If you don't terrify people, what's the point.

Your back hit the couch.

Not hard.

Not rough.

Just enough that the breath left you in a startled little sound Jack felt more than heard.

He froze above you.

One hand braced beside your head, the other caught at your waist, his knee pressed into the cushion between your legs. Your notes were scattered somewhere beneath his arm. A flashcard clung stubbornly to the edge of the coffee table before sliding silently to the floor.

Neither of you looked at it.

You were looking at him.

Wide-eyed and breathless. Mouth still parted from the sound he had drawn out of you when he kissed you too deep, too long, too far past anything either of you could excuse as an accident.

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

He knew better.

He absolutely knew better.

He kissed you anyway.

Your hand slid up the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer like you had forgotten you were supposed to be careful. Like careful had ever done either of you any good.

Jack lowered himself another inch.

Your thigh shifted against his hip.

His grip tightened at your waist.

You made that sound again.

Softer this time.

Worse.

Jack’s mouth moved from yours to the corner of your jaw, and your head tipped back against the couch like your body had decided to trust him before your pride could object.

“Jack,” you breathed.

Not Abbot.

Jack.

His name sounded ruined in your mouth.

Or maybe he was.

He dragged his mouth back to yours, and you kissed him like you had been waiting, like every argument, every eye roll, every sharp little use of his last name had been leading here, to your hand at the back of his neck and your body warm beneath his and the couch creaking once under the shift of his weight.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your mouth.

Your breath caught.

His thumb moved along your side.

“Jack,” you whispered.

He was gone.

Completely.

Stupidly.

Willingly.

He kissed you harder, and you arched beneath him, drawing him down, drawing him in, drawing another low, breathless sound out of yourself that went straight through him.

Then—

Jack woke abruptly, breath caught in his throat, one hand twisted in the sheet, his body still convinced the dream had been real.

For one stupid second, he did not know where he was.

Then the room came back in pieces.

Dim morning light through the blinds. Textbook on the nightstand. Pen beside it. Laundry hamper in the corner. His bedroom. His apartment. His bed.

Alone.

Jack stared at the ceiling.

His pulse was still too fast.

His body was not confused.

That was the problem.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Jack dragged one hand over his face and stayed very still, as if any sudden movement might shake loose another detail from the dream. Unfortunately, his brain was already supplying them without permission.

Your mouth.

Your hand in his shirt.

The couch beneath you.

The way you had said his name.

Jack closed his eyes.

Terrible decision.

Immediately, there you were again.

Head tipped back. Eyes half-lidded. Looking at him like you wanted him closer and hated him for making you want it.

Jack opened his eyes.

Absolutely not.

No.

He was not doing this.

He was not lying in bed before six on a Sunday morning thinking about his roommate’s mouth, his roommate’s waist, his roommate’s legs, or the soft little sounds you had made beneath him on the couch where you had been studying pathology less than twenty-four hours ago.

His roommate.

His academic rival.

His irritating, argumentative, chronically impossible roommate who lived across the hall, who used too much hot water and called his handwriting pretentious.

Pretentiously legible, technically.

Which was worse.

Jack turned his head and looked toward the closed bedroom door.

No sound from the hallway yet.

Good.

That was good.

That meant you were still asleep.

It meant he had time to get himself under control before you walked into the kitchen, half-awake, and made eye contact as if you had not just spent the last several hours destroying his subconscious.

Not that you knew that.

Obviously.

You were innocent in this.

Unfortunately.

Jack exhaled through his nose and sat up.

Physical attraction.

That was all.

He could admit that much without being dramatic about it.

You were pretty.

Irritating, yes. Argumentative. Stubborn in a way that seemed less like a personality trait and more like a full-time occupation. But pretty.

And you lived across the hall.

You shared his bathroom. His kitchen. His coffee pot. His air.

That did things to a person.

He was a man.

He had thoughts.

Apparently, now he had dreams.

That did not make the dreams meaningful.

It made them inconvenient.

There was a difference.

Jack reached for his prosthetic and set his jaw.

He hadn’t been with anyone in a while.

That was all this was.

A dry spell. Close quarters. Too much studying. Not enough sleep.

A pretty woman on a couch.

Biology.

Unfortunate biology, but biology.

