I’m falling for him. Not past tense. Not childhood nostalgia dressed up in adult clothing. Present tense, active verb, no safety net.
I am falling for Ryan Abrams, and the ground is nowhere in sight.
The archives open up into rows of metal shelving that stretch into the dim recesses of the basement, stacked with banker’s boxes, manila folders, and the accumulated detritus of a century-old university. The air is thick with dust motes that swirl in the shafts of light from the narrow windows near the ceiling. A long table sits in the center of the space, already set up with sorting supplies—labels, markers, archival gloves, and a laptop that predates the internet.
“Wow,” Ryan breathes, and I can hear the genuine wonder in his voice. He steps forward, his fingers trailing along the edge of the nearest shelf. “These boxes go back decades. Maybe further.” He pulls one out slightly and reads the label. “Faculty Records, 1947-1952. Oliver, do you realize what’s down here?”
“Dust and spiders?”
“History.” He says it the way other people say “treasure” or “gold,” with barely contained excitement. “This is incredible. Ifthese records haven’t been properly archived, there could be primary source documents down here that nobody’s looked at in half a century.”
“You’re getting turned on by old boxes, aren’t you?”
“I’m getting stimulated by the potential of discovery.” He catches himself, and the flush returns with such ferocity that I’m genuinely concerned about his blood pressure. “Intellectually. I meantintellectuallystimulated.”
“Sure you did.”
“Oliver.”
“Hey, I’m not judging. Everyone’s got their thing. Mine’s hockey”—and you without glasses—“Yours is dusty paperwork.”
He opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. The almost-smile makes another appearance, lingering a beat longer this time. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you keep talking to me.”
Footsteps echo from the stairwell above us, and the rest of the group begins to filter in. Drew and Jackson appear first, Drew’s sharp eyes already scanning the space with the tactical assessment of someone planning an escape route. Jackson ducks under a low-hanging pipe and whistles. Gerard and Nathan bring up the rear, Gerard’s head swiveling in every direction as he takes in his new home.
And then, out of nowhere, Elliot emerges from the darkness, and we all scream bloody murder.
14
RYAN
“Each pair will be assigned a section,” says Elliot, once we’ve all screamed ourselves hoarse. “You’ll sort documents by date, category, and relevance. Anything of historical significance gets flagged for the university archivist. Everything else gets cataloged and filed according to the system outlined in these binders.” He produces eight identical three-ring binders from seemingly nowhere and distributes them.
I accept mine with trembling fingers. The binder is thick, suggesting someone with too much time and not enough joy created an elaborate system that will haunt my dreams.
“Jacoby, Abrams—you’re in Section G.” Elliot points toward a particularly dim corner of the basement. “Larney, Monroe—Section A. Gunnarson, Paisley—Section E.” He checks something off on his clipboard. “I’ll be upstairs if you have any questions. Though I encourage you to consult your binders first. They’re quite comprehensive.”
“Comprehensive,” Drew mutters humorlessly. “Wonderful.”
Elliot’s gaze lingers on Gerard for a moment—something softer flickering beneath the professional mask—before he turns and ascends the stairs. The basement door closes behind him with a definitive thud. For a moment, none of usmoves. Then Gerard breaks the silence by launching into the opening notes of “Don’t You Forget About Me” at full volume as Nathan steers him to their assigned area. Drew and Jackson share an amused look before making their way deeper into the basement. Which leaves me standing alone with Oliver Jacoby.
“So,” Oliver says with an easy smile playing at his lips. “Ready to sort through the ghosts of BSU past?”
“I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life,” I quip.
He lets out this warm, genuine laugh that does absolutely nothing to calm the butterflies staging a coup in my stomach and leads the way toward our designated corner.
Section G is, if possible, even dustier than the rest of the basement. The shelving units here are older, the metal spotted with rust, and the boxes look as though they haven’t been touched since the seventies. A single worktable has been set up between the rows, equipped with a lamp that casts a pool of yellow light across the oppressive dimness.
Oliver sets his binder on the table and surveys our domain. “Could be worse.”
“How?”
“Could be on fire.” He grabs the nearest box and hauls it onto the table. A cloud of dust erupts, making us both cough. “Let’s see what treasures await.”
The box contains faculty meeting minutes from 1987. I pull up a metal folding chair and start sorting through the yellowed pages while Oliver tackles a second box that appears to hold student organization records.
