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

Your pen was still on Jack’s side of the coffee table two days later.

Not that you had been looking for it. Obviously.

You had noticed it by accident. Several times.

Monday morning, it had been tucked into the front pocket of his bag when he set it on the kitchen chair before leaving for class. Monday afternoon, it had been clipped to the edge of his notebook during Singh’s lecture, which you had only noticed because Singh had been drawing a deeply offensive diagram of cellular injury and your eyes had needed a break.

Monday night, it had sat beside his coffee mug on the kitchen table while the two of you pretended to study in silence.

Now it was Tuesday evening, and the pen was still there. On his side. Beside his notebook. Near his hand. Like it belonged to him.

It did not.

It was your pen. Black ink. Fine point. Chewed cap.

Not special. Not sentimental. Not worth noticing.

And yet, you had noticed every single time.

Jack sat on the opposite end of the couch with one ankle crossed over the other, Robby’s old pharmacology notes open on his knee. His prosthetic foot rested near the edge of the coffee table, still and familiar now in the quiet way so many things about the apartment had become familiar.

Too familiar, maybe.

The lamp beside the couch cast warm light over his profile, catching on the line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the reddish-brown curls that had started to fall across his forehead because he kept dragging a hand through them.

You were not looking at him.

You were looking at the Singh folder in your lap. Technically.

The folder was open to a practice question about necrosis, which felt rude, because you had personally been suffering for at least forty minutes and did not appreciate pathology making it about cells.

Jack turned a page. The pen rolled half an inch toward his notebook.

Your eyes dropped to it.

Jack did not look up. “You’re staring.”

You looked back at the folder. “I’m reading.”

Jack kept his voice dry. “Aggressively?”

You tightened your grip on the folder. “Pathology requires aggression.”

Jack’s mouth almost moved. “That’s partially true.”

You looked over at him. “It is completely true.”

He made a small sound. Not quite a laugh.

Worse.

You looked up before you could stop yourself.

Jack was still looking at his notes, but the corner of his mouth had shifted in that barely-there way that always made irritation feel inconveniently close to satisfaction.

You hated that mouth.

You hated noticing it more.

Your gaze dropped back to the coffee table. The pen was still there. Your pen. On his side.

You reached for it before you could talk yourself out of it.

Your fingers closed around the barrel beside his notebook. “That’s mine.”

Jack did not look up from his notes. “Is it?”

You held it up between two fingers. “It has teeth marks.”

Jack turned another page. “That doesn’t narrow it down.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Abbot.”

His gaze flicked to the pen, then to your face. “You threw it at me.”

You lowered the pen slightly. “You stole it.”

Jack’s attention dropped back to his notes. “Collateral.”

You tucked the pen beside your folder. “For what?”

His eyes flicked once to the stack of notes beside you. “Still deciding.”

Your stomach did something deeply unnecessary. You looked away first.

You muttered, “Thief.”

Jack turned a page. “Assailant.”

You looked back at him. “You provoked me.”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “You read recreational undoing in a shared living space.”

Your grip tightened on the folder. “Do not call it that.”

Jack finally looked up. “That’s what it was.”

You pulled the Singh folder higher in your lap. “It was a book.”

Jack leaned back against the couch. “It had a title.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “It still has a title. One you are done mentioning.”

Jack held your gaze for one second. Then two. His expression stayed infuriatingly calm.

Jack said, “I didn’t mention it.”

You lifted your brows. “You were thinking it.”

His brows rose slightly. “Now you’re diagnosing thoughts?”

You looked back down at the Singh folder. “With you, it’s not hard.”

Jack’s voice dropped half a degree. “Careful.”

The word landed low. Not threatening. Not even serious.

Still, something about it moved under your skin.

You focused on the Singh folder because that was safer.

Worse, but safer.

The apartment settled around you. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. A car passed outside, tires hissing over pavement still damp from earlier rain. Somewhere upstairs, a pipe knocked once and went quiet again.

Jack went back to reading.

You tried to do the same.

For almost six minutes, neither of you spoke. You made it through one practice question, missed it, checked the answer, and hated Singh personally. Then you made it through half of the explanation before the words started to blur.

Your eyes drifted to the coffee table. Your mug. Jack’s mug. Two folders. One stack of old notes. Your reclaimed pen.

And, half-hidden beneath Robby’s pathology packet, the corner of a paperback cover.