He could manage biology.

He got up, showered, and made the water colder than necessary.

Not because of the dream.

Because cold showers were efficient.

Obviously.

By six-thirty, he had made coffee.

By seven, he had retreated back to his room with a mug in one hand and a textbook in the other, because staying in the living room felt like tempting fate, and Jack was, allegedly, a man with self-control.

He had been sitting at his desk ever since.

The textbook was open.

The notes were arranged.

His pen was in his hand.

He had read the same paragraph four times and retained absolutely none of it.

The apartment was quiet.

For now.

Jack stared down at the page.

The words stared back.

Unhelpful.

Then, across the hall, your bedroom door opened.

Jack went still.

Only for a second.

Then he looked down at his textbook with unnecessary focus.

A floorboard creaked.

Then another.

You crossed the hall to the bathroom.

The bathroom door closed.

Jack stared at the same sentence until the words stopped looking like language.

Physical attraction. Close proximity. Dry spell. Dream. Manageable.

All of it was manageable.

The shower turned on.

Jack closed his eyes.

Bad idea.

Immediately, his mind produced steam, skin, your hand braced against tile, your voice from a dream that had no right sounding so clear.

His eyes opened.

He stood.

Too fast.

The chair legs scraped against the floor.

Jack froze, jaw tight.

From the bathroom, the water kept running.

Good.

No one had heard.

No one knew.

No one had any idea that Jack Abbot was standing in his bedroom before eight in the morning, losing a fight to his own imagination.

He walked to the window and lifted the edge of the blinds with two fingers.

The street below was quiet. A few parked cars. Damp pavement from rain overnight. Someone across the street walked a dog in pajama pants and a jacket.

Normal.

Sunday.

Nothing to be dramatic about.

The shower shut off.

Jack dropped the blinds.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened.

Your footsteps crossed the hall.

Your bedroom door closed.

Jack waited.

Not intentionally.

He was standing there already.

Waiting would imply expectation.

This was not expectation.

This was awareness.

There was a difference.

Maybe.

A drawer opened in your room.

Closed.

Something hit the floor softly.

You muttered something under your breath, too low for him to make out.

Jack’s mouth almost moved.

He stopped it.

No.

He was not smiling because you dropped something.

He was not picturing you scowling at the floor.

He was not standing in his room like a man with no life, tracking your entire morning by sound alone.

Except that was exactly what he was doing.

Jack turned away from the window and went back to his desk.

He sat down.

Opened the textbook wider.

Picked up his pen.

Underlined half a sentence with enough force to nearly tear the page.

Physical attraction, he reminded himself.

Nothing more.

From the kitchen, the coffee pot shifted.

Then a cabinet opened.

Mug.

Your mug, probably. The one with the chipped handle you refused to throw away because it was “still structurally sound,” which was exactly the kind of phrase you had no right making memorable.

Jack hated that he knew which mug you were using based on the softer clink it made against the counter. Hated that he knew you were pouring coffee. Hated that he could picture the exact way you leaned one hip against the counter while you took the first sip, still half-asleep, eyes narrowed like consciousness had personally offended you.

Physical attraction.

Nothing more.

Then the kitchen went quiet.

A minute later, the coffee table scraped lightly across the living room floor.

Jack’s eyes lifted.

Books hit wood.

One.

Two.

Three.

A heavier one last.

Pathology textbook.

He knew because you dropped it harder than the others every time, as if punishing it for existing.

Jack stared at his door.

You were on the couch.

Studying.

He knew that based on sound alone.

That was unacceptable.

Not the studying.

The knowing.

The fact that he could sit in his room with the door closed and build a map of you through the walls.

Bedroom to bathroom.

Bathroom to kitchen.

Kitchen to living room.

Mug on the table.

Books open.

Probably curled into the corner of the couch with one leg tucked beneath you, hair still damp or sleep-soft, wearing that old sweatshirt with the frayed cuff because it was Sunday and you had no reason to impress anyone.

No reason.

Jack looked down at his notes.

His pen hovered uselessly over the page.

This was still physical.

It had to be.

Because the alternative was worse.

The alternative was that the dream had not come from nowhere.

The alternative was that his body had simply been the last part of him to admit what the rest of him had been doing for days.

