I step into his room and halt suddenly.
It’s clean.
Not just shoved-under-the-bed clean.Actually clean.The bed is made, sheets pulled tight.The floor is clear.No trail of discarded clothes, crumpled papers, or empty bottles.No evidence of the chaos I fully expected to find.
Instead, there’s a bag in the corner with football gear spilling out, cleats peeking through the half-open zipper.His books are already open on the bed, pages marked and bent, pens scattered as if he actually plans to use them.One notebook sits open, a page filled with notes in messy but purposeful handwriting.
I stare a second too long.
He sees me noticing.
“Shocking, I know,” he says.“I can be house-trained.Who would’ve thought?”
I move further into the room, relaxing slightly.Some of the tension leaves my shoulders.I set my bag on the bed and reach for the open notebook, curiosity overriding caution.
He’s actually been working on it.There are references, notes in the margins, thoughts that connect instead of drift.He’s annoyingly smart—the kind of smart he keeps quiet because it doesn’t fit the version of him everyone expects.
“That’s a bit of research I did,” he says, casually, as if it doesn’t matter.
It does.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, still reading, still processing.“Who are you?”I ask, laughing now, “and what have you done with that annoying asshole Reece Wilson?”
I glance up.
And there it is.
The smile spreading across his face, dimples locked in—the kind girls whisper about.Paired with that infuriating smirk that says he knows exactly what effect he has and couldn’t care less.
My stomach flips.I quickly glance back down at the notebook before he can see it, because if I stare too long, I might forget why I came here in the first place.
He sits beside me, close enough that the mattress dips and heat seeps through the gap between us.It shouldn’t matter.But it does.My body reacts to him instantly, nerves flaring up in a way I hate.In a way that feels disloyal to every plan I’ve ever made for myself.
I hand him the notebook and turn slightly, digging through my backpack for my laptop—anything to keep my hands busy and my mind focused.
“So,” I say, mostly to fill the silence before it swallows me whole, “you’re back on the football team.”
“Yeah.”He nods.
“Why now?”
His jaw tightens for half a second.It’s subtle, almost nothing.Next, he shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter.“Seemed right.”
That answer is vague enough to be a wall.I clock it.File it away.
I open my laptop and spread everything out on the bed.Papers.Notes.His notebook.I slip into familiar focus, outlining points, assigning sections, mapping arguments.It feels good.Normal.This is the version of me who knows what she’s doing.
Apart from one thing.
Every time I shift, his eyes follow.They slowly roam over my skin.When I speak, his attention locks on my mouth, lingering a moment too long before I see his jaw tighten.As I reach for my pen, his gaze drops to my fingers, tracking the movement.When I frown at a sentence that won’t cooperate, he doesn’t look away.Instead, he watches me think.
I pause mid-note and turn my head.
His eyes stay fixed on me, dark and focused.
Heat rises up my neck.My heart stutters, and speeds up, rapid and deceitful.I shift again, pretending I need a better angle on the page, and his knee follows mine without touching.
He’s not hiding it.He wants me to know he’s watching.
