I write: 'All of it.'
Asher's expression softens slightly. He writes: 'That's a longer conversation than we can have on paper.'
Me: 'Then let's go somewhere else.'
Asher: 'Now?'
Me: 'Yes, now!'
Asher: 'I have a paper due tomorrow.'
Me: 'So do I.'
Asher seems to consider this, tapping his pen against the paper. Finally, he writes: 'Fine. Where?'
I look around the library. The study rooms are all occupied, visible through their glass doors. The café on the first floor will be too crowded. Then I remember the rarely-usedstacks on the fifth floor—ancient literature that no one ever checks out.
I write: 'Fifth floor. Ancient Literature section. Five minutes.'
Asher reads the note, then looks up at me with an unreadable expression. After what feels like an eternity, he nods once and writes: 'See you there.'
He closes his laptop, packs it away, and leaves without another word, taking the note with him.
I watch him go, heart hammering in my chest. What the hell am I doing? What am I going to say when we're alone?
I give Asher a head start, then pack up my own things with shaking hands. As I walk to the elevator, I try to organize my thoughts, to prepare what I want to say. But my mind is a jumble of confusion and desire and fear.
The elevator ride to the fifth floor feels like the longest thirty seconds of my life.
Chapter 7
THE FIFTH FLOOR is eerily quiet. Unlike the bustling lower floors with their study areas and computer stations, this level is dedicated almost entirely to storage—rows upon rows of dusty shelves holding books that haven't been touched in decades.
The lights flicker overhead, casting strange shadows between the tall shelves. I walk past sections labeled "Medieval Literature" and "Ancient Greek Translations," looking for any sign of Asher.
My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a question:What am I doing? Why did I ask him to come up here? What am I going to say?
Part of me hopes Asher won't show—that he'll have changed his mind, gone back to his paper, left me alone with my confusion. It would be easier that way. I could chalk last night up to a weird anomaly and move on with my life.
But another part of me, a part I'm trying desperately to ignore, hopes Asher is waiting for me.
I find him in a secluded corner, leaning against a shelf of leather-bound books with titles in languages I don't recognize. He looks up as I approach, his expression guarded but expectant. The sight of him—casual in his henley and jeans,yet somehow magnetic—sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach.
"So," Asher says, his voice low in the quiet space. "You wanted to talk."
Now that we're here, I find all my carefully planned words evaporating. I stare at him, at the way the harsh light catches in his dark hair, at the slight stubble along his jaw. My mind helpfully supplies the memory of how that stubble felt against my neck, and I shove the thought away violently.
"Last night," I finally manage, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. "What was that?"
Asher raises an eyebrow. "I think it was pretty clear what it was."
"To you, maybe." My hands clench at my sides. Why is he being so nonchalant about this? Doesn't he understand how earth-shattering this is?
"What part needs clarifying?" Asher asks, crossing his arms. The movement makes his biceps flex under the thin fabric of his shirt, and I find my eyes drawn to them before I force my gaze back to his face. "We were attracted to each other. We acted on it. Simple."
"Simple?" I almost laugh, the sound edged with hysteria. "There's nothing simple about it. I'm not—" I stop, the word 'gay' sticking in my throat like a physical obstruction.
‘But are you sure about that?’ a traitorous voice in my head whispers.Because straight guys don't typically get hard thinking about other men.