Listening. Noticing. Waiting. Wanting.

Jack’s grip tightened around the pen.

No.

Absolutely not.

He was not having a crush on his roommate.

The word itself was humiliating.

Crush.

Ridiculous.

Juvenile.

An unserious word for an unserious problem.

He was a grown man. A medical student. A former soldier. A person who had dealt with actual problems. Pain. Blood. Exhaustion. Panic. Men screaming. Professors with God complexes. The VA paperwork alone should have made him immune to lesser forms of suffering.

He was not going to be taken down by a woman on a couch with a pathology textbook.

From the living room, a page turned.

Jack’s attention shifted immediately.

He closed his eyes.

Pathetic.

He sat there very still, listening as you settled deeper into the couch. Fabric shifted. Paper moved. Your pen clicked once. Then again. Then again.

You were thinking.

You always clicked your pen when you were thinking.

Three clicks meant uncertain.

More than three meant irritated.

The pen clicked a fourth time.

Jack leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

He wanted to go out there.

Not for any meaningful reason.

Not because you needed help.

You had not asked.

You had not even sighed yet.

He wanted to go out there because you were there.

Because yesterday you had left.

Because he had spent the night dreaming about what would have happened if you had not.

Jack covered his face with one hand.

Physical attraction.

That was all.

Physical attraction could be managed.

Outwaited. Ignored. Treated like any other inconvenient symptom.

He just had to stay in his room. Get a grip. Let Sunday be quiet. Let you study. Let himself stop being an idiot.

Then he remembered the yoga mat.

His hand dragged slowly down his face.

No.

No, he was not doing that either.

The yoga mat had been retaliation.

Obviously.

You had walked into the kitchen and found him shirtless after a run. You had stared. He had caught you staring. He had made the rule because apparently he was the sort of man who coped with being wanted by drafting policy.

No staring before coffee.

Brilliant.

Very dignified.

Then you had waited until later, changed into those shorts, dragged your yoga mat into the middle of the living room, and stretched directly in his line of sight like you were conducting an experiment in cardiovascular endurance.

He had looked.

Of course he had looked.

He would have had to be dead not to look.

The length of you stretched out on the mat. The line of your legs. The slow bend of your back as you reached forward, as if you were doing something innocent. Like you were not putting yourself in the middle of his living room in shorts small enough to damage his concentration and then looking over your shoulder at him like he was the problem.

Like he was not supposed to react to that.

Like any reasonable man would have kept his eyes on renal pathology while you bent in front of him and smiled like you knew exactly what he was thinking.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

He had gotten hard at the kitchen table like a teenager.

Worse, he had done it quietly, which somehow made the whole thing more humiliating.

He had sat there with his pen in his hand, textbook open, one knee angled carefully under the table, pretending he had any interest in inflammatory mediators while his body took a firm and deeply inconvenient position on his roommate’s flexibility.

Physical attraction.

That was all.

If anything, the yoga mat proved it.

Pretty girl. Close proximity. Bare legs. Intentional provocation.

Biology.

Unfortunate biology, but biology.

It did not mean anything.

Except you had caught him.

Except you had smiled.

Except, for one terrible second, Jack had realized you liked catching him.

Worse, he had liked being caught.

That was the part he had no interest in examining before breakfast.

Jack sat forward.

He needed to study.

He needed to open his textbook, read the paragraph, take useful notes, and stop acting like a man whose entire central nervous system had been compromised by a roommate with a yoga mat.

He picked up his pen.

From the living room, you sighed.

Small. Irritated. Familiar.

Jack knew that sigh.

That was the cellular injury sigh.

You had made it three times yesterday before finally admitting you were stuck.

His fingers tightened around the pen.

He was not going out there.

He was not opening his door.

He was not asking what you were stuck on.

You could struggle with cellular injury all morning.

You were smart.

You would figure it out.

He would stay in his room.

He would stay useful to himself and no one else.

He would—

A knock came from the front door.

Three sharp taps.

A pause.

Two more.

Jack dropped his pen.

From the living room, your pen stopped clicking.

Your footsteps crossed the floor.

Jack stood before he made the decision to stand.

He opened his bedroom door just as you reached the front door.

“Well,” Robby said from the hallway, bright and amused and already a problem. “Hello.”