Dark green. Gold lettering.

Your body went very still.

No.

Absolutely not.

You had forgotten you left it there.

You had set it there before dinner because you were going to read one chapter as a reward for surviving cellular injury, and then Jack had come into the living room with coffee, and you had panicked, slid a packet over it, and decided that counted as hiding it.

It did not count as hiding it. It counted as creating evidence.

Worse, it was evidence with context.

Because Jack was not entirely wrong.

The book did help you unwind. That was the point. Some people took baths. Some people went for walks. Some people drank tea and pretended their nervous systems were functional.

You read about fictional women being kissed senseless by fictional men with fictional self-control problems, and then you slept better afterward.

Healthy. Efficient.

None of Jack Abbot’s business.

Unfortunately, the book was currently sitting in the middle of your shared living room beneath a packet on coagulative necrosis, which made it, at best, poorly concealed and, at worst, discoverable.

Jack shifted beside you.

Your eyes snapped back to the folder.

Too late.

Jack noticed.

His gaze moved from your face to the coffee table.

You reached for the pathology packet. Jack reached at the same time. His hand landed on top of the packet before yours could.

You froze.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

You said, “Don’t.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I didn’t do anything.”

You kept your eyes on his hand. “You were about to.”

Jack glanced down at his hand on the packet. “I was moving notes.”

You shook your head once. “No, you weren’t.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “It’s a note.”

You gave him a flat look. “It is a packet.”

Jack looked at the packet beneath his hand. “Notes come in packets.”

You said, “Abbot.”

Then he slid the pathology packet aside.

The paperback appeared beneath it like it had been waiting to ruin your life.

Dark green gown. Stone wall. Man in shirtsleeves leaning far too close. Gold lettering.

A Lady’s Undoing.

Jack looked at the cover. Then at you.

Your fingers tightened around the Singh folder. “Do not.”

Jack picked up the book.

Your hand shot out. “Jack.”

He paused.

Not because you had reached for it. Because you had said his first name.

The room shifted.

You heard it too.

The small, stupid intimacy of it.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. For one second, neither of you moved. Then his fingers closed around the paperback, and his expression settled back into something dry enough to make you want to smother him with the Singh folder.

Jack said, “Interesting.”

You held out your hand. “Give it back.”

He turned the book slightly, reading the cover like he had not already memorized it Sunday. “Still undoing?”

You kept your hand out. “You are deeply unfunny.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Am I?”

You reached for the book again. “Painfully.”

He lifted it out of reach. Not far. Just enough.

You stared at him. “Are you twelve?”

Jack glanced at the cover. “This doesn’t look like it’s for twelve-year-olds.”

Your mouth fell open.

Jack’s mouth curved.

There he was. Smug. Controlled. Awful.

You leaned forward and grabbed for it. “Give it back.”

Jack shifted the paperback to his other hand. “I’m trying to understand the plot.”

You braced one hand on the couch. “You are trying to embarrass me.”

Jack held the book just out of reach. “I can multitask.”

You reached across him. He leaned back. Your knee pressed into the couch cushion between you, one hand braced near his thigh before you realized where you had put it.

Jack went still.

So did you.

Your fingers hovered inches from the book. His hand was still raised, paperback held loosely, but his eyes were not on the cover anymore.

They were on you.

Close. Too close. Not close enough.

You pulled back first.

Because someone had to.

Because if you stayed there, braced beside him, close enough to see the dark flecks in his eyes and the way his grip had tightened on the spine of the book, you were going to do something catastrophic.

Like lean closer.

Or say his name again just to see what it did to his face.

You sat back against your end of the couch and held out your hand. “Book.”

Jack looked at your open palm. Then at the paperback. Then, because he was terrible, he opened it.

Your stomach dropped. “Abbot.”

Jack looked down at the page.

You reached for the book again. “That is private.”

Jack tilted the book slightly. “You’re using a receipt as a bookmark.”

You leaned forward. “It is a private receipt.”

He scanned it. “Coffee and a muffin.”

You held out your hand again. “Riveting, isn’t it?”

Jack ignored you, his eyes moving over the page.

At first, his expression was exactly what you expected. Amused. Self-satisfied. Far too pleased with himself.

He cleared his throat once and lifted the book like he was about to address a lecture hall.

Jack made his voice grave. “Oh, this is serious.”

