Chapter 3 #3
The first thing I noticed was the couch.
Not a rough one like the ones downstairs, but a nice leather couch with a knit blanket draped over the arm.
A low coffee table sat in front of it, cluttered with mail, a half-empty mug, and what looked suspiciously like a math textbook.
The walls were lined with framed photos and further in was a kitchen with a sink full of dishes.
I blinked. Maybe this was some kind of staff lounge?
I took a cautious step forward, my shoes sinking into a rug that was definitely not commercial-grade. The air smelled faintly like laundry detergent and coffee grounds, not cleaning spray.
Okay. So. Not a bathroom.
The first door I passed was locked. The second was a closet. The third—at the end of the hall—was cracked open just enough for light to spill out. I pushed it open slightly, then stopped when I realized it was a bedroom. My eyes caught on the Northern High shirt tossed haphazardly across the bed.
The same shirt that Hot Barista was wearing this morning.
My mind started running. My pulse picked up. And my mind was made up before I could talk myself out of it. I told myself I was only going to peek. Just a glance. Just enough to confirm whether this was even his room. I nudged the door open with my fingertips.
I should go back down.
That was the sensible thing. The rule-following thing.
The thing I would absolutely tell anyone else to do.
I shifted my weight, already turning toward the stairs.
This was not who I was. I didn’t snoop. I didn’t sneak into strangers’ apartments because of half-baked curiosity and a barista with a bad attitude.
I liked control. I liked knowing what I was doing and why I was doing it.
But then I thought of those dark eyes staring into mine downstairs, of the way he could pull me in with just a couple words. What if all the rumours were right? What if he actually was dangerous? Wasn’t that something I should know for sure?
I moved down the hallway before I could talk myself out of it.
The room was small, the space mostly overtaken by a bed with a dark comforter and a desk opposite it.
A laptop was sitting half-open on the bed, along with a school folder with a faded logo on it that I didn’t recognize.
I was ready to end my mission and turn away, until I saw the school letterhead along the front—Northern High School.
I froze.
Okay. Now we were officially past curiosity and deep into bad decision territory.
I shouldn’t touch it. I shouldn’t even be looking at it.
Right now was the perfect time to turn around and forget that I’d been up here at all.
I still had plausible deniability. I was looking for the bathroom and got turned around.
But what if that file held all the answers?
I bit my lip and glanced out the door again, as if checking that I somehow hadn’t missed someone sitting in the living room as I’d walked by. The flat—because it was undeniably that, not a staff lounge—was still just as empty.
I took a step into the room. Then another one. And then I flicked the file open with the edge of my finger.
Transfer Student Approval.
The words jumped out at me. My eyes skimmed the rest—dates, signatures, a block of text about enrollment requirements. It didn’t say why. It didn’t explain anything.
I refolded the paper quickly, sliding it back exactly where it had been, suddenly very aware of how far I’d gone. This wasn’t proof of anything. It wasn’t evidence of a fight or juvie or whatever story had been circulating. It was just confirmation that he existed, which we all knew anyway.
I exhaled, rubbing my temples. What was I even hoping to find? A police report taped to the wall? A secret journal confessing all his crimes? Get it together, Imogen.
I turned to leave, but froze as I heard the footsteps. They were undeniably coming up the stairs and almost definitely heading for this flat, which meant I had nowhere to hide.
I backed up a step instinctively, my heel catching on the edge of the rug. I tumbled over, landing hard on my butt just as the door creaked open. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperately wishing I’d gone back downstairs when I had the chance.
“Imogen,” the voice drawled. I forced myself to peek one eye open. He stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, his expression unreadable in the low light. Not angry. Worse. Calm. “Care to explain what you’re doing in my apartment?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the kind of girl to break into somebody’s flat.
Until a couple of months ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever even told a lie.
I had no experience with how to talk myself out of trouble, and there was no amount of charm or confidence or outgoing personality that could explain how I’d escalated from spilling coffee to trespassing in less than a day.
My mind raced, searching for any justification, anything I could say that wouldn’t make me sound like a total idiot. But all I could think was: I am so, so dead.