Jack stopped in his doorway.

For one second, he simply stared.

Michael Robinavitch stood in the hall with one hand braced high on the doorframe and a cardboard box tucked against his hip, smiling down at you like the universe had personally rewarded him for showing up before nine in the morning.

Jack closed his eyes briefly.

Because apparently his morning had not been humiliating enough.

You glanced over your shoulder.

Your mouth curved when you saw him standing there.

Not a big smile.

Not enough for Robby to notice.

Enough for Jack to feel it somewhere he did not want to name.

“Morning, Abbot,” you said.

Jack looked at you.

Then at Robby.

Then back at you.

His dream, apparently, was not done ruining him.

“Morning,” Jack said.

Robby’s eyes flicked from you to Jack and back again.

Slowly.

With interest.

Jack felt his entire morning get worse.

Robby was one of his closest friends. Unfortunately, that meant Jack knew exactly how much damage he could do with one smile, one cardboard box, and ten unsupervised minutes.

Robby shifted the box against his hip and looked back at you. “Well. This explains a lot.”

Jack stepped farther into the living room. “It explains nothing.”

Robby’s grin widened, but he did not argue.

That was worse.

Robby looked back at you, his expression bright with manufactured sympathy. “Is he always this welcoming?”

You glanced at Jack, then back at Robby, mouth curving. “Actually, this is pretty warm for him.”

Robby’s grin turned delighted.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

Great.

Excellent.

Now you were collaborating.

Robby adjusted the cardboard box under one arm and held out his free hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”

You took his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Robby held your hand for exactly one polite second before letting go. “Robby. Only my mother and billing departments call me Michael.”

Your mouth curved. “Robby, then.”

Jack looked at your hand.

Then at Robby.

Then at you, because you were still smiling.

Jack’s voice came out flat. “Why are you here?”

Robby looked down at the box like he had just remembered it existed. “Study materials. Second-year survival kit. Old outlines, professor notes, a few practice exams.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the box. “On a Sunday.”

Robby stepped inside with the ease of someone who had been to Jack’s apartment before and had ignored Jack’s tone every time. “Friendship doesn’t rest.”

Jack closed the door behind him. “Yours should.”

Robby looked back at you, one brow lifting. “See what I put up with?”

You leaned lightly against the arm of the couch. “Heroic.”

Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “Thank you.”

Jack looked between the two of you and immediately regretted opening his bedroom door.

Robby crossed into the living room and set the box on the floor beside the coffee table, careful to avoid your notes. He glanced down at the mess of pages, then at your open textbook.

“You’re already studying,” Robby said.

You looked down like you had forgotten the evidence was everywhere. “Trying.”

Robby smiled. “That bad?”

You folded your arms loosely over your chest. “Pathology is a hostile discipline.”

Robby’s smile warmed. “Correct.”

Jack’s eyes moved to him. “Don’t encourage her.”

Robby crouched beside the box and looked up at you instead. “I’m encouraging accuracy.”

Your mouth twitched.

Jack saw it.

Robby saw Jack see it.

Robby reached into the box and pulled out a thick folder. “Singh.”

Your attention dropped to it immediately.

Jack saw that too.

The folder was plain manila, stuffed too full, with Singh written across the tab in Robby’s messy handwriting.

Robby held it toward you. “This one is the difference between surviving second year and being found weeping quietly in a stairwell.”

You looked at the folder like it might contain scripture. “That good?”

Robby’s grin softened. “Better.”

Jack moved before he meant to. “I can take that.”

Robby paused with the folder still extended toward you.

Then his eyes flicked to Jack.

Not obvious.

Not smug yet.

Just interested.

“You can,” Robby said.

Then he gave it to you anyway.

Jack stared at him.

You accepted the folder carefully, like you were not sure whether you were being handed a gift or evidence. “Thank you.”

Robby’s smile turned easy. “You’re welcome.”

Jack looked away.

That was worse somehow.

Not the flirting.

Not exactly.

The ease of it.

The way Robby could walk into a room and make himself warm. Open. Harmless. The kind of man people liked quickly because he gave them no reason not to.

Jack knew that about him.

He usually liked that about him.

At the moment, he wanted him out of the apartment.

You opened the folder and scanned the first page.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly.