You lunged for the book. “Do not.”

Jack angled away, his eyes already on the page. “Lady Evelina knew she should not be alone with the captain.”

Your shoulders climbed. “Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved as he kept reading. “It was improper. Reckless. Entirely beneath the standards of a respectable young woman.”

You reached across the couch. “Give it back.”

Jack leaned away, still reading in that low, dramatic voice. “And yet, when he stepped closer, she found herself unable to retreat.”

You dropped your hand against the cushion. “I hate you.”

Jack glanced at you over the top of the paperback. “No, you don’t.”

You grabbed for it again. “I absolutely do.”

Jack looked back down, smug as anything. “The candlelight caught the hard line of his jaw, the open collar of his shirt, the broad strength of his shoulders—”

You made a strangled sound. “Oh my God.”

Jack dropped his voice into a truly terrible imitation of melodrama. “And Evelina feared, most terribly, that ruin had never looked so inviting.”

You covered your face with one hand. “I am moving out.”

Jack looked delighted. “This is excellent.”

You dropped your hand and glared at him. “It is not for you.”

Jack held the book slightly higher. “It’s in the shared living space.”

You pointed toward the coffee table. “It was hidden under pathology.”

Jack looked at you over the book. “That may be worse.”

You pointed at him. “Stop reading.”

Jack looked back at the page. “I’m invested now.”

You stared at him. “You are not.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “I am.”

You reached for the paperback again. “You’re mocking.”

Jack nodded once, easy and smug. “I am.”

Then his eyes moved farther down the page. His smile lingered. For one second. Then another.

Then his eyebrows rose.

Jack’s gaze stayed on the page. “This is porn.”

Your mouth fell open. “It is romance.”

Jack glanced at you over the top of the book. “He has his hand under her skirt.”

You reached for the paperback. “That can happen in romance.”

Jack angled it away, mouth twitching. “Often?”

Your expression shifted before you could stop it.

Jack saw.

You held out your hand. “Give it back.”

Jack’s attention dropped to the page again. “For research purposes, I’m going to need an answer.”

You leaned across the couch. “For roommate survival purposes, you’re going to need to stop talking.”

Jack’s smile sharpened. “So, often.”

You grabbed for the book. “Abbot.”

Jack shifted it to his other hand. “Recreational undoing was an accurate diagnosis.”

You froze.

His eyes flicked up.

The joke should have ended there.

It did not.

Because there was a second, barely noticeable change in his face. A tiny delay. A silence where the next teasing line should have been.

Jack had said it to bother you.

Then he seemed to hear himself.

Recreational undoing.

His gaze dropped to the book again. Then, briefly, to you. Whatever he saw on your face made his grip tighten around the spine.

That was the problem.

You did not need to say anything. Your face had already betrayed you.

Because Jack was smart. Terribly smart. Smart enough to understand context.

The book hidden under pathology. The way you read it after long study days. The way you had reached for it too quickly. The way your expression had shifted when he said recreational undoing like a joke and then realized it was not entirely a joke at all.

This was not just something you read.

This was something that worked.

Jack knew it at the same time you realized he knew it.

His thumb pressed lightly into the spine.

Your hand lowered a fraction.

The room went quiet. Not awkward. Worse. Aware.

His eyes moved back to the page. Slower this time.

Your pulse jumped.

Because somewhere between calling it porn and calling it recreational undoing, Jack Abbot had stopped teasing you and started understanding exactly what kind of material you liked when you wanted to stop thinking.

That was worse. That was so much worse.

You reached for the book. “Give it back.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to yours. For a second, you thought he might. Then he looked back down.

Jack’s voice went quieter. “Wait.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait?”

Jack did not look up. “I’m reading.”

You shook your head once. “You are not.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the page. “I am.”

You swallowed. “You were mocking.”

Jack’s voice stayed low. “I was.”

The correction hung there.

Your breath caught.

Were.

Jack’s eyes stayed on the page. His voice, when it came, was lower than before.

Jack read, “The captain kissed her as if restraint had finally become impossible.”

The room went very still.

You reached for the book. “Stop.”

Jack angled it away, but the teasing had gone out of his voice. “His mouth moved from hers to the line of her jaw.”

Your fingers curled against the couch. “Abbot.”

Jack swallowed once.

You saw it.

He kept reading anyway, softer now. “Then lower, down the exposed curve of her neck, slow enough to make her tremble.”

