Chapter 7
Chapter seven
I'd scrubbed my face with snow until my skin burned. The evidence of crying was mostly gone, replaced by the raw pink of cold exposure. A reasonable explanation if anyone asked.
No one was going to ask.
The hum flared before I heard his footsteps.
I closed my eyes. Counted to three. Opened them.
James rounded the corner of the shed, hands in his jacket pockets, breath fogging in the cold air. He stopped when he saw me, something flickering across his face—relief, maybe. Or worry. Hard to tell with him.
"Hey," he said.
"How did you find me?"
He shrugged, a little sheepish. "Tried a few places. Library." He paused. "You weren't there, so I just... kept looking."
"You shouldn't have."
"Probably not." He didn't move closer. Just stood there at the edge of the evergreens, giving me space I hadn't asked for but desperately needed. "You okay?"
The question was so simple. So genuine. It cracked something in my chest that I'd been holding together with willpower and spite.
"I'm fine."
"Lumi."
"I said I'm—"
My voice broke.
I turned away fast, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Not crying. I wasn't going to cry again.
I'd already cried today and that was enough, that was more than enough, I didn't get to fall apart twice in one afternoon just because some administrative asshole had decided to make me a target—
James sat down beside me.
Close. So close I could feel the warmth of him bleeding through the cold air, cutting through the numbness that had settled into my bones. The hum roared to life, and I was so tired. So hollowed out. I didn't have anything left to fight with.
I crumpled.
It wasn't a decision. My body just... gave. I leaned into him, my shoulder pressing against his chest, my forehead dropping to find the curve of his neck. He went still for half a heartbeat—surprised, maybe—and then his arms came around me.
Warm. So warm. He wrapped me up like it was the most natural thing in the world, one hand settling on my back, the other cradling my head, and I let him. I let myself be held.
His scent hit me—pine and hay and something underneath that was just him, warm and alive and impossibly safe.
The hum wasn't screaming anymore. It was singing.
Every nerve ending in my body sparked to life, heat flooding through me despite the cold, and I felt something loosen in my chest. Something that had been clenched tight for so long I'd forgotten it was there.
This was right. This was where I was supposed to be.
His thumb traced a slow circle against my shoulder blade, and I shuddered. Not from cold. From want. From the overwhelming rightness of being pressed against him, surrounded by him, held by someone whose body seemed to know mine.
"It's okay," he murmured against my hair. "I've got you."
Three words. That was all it took.
Reality crashed back in.
I sat up fast, shoving out of his arms, and the loss of contact hit me like a physical blow. The cold rushed in, brutal and immediate. The hum keened in protest.
"Don't." My voice came out hard. Angry. I scrambled backward on the step, putting distance between us. "Don't do that."
James's arms hung empty in the air for a moment before he lowered them. His expression was careful now, cautious. "Lumi—"
"I didn't ask you to hold me."
"You leaned into me."
"That was—" I shook my head, furious. At him. At myself. At the stupid, traitorous bond that made my body crave him like oxygen. "That was a mistake."
He didn't flinch. Didn't get defensive. Just watched me with those steady brown eyes, waiting.
"What Twilson did back there was wrong," he said finally. His voice was calm, careful. "He had no right to call you out like that. In front of everyone. That was—" He shook his head. "That was cruel."
"It was strategic."
"Same thing, sometimes."
I stared at the trees, trying to get my breathing under control. My skin was still tingling where he'd touched me. I could still feel the ghost of his arms around my shoulders, the warmth of his chest against my cheek.
I wanted it back. That was the terrifying part. I wanted to crawl back into his arms and stay there until everything else faded away.
Which was exactly why I couldn't.
"You requested the schedule changes," I said. "Didn't you."
James went still.
"Twilson mentioned it. Someone asking about rearranging my classes." I turned to look at him. "That was you."
He didn't deny it. Didn't try to explain it away. Just met my eyes with that steady, stubborn gaze.
"Yeah," he said. "That was me."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to see you more." Simple. Direct. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I asked if there was flexibility in my schedule. They said yes. So I adjusted."
"You didn't think to ask me first?"
"Would you have said yes?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
"That's what I thought." He wasn't smug about it.
If anything, he looked a little sad. "I know you're trying to keep distance.
I'm not stupid, Lumi. I can feel you pulling away every time I get close.
But I can also feel—" He stopped, frustrated.
"I don't know how to explain it. There's something here.
Between us. And I'm not going to pretend there isn't just because it's inconvenient. "
The hum was a roar now, drowning out everything else. My body remembered his arms, his warmth, his scent. My body wanted more.
"You don't understand," I said.
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't."
"Can't or won't?"
"Does it matter?"
He shifted toward me, and I flinched back before I could stop myself. If he touched me again—if he pulled me close again—I didn't trust myself not to fall. Not to give in completely to whatever this thing was between us.
He noticed. Of course he noticed. He stilled, keeping his hands carefully at his sides.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "It matters. Because 'can't' means there's something stopping you, and maybe I can help. 'Won't' means you've already decided, and I'm just..." He trailed off. "I don't know. Wasting my time."
"Maybe you are."
The words came out harder than I meant them to. I saw them land—watched the flinch he tried to hide, the way his jaw tightened.
Good. This was good. Push him away. Make him leave. Stop this before it becomes something you can't control.