“These are organized,” you said.

Robby leaned one forearm against his knee, looking pleased. “Beautifully.”

Jack looked at the folder over your shoulder from where he stood. “Adequately.”

Robby glanced up at him. “He means beautifully. He gets shy.”

You looked over the top of the folder, mouth curving. “Does he?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “Terribly.”

Jack stepped closer to the box. “What else?”

Robby’s smile lingered for half a second before he looked back down. “Pathology packet.”

You made a face before you could stop yourself.

Robby noticed and lifted the packet with a sympathetic tilt of his head. “Bad?”

You lowered the Singh folder slightly. “Deeply hostile.”

“Then you’ll want this,” Robby said, holding the packet toward you. “It got me through Singh’s exam.”

Jack reached for it first. “I’ll sort through them.”

Robby let him take it.

This time, he did not argue.

That was how Jack knew he had noticed.

Robby’s gaze stayed on Jack’s hand around the packet for one beat too long, then lifted to his face.

Jack kept his expression flat.

Robby’s mouth barely curved.

There it was.

Recognition.

Not accusation.

Not yet.

Just Robby realizing there was something here worth watching.

Jack turned the packet over in his hands. “Anything else?”

Robby stood slowly, the box now half-empty at his feet. “I might have a few more packets at my place.”

Your attention lifted from the folder. “More pathology?”

“Unfortunately,” Robby said, his smile tilting with sympathy. “But useful pathology.”

You glanced down at the packet in Jack’s hand like it had personally wronged you. “That sounds like an oxymoron.”

Robby’s expression warmed. “It does. But Singh likes patterns. Once you see how she builds questions, it gets easier.”

Jack’s hand tightened around the folder he was holding.

He knew what Robby was doing.

Not at first, maybe.

At first, Robby had just been Robby. Friendly. Easy. A little too charming because he did not know how to turn it off.

But now he knew exactly what he was doing.

Robby looked at you, not Jack. “If you want, you could come by sometime and I’ll walk you through them.”

The apartment went very still.

You blinked once.

Jack moved before he decided to.

One step.

Not enough to block anything.

Enough.

“Don’t flirt with my roommate, Robby,” Jack said flatly.

Silence.

Immediate.

Terrible.

Robby’s brows lifted.

Your eyes flicked to Jack.

Jack kept his face flat through force of will alone.

Robby looked delighted in the quietest possible way.

Not triumphant loudly.

Not grinning like an idiot.

Worse.

Like he had just found the exact place to press and was very proud of himself for being right.

After a second, Robby looked back at you. “For the record, that was a genuine academic offer.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “Robby.”

Robby held up one hand, eyes still bright. “Mostly.”

Your mouth curved before you could hide it.

Jack saw it.

Robby saw Jack see it.

Of course he did.

Robby crouched again and pulled two books from the bottom of the box, setting them on the coffee table with a dull thud. “These are less urgent, but useful. Keep them around.”

Jack stepped closer to the box. “Anything else?”

Robby looked up at him. “You in a hurry?”

Jack held the pathology packet against his side. “Yes.”

You glanced at Jack. “Were you studying?”

Jack looked at you.

You looked back.

His textbook was in his room.

Closed.

Useless.

He had been awake for hours and had learned absolutely nothing except the precise sound of your morning routine through a wall.

“Yes,” Jack said.

Your expression shifted as if you did not believe him, but you were polite enough not to say it.

That was new.

The polite part.

Robby, unfortunately, had no such restraint.

He stood and brushed one hand over his pants. “Studying, right.”

Jack looked at him. “You can leave now.”

Robby’s mouth curved. “I just got here.”

“You dropped off the materials,” Jack replied.

Robby grinned. “I’m still explaining them.”

Jack lifted the packet. “I can read.”

Robby looked at you. “He can, actually. One of his better qualities.”

You lowered your eyes to the Singh folder, but your smile was still there. “Good to know.”

Jack exhaled through his nose.

Robby smiled like the sound had nourished him.

That was the problem with having friends.

They knew the worst parts of you and still felt entitled to enter your apartment on a Sunday morning with a box of notes and a death wish.

Robby tapped the edge of the box with his shoe. “I’ll leave the rest here. Some of it’s junk. Some of it saves lives. You two can decide which is which.”

