowning in what-ifs.
He says it’s temporary? Then I’ll make temporary unforgettable.
I lean back in my chair, a smirk curling my lips as I break off another piece of pastry and flick a crumb at him. “And you’re right. We’re not more than that. You’re way too grumpy to be anyone’s boyfriend anyway.”
He snorts, shaking his head, and just like that, the heaviness eases. Because if he wants to pretend this is only passing time, fine. I’ll be the one who makes every second of it count.