Not that I care.
I’m not jealous of a fucking fictional character.
That would be insane.
Yes. Completely insane to feel in competition with some airbrushed model on a book cover.
I’m not thinking about it.
Not at all.
Not about how she sometimes gets a little smile when she reads those pages.
Not wondering what the hell those fictional bastards do that’s so much better than what I can do.
Christ, I need to get a grip.
I take the wingback chair on the opposite side. Maximum distance while still benefiting from the fire’s heat.
The silence stretches between us. It’s not comfortable, at least not for me. But it’s not quite hostile, either. It’s something in between that I don’t really have a name for.
Outside, the blizzard continues its relentless assault. The wind howls against the windows, and the snow piles higher. We’re getting buried deeper with each passing hour, and part of me wonders if we’ll ever dig our way out.
Or if I even want to.
That last thought pisses me off.
I grab a book at random from the stack beside my chair. Don’t even look at the title. Just need something to focus on that isn’t her.
It doesn’t work.
Because she starts humming.
Soft at first. Barely audible over the fire’s crackle. Just this unconscious melody that flows out of her like breathing. She’s completely unaware she’s doing it, her eyes tracking across the pages of her book while her voice creates this gentle backdrop.
It’s the kind of sound that makes you think of summer.
Of sunshine and lazy afternoons and things that don’t exist in my world.
I watch her over the edge of my unread book. Painted by the firelight, andstillwearing my Columbia hoodie. Her own clothes must be dry by now, and yet here she is... seeing her in my clothes like that does things to me that are completely inappropriate given the circumstances.
Given everything.
Her lips move slightly as she hums. I keep noticing her bottom lip. The one she chews when she’s thinking.
She looks up suddenly. Catches me staring.
Her humming stops mid-note.
“Sorry.” Her cheeks flush. “I... didn’t realize... it’s a bad habit. I do it when I’m reading. Or working. Or basically any time I’mconcentrating on something. My roommates complain about it constantly.”
I should look away. Should go back to pretending to read.
Instead, I hear myself say, “I didn’t tell you to stop.”
Her eyes widen slightly. Those brown eyes with the gold flecks. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, then closes it again.
The words just hang there between us.