You glanced at the box. “Thank you. Really.”

The sincerity in your voice changed the room by half a degree.

Jack looked at you before he could stop himself.

You were still holding the Singh folder. Your hair was loose from whatever you had done after your shower, soft around your face. Your sweatshirt sleeve had slipped over one hand. You looked tired and grateful and very much like someone who belonged in his living room on a Sunday morning.

Jack looked away.

Robby did not.

Robby’s expression softened for one brief, unforgivable second.

Then it sharpened again.

“Anytime,” Robby said.

Jack’s eyes cut to him.

Robby looked innocent.

Poorly.

Jack stepped toward the door. “Robby.”

Robby lifted both hands. “Fine. Going.”

You shifted the folder against your chest and stepped back from the coffee table. “It was nice meeting you.”

Robby paused near the doorway and looked back at you. “Nice meeting you too.”

Jack opened the door.

Robby looked at Jack, then at you, then back at Jack.

That pause was deliberate.

Jack knew it was deliberate because Robby was still alive only because Jack allowed it.

Robby’s mouth curved. “If Abbot gets boring, he has my number.”

You smiled. “Does he get boring?”

Robby looked at Jack. “Constantly.”

Jack’s voice went flat. “Out.”

Robby looked back at you. “Call me. We’ll find something fun to do.”

Jack’s hand tightened on the edge of the door. “Leave.”

Robby’s smile softened just enough to remind Jack they were, unfortunately, friends. “Be nice, Abbot.”

Jack’s expression did not move.

Robby’s eyes flicked to you once more, bright with victory. “Very nice.”

Jack shut the door in his face.

The latch clicked.

Jack kept his hand on the knob for one second longer than necessary.

Robby’s laugh carried faintly down the hall.

Jack exhaled through his nose.

He liked Robby.

Unfortunately.

In theory.

At the moment, he was reconsidering.

Behind him, you were quiet.

That was worse.

Jack turned away from the door.

You were still standing near the coffee table, the Singh folder tucked against your chest, your mouth softer now than it had been when Robby was there.

You glanced toward the door. “He’s fun.”

Jack’s jaw tightened.

Fun.

Of course Robby was fun.

Robby was designed to be fun at inconvenient times.

Jack stepped away from the door. “He’s a menace.”

Your mouth curved faintly. “A helpful menace.”

Jack looked toward the box Robby had left on the floor. “That’s still a menace.”

You followed his gaze.

The box sat beside the coffee table, half-empty, full of folders and loose packets and two heavy books still wedged at the bottom. Robby had left it slightly crooked, because of course he had.

Jack moved toward it. “I’ll put these away.”

You stepped forward at the same time. “I can help.”

Both of you reached for the box.

Your fingers brushed his against the cardboard edge.

Barely.

Nothing.

The kind of contact he should not have noticed.

The kind of contact that should not have been able to stop both of you cold.

But it did.

Your hand froze beside his.

Jack’s stayed where it was.

For one second, neither of you moved.

The apartment went quiet around you.

No Robby in the doorway.

No bright smile.

No easy joke to fill the room.

Just your fingers touching his over a box of old notes, close enough that Jack could see the tiny shift in your breathing.

Your eyes lifted to his.

Jack forgot, briefly, how to do anything useful.

Then you pulled your hand back.

Quickly.

Carefully.

Your fingers curled against your palm. “Sorry. It’s not mine.”

Jack answered too fast. “It’s okay.”

Your eyes flicked back to his.

He heard how quickly he had said it.

So did you.

Jack adjusted his grip on the box, giving himself something to do. “You can go through it.”

Your expression shifted. “Are you sure?”

Jack glanced down at the folders inside. “Yeah.”

You watched him carefully. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” Jack said, lifting the box against his hip. “I get first dibs.”

Your mouth curved, and the tension loosened by a fraction. “Of course you do.”

Jack held onto the familiar irritation like a rope. “He’s my friend.”

The words came out sharper than he meant them to.

Not angry.

Just too fast.

Too defensive.

Your smile faded slightly.

Jack heard it then.

What he had made obvious.

What he had tried to make about the box.

The materials.

The notes.

Robby.

His friend.

You shifted the Singh folder against your chest. “Well, he flirted with me.”

