“What’s the actual probability you fail now?”he asked, his voice vibrating slightly against my back.The heat of his breath on my bare skin made me shudder.
I ran the numbers out loud—quiz weight, assignments, projection of midterm scoring distribution.Came up with a range.Low, but not zero.
“So, not catastrophic,” he said, pressing harder on a trigger point.“Noisy.”
“Noise can still ruin the play.”
“True.”
He shifted his weight.His knee bumped against my lower back.He didn’t pull away.He stayed there, a solid anchor while his hand moved from my shoulder to the tense cord of my neck.
“Is the amplitude lower?”he asked.“The noise?”
“Lower,” I whispered.Truth.Every exhale from him felt like closing a gate against the crowd.
“Good.”
He didn’t stop.The cream was absorbed, but his hand lingered, thumb resting against the vertebrae of my neck.
I should move.I should say thanks for the help, pull my shirt back on, and go to sleep.That was the safe play.
Instead, I turned my head.
He was right there.
I hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten to get better leverage.His face was inches from mine.He wasn’t looking at my shoulder anymore; he was looking at me.His pupils were blown wide behind his glasses.
My heart hammered—hard enough to hurt.
“Luke,” he said.
We were close.Closer than during tutoring, closer than the stands.
It was hard to misread the data.
“You good with this?”I asked, voice low.
“Yes.”No hesitation, fact.
I shifted, turning my body until I was facing him fully, knees tangled between us.I froze.
The alarm bells in my head were screaming.Bad idea.Don’t do it.Don’t complicate the season.Don’t be the distraction.
I looked at his mouth.Then his eyes.He wasn’t pushing.He was waiting.
If I crossed this line, I couldn’t uncross it.I couldn’t go back to being the roommate who borrowed his highlighters.
I waited, giving him space to retreat if the variables changed.Givingmyselfspace to retreat.
He didn’t retreat.
Fingers brushed my wrist, tentative, feather-light.I twitched, my instinct to pull away fighting the magnetic pull to lean in.
He paused.When I didn’t pull back, his touch grew firmer.His thumb traced one slow line over my pulse.
It was racing.If he’d rattled off my BPM, I’d have believed him.
The radiator clicked off, abrupt quiet.