Your fingers closed around his wrist. “Jack.”

He stopped reading.

The book stayed open between you.

Your hand was wrapped around his wrist. His skin was warm beneath your palm.

The apartment went quiet. Not silent. The refrigerator still hummed. Rain ticked softly against the window. Somewhere outside, a car passed. But the space between you went quiet.

Jack looked at your hand. Then at your face.

Your grip loosened, but you did not let go.

You kept your voice low. “Give it back.”

Your voice had lost the sharp edge.

You hated that.

Jack heard it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Only for a second.

Enough.

Then he looked back at the book.

Stupid. Dangerous. He should stop. You should make him stop. Neither of you moved.

Jack read the next line.

Quietly. Not enough for the whole apartment. Enough for you.

Jack’s voice was rougher now. “His hand found the heavy fall of her skirt, gathering the fabric slowly, inch by inch, until she forgot every sensible reason she had meant to keep her distance.”

Your fingers tightened around his wrist.

Jack stopped.

His eyes lifted to yours.

There was no smugness left in his face now. No easy joke. No familiar rhythm to hide inside. Just Jack, too close on the couch, holding your ridiculous paperback in one hand while your fingers circled his wrist and your pulse tried to climb out of your body.

And then you saw it.

Color.

High on his cheekbones.

Jack Abbot was blushing.

Not because of the book. Not only because of the book. Because somewhere between the captain’s mouth at the heroine’s throat and his hand gathering her skirt, Jack had stopped thinking about fictional people.

Your lips parted.

Jack’s jaw shifted once, like he knew exactly what you had noticed and hated you for noticing it.

Then he closed the book.

Slowly. Carefully. Like sudden movement might make everything worse.

Or better.

Jack held the paperback out. “Here.”

You took it from him. Your fingers brushed his. Neither of you commented. You tucked the book against your chest.

His eyes followed the movement before he stopped himself.

You saw that too.

Jack looked back at his notes. “Study.”

You stared at him. “Are you serious?”

His jaw shifted once. “Trying to be.”

Your mouth parted, but no words came out.

Jack picked up his pen.

His pen. Not yours this time.

He stared down at the pharmacology notes like they had personally saved his life.

You looked down at A Lady’s Undoing pressed against your chest.

Then back at him.

His face was calm. Mostly.

His ears were red.

Oh, that was even more interesting.

You sat back slowly, still clutching the book. “Fine.”

Jack did not look up. “Good.”

The word landed wrong.

Both of you knew it.

His hand stilled over the page. Your breath caught.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

Then the phone rang.

You both startled. The apartment phone shrilled from the kitchen, loud and ordinary and deeply offensive. Jack opened his eyes. You looked toward the kitchen. Then back at him.

His expression had gone flat in a way that almost made you laugh.

Almost.

You nodded toward the kitchen. “You should get that.”

Jack looked at you. “Why?”

You hugged the paperback tighter. “Because if I get it, I’m telling whoever it is you’re busy with recreational undoing.”

Jack stared at you.

Then his mouth curved despite himself. Small. Reluctant. Devastating.

He set his notes aside and stood. “Don’t say that again.”

You looked up at him from the couch. “Recreational undoing?”

Jack paused beside the coffee table, his eyes dropping once to the book in your arms. Then to your face.

Jack’s voice lowered. “Especially not that.”

The phone rang again.

Jack disappeared into the kitchen before the phone could ring a third time.

You stayed on the couch with A Lady’s Undoing pressed against your chest and your pulse still somewhere in your throat.

The receiver lifted from the cradle in the kitchen.

Jack’s voice came flat and controlled. “Abbot.”

There was a pause. Then his tone shifted by half a degree.

Jack said, “Evan.”

You looked down at the book in your arms.

It was Evan.

Not that it mattered.

It did not matter who called Jack. It did not matter that Jack was standing in the kitchen with his back probably turned to you, one hand braced on the counter, pretending the last five minutes had not happened.

It did not matter that you could still feel the warmth of his wrist beneath your fingers.

You opened the book.

You did not read a single word.

From the kitchen, Jack said, “What do you want?”

A pause followed.

Then Jack said, “No.”

Another pause.

Jack’s voice flattened. “Because usually when you start with my name like that, you want something.”

You stared at the page. The captain was still there. The heroine was still there. The skirt was still, unfortunately, involved.

