I want to turn around, walk right back out. But that would mean he wins, wouldn't it? That he's successfully driven me out of a shared space. Instead, I move to the far corner desk and pull out my laptop, determined to ignore him as thoroughly as he's ignoring me.
For several minutes, the only sounds are the clicking of our keyboards. Trying to focus on my design project, I'm acutely aware of his presence; the rhythm of his typing, the occasional frustrated sigh, and the way he mutters under his breath when something doesn't work as expected.
The typing stops.
Silence first, then an awareness of being watched. The sensation prickles across my skin before I look up. James is staring, his expression unreadable, but I think something else is underneath. Something that makes the room feel warmer than it should.
Our eyes meet, and for a suspended moment, no one looks away. There's a strange charge in the air, like static electricity before a storm. Then his gaze drops to my laptop screen, breaking the connection.
"New haircut," he says, his tone carefully neutral.
"Obviously," I say, immediately defensive.
He nods once, then turns back to his screen without another word. But I catch him glancing at me again moments later, his expression thoughtful.
The scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. I'm accustomed to being scrutinized; growing up in the public eye ensures that, but this is different. More personal somehow. I've spent years perfecting the art of being unseen despite being visible, and James's attention cuts through those defences with disturbing ease.
Straightening my posture, I deliberately turn my back, creating a physical barrier between us. The message is clear: observation is not welcome. I hear him snort softly, whether in amusement or derision, I can't tell, but the weight of his gaze lifts.
We work in tense silence for another half hour before he leaves, muttering something about dinner. Once he’s gone, I can finally relax.
Later that night,after successfully avoiding the communal dinner by claiming an assignment deadline, I creep downstairs for a late-night snack. The house is quiet; most of the brothers are either out or in their rooms. The kitchen is dark and peaceful as I rummage through the refrigerator, settling on leftover pizza.
As I wait for the microwave, my thoughts drift back to James and that strange moment in the computer room. Why did his attention bother me so much? It's not like I care what he thinks.
Except maybe I do, just a little. He's undeniably smart, maybe even brilliant, and his approval seems harder to win than anyone else's.Not that I want his approval, of course.I hate being judged and found wanting by someone who doesn't even know me.
The microwave dings, snapping me out of my head. I grab my pizza and freeze when I hear someone coming. My whole body stiffens right away, bracing for small talk I don't want to deal with.
When James appears in the doorway, his hair slightly mussed and eyes tired behind his glasses, I get this weird feeling like I knew this would happen. Of course, it would be him. The universe seems determined to push us together despite our mutual desire to be left alone.
He stops when he sees me, surprise briefly crossing his face before his expression returns to its usual impassivity. "Caleb," he acknowledges with a slight nod.
"James," my reply is equally curt.
For a moment, we stand there, two guys who bumped into each other while looking for food late at night. Then he walks all the way into the kitchen, and I brace myself for whatever harsh look or brush-off he's about to give me.
Chapter 5
How Not to Give Your Computer an STI
JAMES
The kitchen goes quiet and awkward as we look at each other. Caleb stands by the microwave with his plate of reheated pizza, while I hang back in the doorway like I don't belong in my own house.
The new haircut makes him look different, sharper, somehow, his features no longer hidden behind that curtain of dark hair. His eyes stand out more now, big and full of feeling, even though he's trying to keep a blank face.
The silence needs breaking. "Late night?" My feet move forward, into the kitchen proper instead of lurking in doorways.
"Design project," he says curtly. "Due tomorrow."
"At three in the morning?"
He shrugs, taking a bite of pizza. "Best time to work. House is quiet."
That I understand, the precious hours between midnight and dawn are when I get most of my coding done, free from the constant interruptions of the loud guys that live in the frat house.
Walking to the refrigerator, I'm acutely aware of Caleb watching me as I grab a Red Bull. When I turn back, he quickly looks away, as if caught doing something he shouldn't.