Jack went quiet.

Because he had.

Because you had noticed.

Because Jack had noticed.

Because the only thing worse than Robby flirting with you was Jack reacting to it like he had any right to.

His grip tightened against the cardboard edge.

Then he looked down at the box. “I’m going to study.”

Your brows drew together just a little. “Okay.”

Jack shifted the box higher against his hip. “We can share them.”

Your expression softened. “Okay.”

Jack looked toward the hallway. “Swap back and forth.”

You nodded once. “That works.”

Jack shifted the box higher against his hip. “I’ll bring them out later.”

You held the Singh folder a little lower against your chest. “Okay.”

Jack turned before the room could get any smaller.

He made it past the couch.

Past the coffee table.

Almost to his bedroom door.

Almost.

Then your voice caught him.

“Abbot,” you said.

Jack stopped.

He did not turn around right away.

For one second, he stood there with Robby’s box in his hands and his bedroom door a few feet away, close enough to escape into, close enough to shut between himself and everything this morning had dragged into the open.

Then he turned.

Jack kept his voice low. “Yeah?”

You were still near the coffee table.

The Singh folder was held loosely against your chest now.

Not like armor.

Not exactly.

Your eyes met his.

You looked like maybe you had not meant to say anything.

Like maybe you had almost let him go.

Then your fingers tightened once around the folder.

“I’m not going to call Robby,” you said.

Jack went still.

For one stupid second, he had no idea what to do with that.

He should have said he did not care.

He should have said you could study with whoever you wanted.

He should have said Robby was harmless, because he was.

Mostly.

Instead, Jack stood there with Robby’s box in his hands and felt relief hit him so fast it was embarrassing.

Jack’s voice came out quieter than he meant it to. “No?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Jack’s grip tightened on the cardboard.

Your mouth curved faintly, as if you had heard something in his voice he had not meant to give you.

Then your eyes dropped to the folder in your hands.

“He’s not my type,” you said.

Jack went still.

Robby was charming. Easy. Funny. Warm in a way people liked immediately. The kind of man who walked into a room and made it less tense by force of personality alone.

Not your type.

Jack should not have cared.

He cared so much it nearly took the air out of his lungs.

“Good,” he said.

The word was out before he could stop it.

Your eyes lifted back to his.

Jack heard it then.

How it sounded.

How much he had given away with one syllable.

Your mouth parted slightly, like you had been about to say something and thought better of it.

Jack turned before you could.

Before you could ask.

Before he could answer.

He opened his bedroom door with one hand, the box still tucked against his side. Then he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

Not hard.

Not loud.

Just closed.

Jack stood on the other side of it with Robby’s old notes in his hands, staring at nothing.

Good.

Brilliant.

Very controlled.

Very normal.

Physical attraction did not care whether Robby was your type.

Physical attraction did not feel relief.

Physical attraction did not say good before it had permission.

Jack closed his eyes.

“Fuck.”

Then he set the box on his desk harder than necessary.

A few folders slid sideways.

He stared at them.

Then he stared at the door.

Not your type.

Good.

Jack dragged one hand over his face.

“Idiot,” he muttered.

He sat down at his desk, pulled the first folder from the top, and opened it with the focus of a man who had survived worse than one conversation in his living room.

Singh.

Pathology.

Practice questions.

Typed notes.

Robby’s handwriting in the margins, increasingly illegible as the semester went on.

Useful.

This was useful.

Jack could do useful.

Useful had structure.

Useful had purpose.

Useful did not stand in the middle of an apartment and say good like a man with absolutely no control over his own mouth.

He picked up his pen.

Read the first page.

Read it again.

Retained none of it.

Not your type.

Jack leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.

Robby was not your type.

Apparently.

Which meant nothing.

It meant exactly what you had said. You were not going to call Robby. You were not interested in Robby. It did not mean you were interested in Jack.

It did not mean anything about Jack at all.

Except he had said good.

Out loud.

To your face.

Then shut himself in his bedroom like a coward with a cardboard box.

Excellent work.

Very impressive.

Future physician.

Jack exhaled through his nose and sat forward again.

He sorted the folders instead.

Sorting was safer.