You snapped the book shut.

In the kitchen, Jack went quiet. Not regular quiet. A listening quiet. The kind you had started to recognize.

What you didn’t know was that Jack had gone quiet because Evan had said Claire’s name.

Claire had asked if Jack was single.

And for one ridiculous, dangerous second, Jack had looked toward the living room before answering.

You were still on the couch, holding the book against your chest like privacy could still be protected after he had already seen too much.

Jack’s grip tightened around the receiver.

What you didn’t know was that Jack was not looking at the kitchen wall because he was calm. He was looking at the kitchen wall because if he looked at you again, he was going to think about your hand on his wrist.

Your voice saying his name.

Your expression shifting when he said recreational undoing and realized it was not only a joke.

The way your fingers had tightened when he read about the captain’s mouth moving down the heroine’s neck.

The way you had looked at him when you understood that he understood.

Jack shut his eyes.

No.

Absolutely not.

This had to stop.

Evan said something on the other end of the line.

Jack opened his eyes.

You could only see part of him from where you sat. His shoulder. The side of his face. One hand holding the receiver to his ear.

Jack’s jaw shifted once. “Claire asked what?”

Your fingers tightened on the book.

Claire.

You knew Claire. Not well. Everyone knew everyone, eventually, in a medical school class. Claire sat two rows behind you in pharmacology and had neat handwriting, glossy hair, and the sort of calm, pretty face that made group presentations look effortless. Claire had also once lent Evan a highlighter and laughed at something Jack said after a lecture.

Apparently, that had become relevant information.

Jack glanced toward the living room.

You looked down too quickly. Too quickly to be convincing.

His gaze stayed on you for a second. Then he looked away.

Jack lowered his voice. “I don’t know.”

Evan must have said something, because Jack’s mouth flattened.

Jack said, “I’m not avoiding anything.”

You held very still.

Another pause.

Then Jack said, “No, I’m not seeing anyone.”

The words landed in the living room.

Quiet. Clean. True.

They should not have bothered you.

They did.

Because of course he was not seeing anyone. Because you were not anyone.

You were his roommate.

His rival.

His problem.

Apparently, not his answer.

Jack’s grip tightened around the receiver again.

For one awful second, he almost said no.

Then his gaze flicked toward the living room. Toward you. Toward the book pressed against your chest. Toward the couch where you had been too close to him five minutes ago.

Smart mouth. Sharp eyes. Quick hands.

Better answers than half the class.

That impossible expression you got when you were trying not to smile at something he said.

You too close on the couch.

Your voice saying Jack instead of Abbot.

The thought hit him hard enough to feel like warning.

This had to stop.

Not because he wanted it to stop.

That was the problem.

Because if it did not stop, he was going to spend another night hearing you move behind your bedroom door and wondering whether the book was on your nightstand. He was going to start imagining your hand pressed to your mouth to keep quiet. He was going to wonder whether you made those soft, breathless sounds only for fictional men in open-collared shirts, or whether—

Jack closed his eyes again.

No.

You were his roommate.

You were three feet of hallway and one shared bathroom away from ruining his entire life.

This had to stop.

Claire was pretty.

Pretty enough.

Nice, too, from what he remembered. Normal. Available.

Not sitting in his apartment with his pulse under her fingers and a romance novel pressed to her chest.

Not you.

That was the point.

Jack exhaled once through his nose. Evan’s voice crackled faintly through the receiver.

Jack said, “Fine.”

You looked up.

Jack did not look at you. Evan must have gone silent, because Jack’s mouth tightened.

Jack said, “One dinner.”

Another pause.

Jack’s voice went flatter. “A double date?”

You went very still.

Jack stared at the wall. Then he looked down at the phone cord twisted around his fingers.

A double date meant Evan would be there. Less pressure. Less chance of sitting across from Claire with nothing to hide behind.

It meant he could prove to himself that wanting someone was simple.

Manageable.

Redirectable.

Claire was pretty.

Pretty enough.

Jack swallowed.

Then he said, “Fine.”

The word came out too hard. He heard it. You probably did too.

Jack added, “One dinner. That’s it.”

Evan said something that made Jack’s eyes narrow.

A pause.

Jack looked toward the living room.

You did not look away fast enough. Your eyes met his across the apartment.

