I opened the fridge, needing something cold to distract me. Nothing worth grabbing, so I just shut it again, a little too hard.
He was still watching me. Waiting. Like always.
“You’re annoying.” I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re hot when you’re mean.”
I shot him a glare, but he just grinned wider.
Then, casually — too casually — he said, “Oh, I declared my major today.”
I blinked. “You already have a major?”
He leaned back like he was waiting for applause. “Mechanical engineering.”
“Seriously? I didn’t declare until I was well into my sophomore year.”
“What can I say? Ain’t ever been a late bloomer.” He shrugged, cocking his head as he returned my gaze. “Thought I was just here for the vibes?”
“Honestly?” I crossed my arms. “Yeah, kind of. I’m twenty-three, and I barely know what I’m doing.” How the fuck could he be sosureabout … well,everything? That couldn’t be normal.
He didn’t miss a beat, that smug grin sliding back onto his face. “Age is just a number, Darlin’. But yeah, I get that a lot.”
I scoffed, eyeing him up — the way his sleeves strained over those flexing underarms, the powerful tree-trunk thighs that probably came from lifting way more than textbooks. “You don’t exactly scream ’academic.’”
“That’s the point,” he said, almost too easily. “People underestimate me. It’s useful.”
The way he said it made my skin itch. Like it wasn’t just about classes. Like he always had a plan B.
A blueprint for everything.
“You’re a freshman,” I reminded him. “Most guys your age don’t even have a plan for what they’re eating next.”
“I’ve always had a plan B,” he said in a low voice, his eyes turning dark as he held my gaze. “And a plan C. Doesn’t mean I want to use them. But I like knowing they’re there.”
He sounded less like a student and more like someone expecting the world to fall apart at any second. Which… didn’t exactly screamcasual little brother of my roommate.
Still, I forced a smirk. “Well, congrats. I hope your plan includes fixing my car next time it breaks down.”
“Sure,” he drawled, smirking right back. “But it’ll cost you.”
“Pass.” I scoffed.
Ella emerged from her room with damp hair, her bare feet padding across the floor. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and leaned against the counter.
I lit one of our scented candles — lavender and fresh linen — hoping to mask the faint scent of our sweat-soaked gear, which unfortunately, we had to store inside the apartment.
“You looked wrecked after practice today,” she said, nodding at me. “Y’all running suicides or something?”
I peeled the wrapper off a protein bar I grabbed out of the pantry, my muscles still sore from yesterday’s conditioning.
I shook out my hand, flexing my fingers slightly. “More like Coach’s weekly attempt to murder us.”
“She does know you’re not training for the Hunger Games, right?”
I smirked. “You say that now. Wait till she makes us run stairs in weighted vests again.”
Ella groaned. “Hard pass. I’ll stick to the tennis courts.” She gave me a sidelong look, like she was trying to guess what I wasn’t saying.