Singh went in one pile. Pharmacology went in another. Renal, cardio, immunology, old exams. Two textbooks at the bottom, both battered, one with Robby’s name written inside the cover and a coffee stain on chapter four.

By the time Jack finished, almost an hour had passed.

He had accomplished something.

That helped.

Not enough.

But some.

From the living room, a page turned.

Jack went still.

Not a textbook page.

Too light.

Too soft.

He looked at the bedroom door.

Another page turned.

Slow.

Unhurried.

Not studying.

Jack sat back.

That should not have interested him.

It did.

Of course it did.

He stayed in his room for another ten minutes on principle.

Then he picked up the Singh folder and opened his door.

The living room was quieter than it had been that morning.

Softer.

The gray Sunday light had shifted across the floorboards, and the coffee table had been cleared of most of your notes. Your pathology textbook sat closed near the edge, one pencil tucked inside it like a surrender flag.

You were on the couch.

Not studying.

That stopped him more effectively than it should have.

You had one foot tucked beneath you, the other hidden under the edge of a blanket. Your coffee mug sat near your knee on the coffee table. Your hair had dried softer around your face, and your sweatshirt sleeve was pulled halfway over one hand.

In your hands was a paperback.

Not a textbook.

Not an outline.

Not anything with a professor’s name on the spine.

Jack looked at it.

Then at you.

Without looking up, you shifted your thumb against the page. “Don’t.”

Jack paused near the coffee table. “I didn’t say anything.”

Your eyes stayed on the book. “You were considering it.”

Jack looked at the cover.

A woman in a dark green gown had one hand braced dramatically against a stone wall while a man in shirtsleeves leaned far too close to her throat. The title curled across the top in gold lettering.

A Lady’s Undoing.

Jack’s mouth almost moved.

He stopped it.

Barely.

You shifted the book lower.

Too late.

He had already seen it.

Jack set the Singh folder on the coffee table. “Interesting.”

Your eyes lifted over the top of the paperback. “It’s Sunday.”

Jack straightened. “I’m aware.”

You held the book slightly closer to your chest. “I’m allowed to read something that won’t be on an exam.”

Jack slid one hand into his pocket. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

Your eyes narrowed over the book. “You were judging me with your face.”

Jack glanced at the cover again, because apparently he had no instinct for self-preservation.

A Lady’s Undoing.

Of course.

Jack looked back at you. “Looks educational.”

Your fingers tightened around the paperback. “Abbot.”

He lifted his brows. “What?”

You tilted the book away from him. “Don’t ask.”

Jack glanced once at the title. “I wasn’t.”

You gave him a flat look. “You were.”

Jack looked at the book, then back at you. “Undoing what?”

Your face changed instantly.

Jack’s mouth curved.

There.

That was better.

Familiar ground.

You snapped the book halfway closed. “Goodbye.”

Jack nodded toward the hallway. “I live here.”

You tucked one finger between the pages to hold your place. “Go live somewhere else.”

Jack nodded toward the coffee table. “I brought Singh.”

Your gaze flicked to the folder despite yourself.

He noticed.

You lowered the paperback a fraction. “Thank you.”

Jack nodded once. “You’re welcome.”

He should have gone back to his room.

He looked at the book again.

You hugged it closer to your chest. “Do not.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t know Sunday had assigned reading.”

You sat up a little straighter. “It’s not assigned.”

Jack looked at the book once more. “Recreational undoing, then.”

You grabbed a pen from beside your mug and threw it at him.

Jack caught it against his chest without thinking.

For one second, the room went quiet.

Your mouth parted slightly.

His fingers closed around the pen.

He looked at you.

You looked back.

The paperback sat pressed against your chest, one finger still tucked between the pages to hold your place.

Jack’s eyes dropped to it.

Yours followed.

Then you pulled the book tighter against you.

You lifted your chin. “Goodbye, Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly.

He held up the pen. “Keeping this.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You are not.”

Jack closed his fingers around it. “Collateral.”

You shifted on the couch. “For what?”

Jack glanced once at the book.

Your face warmed.

He turned toward the hall before he could smile.

A quiet laugh slipped out of him anyway.

“See you later,” Jack said.

Then he went back to his room with your pen still in his hand and the title A Lady’s Undoing stuck somewhere in his head, where it had absolutely no business being.