For one second, the phone call disappeared. So did Evan. So did Claire. So did every reasonable decision Jack had tried to make in the last thirty seconds.

Then you looked down at the book in your lap.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

He turned away.

Jack said, “Thursday works.”

Your stomach dropped.

Thursday.

A date.

Jack had a date on Thursday. With Claire. Pretty, nice, normal Claire.

Jack listened for another second. Then he said, “Yeah.”

A pause.

Jack said, “Tell her seven.”

Another pause.

Jack’s expression went grim. “Goodbye, Evan.”

He hung up before Evan could answer.

For a second, the apartment stayed quiet.

Then Jack turned from the wall phone.

You were still on the couch, book closed in your lap, Singh folder forgotten beside you.

You should have said something normal. Something roommate-like. Something friendly.

Instead, you said nothing.

Jack stepped back into the living room.

His face had settled into that careful, unreadable expression he used when he had already decided not to let you see anything.

You hated it. You hated that you knew it. You hated that Claire probably would not know it at all.

Jack reached for his notes on the coffee table. “That was Evan.”

You looked at the book in your lap. “I gathered.”

Jack’s fingers stilled on the edge of the pharmacology packet. Then he picked it up anyway.

You forced your voice to stay light. “Big plans?”

Jack looked at the notes instead of you. “Thursday.”

You nodded once. “Claire?”

His eyes lifted. Only briefly.

Jack said, “Yeah.”

You pressed your thumb against the spine of the paperback. “She’s pretty.”

Jack’s jaw shifted once. He did not answer right away.

Then he said, “Yeah.”

One word. Flat. Unhelpful. Infuriating.

You looked back down before your face could do anything embarrassing.

“She seems nice,” you said.

Jack gathered the notes into a stack. “She is.”

You nodded again.

Great. Pretty. Nice. Wonderful.

You loved this.

You loved being normal about it.

You closed the book and stood.

Jack looked up immediately. “Where are you going?”

You tucked A Lady’s Undoing against your side and reached for the Singh folder. “To study.”

His eyes flicked to the book. Then back to your face.

Jack said, “In your room?”

You shrugged, pulling the folder against your chest. “That is where my desk is.”

His expression did not change. Not really. But something about him went still.

Jack said, “You were studying out here.”

“I got distracted,” you said.

The words came out before you could stop them.

Jack’s hand tightened around the pharmacology packet.

You hated that too. You hated that he heard it. You hated that he knew.

So you made your mouth curve. Light. Casual. Awful.

“By pathology,” you added.

Jack held your gaze.

He did not believe you.

That made it worse.

After a second, he nodded once. “Right.”

You hugged the folder and the paperback against your chest. “Night, Abbot.”

There.

Abbot.

Safe and normal.

His eyes stayed on yours for half a second too long.

Then Jack said, “Night.”

You turned before he could say anything else. Before you could say anything worse.

His voice followed you when you reached the hall. “You okay?”

Your throat tightened.

Absolutely not.

You paused with your hand on your bedroom door. Then you looked back at him. You made your face behave. You made yourself casual.

You said, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Jack stood in the living room with Robby’s old notes in one hand and your pen still sitting on the coffee table between you.

He did not answer.

Of course he did not.

You went into your room and closed the door.

For a long moment, you stood there with your back against it, holding A Lady’s Undoing and the Singh folder against your chest.

The apartment was quiet on the other side.

Too quiet.

Which was stupid.

Jack was still there.

That was the problem.

You crossed to your desk and opened the book. The captain was still kissing the heroine. The skirt was still gathered. The heroine was still breathless and ruined and unable to think clearly.

You stared at the page.

Then you closed the book again.

Apparently, recreational undoing had limits.

On the other side of the door, the apartment stayed quiet for another long moment.

Then floorboards creaked softly in the hall.

Jack’s door closed a few seconds later.

Not hard. Not soft. Just closed.

By Thursday night, you had decided the living room was neutral territory.

That was why you were studying there.

Not because you wanted Jack to see you acting normal.

Not because you refused to look like you were hiding in your bedroom over one phone call, one date, one pretty classmate with neat handwriting and effortless hair.

Neutral territory.

That was all.

The Singh folder was open on the coffee table. Your notes were spread across the couch beside you. A mug of coffee sat near your knee, cooling faster than you were drinking it. The TV was off. The apartment was quiet except for the scratch of your pen and the faint sound of water shutting off in the bathroom down the hall.

