Lately, I’ve caught myself looking forward to his comments in class, waiting to see which direction he’ll take a discussion. Sometimes when he talks, I notice how animated his hands become when he’s excited about a text, how his voice takes on that confident tone I didn’t know he had. It’s refreshing. Maybe even inspiring, though I’d never admit that out loud.
It’s just past five o’clock in the evening, so I shut my laptop and place it in my bag to finish grading papers at home. I rarely stay late. That first day of the semester, I was only here to discover Jackson in my classroom after hours because I was getting my office in order after being away for the summer. If he’s made a habit of it, I wouldn’t know.
I probably should’ve reported him for trespassing, but I decided to save myself the trouble that might’ve brought me.
Besides, he looked lost that night. Like someone who needed a place to be more than he needed to break a rule.
The halls of Old Main are quieter than usual. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, slanting across the wooden floors and painting long shadows that stretch past my feet. The faint scent of dust and old paper lingers in the air. My eyes land on the corkboard outside my office as I step out—flyers for poetry readings and campus events curling at the edges—and for the briefest moment, I feel that same strange pull I felt the night I found Jackson. That quiet intuition that the past and present were meeting in the same room.
Shaking it off, I lock my office door behind me and head for the exit.
Before leaving for the day, I decide to stop by the small cafe on campus to grab some coffee. I usually just make it at home, but on days when I have too much work to do, it’s nice to be able to pick some up before leaving work.
The moment I step inside and the scent of coffee beans hits me, I spot Jackson sitting at a corner table by himself. His shoulders are slightly hunched over a notebook, pen moving quickly across the page, his hair falling forward like a curtain of ink. He doesn’t look up from whatever he’s working on, so I head straight for the register. After waiting in line, I order an espresso macchiato.
While I’m waiting for my drink, I walk over to Jackson’s table. I probably shouldn’t, but my feet apparently have a mind of their own.
Or maybe it’s simply him that somehow draws me in that direction.
He’s so absorbed by whatever it is he’s writing that he doesn’t notice me as I approach. In this age of technology, I have to admit I always appreciate the sight of a person using pen and paper.
“Waiting around to sneak into Old Main tonight?” I ask as I stop on the other side of his table.
His head snaps up, and the faintest hint of pink creeps into his cheeks as he laughs under his breath. “No. It was a one time thing.”
“Glad to hear it.” I point at the chair in front of me. “Mind if I wait here for my drink?”
He sets down his pen and shakes his head.
As I take a seat, I notice the book on the table beside the notebook he was writing in. “What class are you reading Murakami for?”
Jackson glances down at the copy ofAfter Darkby Haruki Murakami, and that blush in his cheeks deepens. “That’s actually just for me.”
I arch a brow. “A Murakami fan?”
“Kind of?” He shrugs. “I like his short stories the most, but I’m actually enjoying this one. Even though I have no idea what the hell is going on.”
“That’s kind of the point ofAfter Dark,” I say with a smirk as I lean back in the chair. I don’t tell him it’s actually my favorite work by Murakami. “Why haven’t you enjoyed any of his longer novels?” I ask, secretly hoping his answer is the same one I’d give.
“I mean, I try to be as objective as possible. To be fair, I really love his writing style and the magical realism in some of his books, but…well, the way some authors write women is very ‘she breasted boobily to the stairs.’”
I quickly raise a hand to my mouth to cover a snort at him quoting a meme. It’s a good thing I don’t have my drink yet, otherwise some of it may have sprayed out all over the table.
It’s not theexactanswer I would’ve given, but the sentiment is the same.
It’s not often I’m caught off guard.
Judging by the cute, lopsided grin on Jackson’s face, he’s rather proud of himself.
Cute.
Fuck, that’s dangerous.
But I can’t fucking help it when he’s looking at me like that with a goddamn dimple in his left cheek while we discuss Murakami. His emerald green eyes shine with amusement beneath the dim lights of the cafe, and the air between us seems to shift. Dense. Humming. Like static before a storm.
I glance down at his notebook. “What were you writing before I interrupted?”
His fingers twitch near the pen, as if debating whether to hide the page. “Just notes,” he says after a beat too long. “Ideas. I write a bit.”