But my chest hurt. And my eyes were burning again. And the hum was screaming at me, furious and desperate, like I was cutting off a limb.
"Twilson is watching me," I said. The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
"He made that clear today. Every move I make, every connection I have—he's going to use it.
Weaponize it. You saw what he did with Rae, with Vince.
He took things that were mine and turned them into evidence of.
.. I don't know. Corruption. Favoritism.
Something that makes me look like a problem. "
James was listening. Really listening, the way he always did—like my words were worth something, like I was worth something.
"If he sees us together," I continued, "if people start talking about the new girl and the cowboy who rearranged his whole schedule to follow her around—that's ammunition. That's another thing he can twist. Another weakness he can exploit."
"So you're pushing me away to protect yourself."
"I'm pushing you away to protect both of us."
"I don't need protection."
"Everyone needs protection. You just don't know it yet."
He was quiet for a long moment. The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything we weren't saying. I could hear my own heartbeat, too fast, too loud. Could still feel the phantom warmth of his arms.
"I don't care what Twilson thinks," James said finally. "I don't care what anyone thinks. If being around you makes me a target, then fine. I'll be a target. That's my choice to make, not yours."
"You don't know what you're choosing."
"Then tell me."
I shook my head. Felt the burn behind my eyes intensify, the pressure building in my throat. "I can't."
"Lumi—"
"You don't get to follow me every time something breaks." The words came out sharp, edged with panic. "You don't get to show up and hold me and make me feel—" I stopped, choking on the words. Safe. Right. Home. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want it."
Lie. Such a lie. My whole body was a lie right now, tense and aching and reaching for him even as I pushed him away. I could still smell him on my clothes, could still feel the imprint of his hands.
James didn't flinch this time. He just watched me, calm and steady, like he could see through every wall I was trying to build.
"You're scared," he said.
"I'm not—"
"You are. And that's okay. I'm scared too."
That stopped me. "Of what?"
"Of how much I want to be here." He smiled, but it was small, almost rueful.
"I've known you for a week. And I can't stop thinking about you.
Can't stop looking for you in every room I walk into.
Can't stop wondering what you're doing, if you're okay, if you're eating enough, if you're sleeping.
" He shook his head. "That's not normal.
I know it's not normal. But I don't know how to make it stop, and I'm not sure I want to. "
The hum gentled. Softened. Became something almost tender, curling around my ribs like it belonged there.
"James." My voice cracked. "Please don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make this harder than it already is."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded slowly and stood up.
I felt the loss immediately—the cold rushing in where his warmth had been, the hum keening at the sudden distance. My hands twitched toward him before I caught myself. My body remembered being held, and it wanted that back. It wanted him back.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll go."
He wasn't angry. That was the worst part. He wasn't hurt or resentful or any of the things that would've made this easier. He was just... accepting. Honoring what I'd asked for, even though we both knew it wasn't what I wanted.
"James—"
"You know where to find me." He took a step back. Then another. "When you're ready. If you're ever ready. I'll be there."
He turned and walked away.
I watched him go. Watched him disappear around the corner of the shed, footsteps crunching on frozen grass until the sound faded into silence.
He didn't look back. Didn't chase. Didn't push.
He trusted me.
I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold in the warmth he'd left behind. It was already fading. Soon I'd be cold again. Soon I'd be alone with the silence and the fear and the weight of everything I was carrying.
But for a few minutes, I hadn't been.
For a few minutes, I'd been safe.
That was what broke me.
I sat on the bench as the last of the light bled out of the sky, and I cried. Not the angry tears from before—these were quieter. Deeper. The kind that came from losing something you'd barely let yourself have.
He'd left because I asked him to. Not because he wanted to. Not because he'd given up. Because I'd drawn a line, and he'd respected it.
That kind of trust was rare. That kind of patience was dangerous.
Because it meant he wasn't going anywhere. He'd be there tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that—not pushing, not demanding, just present. Waiting for me to be ready. Giving me space to figure out what I wanted without making me feel guilty for needing it.
How do you walk away from someone who refuses to make you the villain?
How do you forget the way it felt to be held?
I stayed on the steps until my fingers went numb.
The cold was useful. It sharpened things—cut through the fog of emotion and exhaustion and left only the clean edge of survival instinct. Cold could kill you if you let it. That meant you couldn't afford to be soft. Couldn't afford to sit still and feel things.
Eventually, I stood.
My legs protested. Everything protested. But I made it back to the dorm without running into anyone, slipped through the front door as another student was leaving, and climbed the stairs to my room.
Ivy was gone. A note on my pillow: Dinner with floor mates. Text if you need me.
I didn't text.
Instead, I stripped off my jacket—and stopped.
It smelled like him. Pine and hay and warmth.
I pressed the fabric to my face before I could stop myself, breathing deep, and the hum purred like a satisfied cat. For one long moment, I let myself have it. Let myself remember what it felt like to be wrapped in his arms, solid and safe and real.
Then I threw the jacket in the corner and crawled into bed.
The universe was piling weight on my shoulders, and I didn't know how much more I could carry before something gave.
I closed my eyes.
When you're ready, he'd said. If you're ever ready.
I didn't know if I'd ever be ready. But for the first time, the thought of finding out didn't feel like surrender.
It felt like possibility.
And that scared me most of all.