Jack had been in there for twenty minutes.

Not that you were timing him.

Obviously.

You had a bathroom schedule, which meant you were aware of time as a matter of household efficiency. That was different.

The bathroom door opened.

You kept your eyes on your notes.

You were an adult. You were a medical student. You could survive a man wearing clothes.

Jack’s footsteps moved down the hall.

You underlined the same sentence twice.

Then he stepped into the living room.

You looked up.

Terrible decision.

Jack stood near the edge of the hallway in dark pants and a blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was still damp from the shower, curls darker at the ends, one piece falling near his forehead like it had been placed there specifically to ruin your concentration.

He had shaved.

That was rude. Not unusual. Just rude tonight.

His jacket was folded over one arm. His keys were in his hand. He looked clean and composed and unfairly good in a way that made you suddenly, violently interested in coagulative necrosis.

Jack looked at you. “Studying?”

You looked back down too fast. “No, I’m communing with the dead cells.”

His mouth almost moved. “Productive?”

You tapped your pen against the folder. “Emotionally, no.”

Jack stepped closer to the coffee table, then seemed to think better of it and stopped. “Right.”

You could feel him looking at you. You hated that. You hated that you wanted him to.

You forced yourself to glance up again, casual and normal and very possibly dying. “You look nice.”

Jack’s hand tightened once around his keys. It was small. Almost nothing. Still, you saw it.

His voice stayed even. “Thanks.”

You looked back at your notes. “Big night.”

“Dinner,” Jack said.

“Right,” you said, nodding once like your stomach had not reacted to the word. “Dinner.”

Silence stretched. Badly.

You picked up your mug and took a sip of cold coffee because apparently you had decided suffering should be comprehensive.

Jack watched you. “You have plans?”

You lowered the mug. “Me?”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “Yeah. You.”

You looked back down before his face could affect you.

“No plans,” you said, drawing a line beneath the question you were pretending to read. “Just me and pathology.”

Jack shifted his weight slightly. “Sounds fun.”

You nodded once. “Deeply.”

Another silence.

This one had teeth.

Jack looked toward the coffee table, then at the notes spread beside you, then at the book nowhere in sight because you had hidden A Lady’s Undoing in your bedroom like someone with survival instincts.

“You could call Robby,” Jack said.

Your pen stopped.

For one second, you did not move.

Then you looked up.

Jack’s face was careful. Too careful. He was trying to look casual.

He was very bad at it.

“Robby,” you said.

Jack slipped his keys into his pocket. “If you don’t want to study alone.”

You stared at him.

There were several possible answers. You could have said Robby was his friend, not yours. You could have said you did not need company. You could have asked whether he was trying to set you up now that Evan had apparently set him up. You could have asked if he wanted you to call Robby.

You did not ask that.

You were afraid he might answer.

Instead, you shook your head once and looked back at the Singh folder. “No. I’m good.”

Jack did not respond right away.

You could feel him standing there. You could feel the pause he did not fill.

Finally, Jack said, “Okay.”

You nodded, still staring at your notes. “Okay.”

He took one step toward the door.

You made yourself speak before he could leave without giving you something to do with your mouth.

“Have fun,” you said, voice light.

Jack stopped. His hand rested on the doorknob. For a second, he did not turn around.

Then he looked back at you over his shoulder.

His eyes moved over your face like he was checking for something. Like he knew you had made the words sound easy and did not believe you at all.

“Yeah,” Jack said.

One word.

Not quite agreement. Not quite a lie.

Then he opened the door. Cool hallway air slipped into the apartment.

You looked down at your notes before he stepped out.

You did not watch him leave.

That felt important.

The door closed behind him.

The apartment went quiet. Really quiet this time.

No water running. No footsteps in the hall. No pages turning on the other end of the couch.

Just you, pathology, and the terrible knowledge that Jack Abbot had told you to call Robby on his way out to meet Claire.

Your pen hovered over the page. The question in front of you asked for the earliest reversible cellular change after injury.

You wrote nothing.

Then you set the pen down, leaned back against the couch, and stared at the ceiling.

You made it forty-seven minutes after Jack left.

Forty-seven minutes of pathology notes, cold coffee, and the kind of focus that was mostly just aggressive staring.

Then your stomach growled. Loudly.

You looked toward the kitchen. There was no real dinner in the apartment unless you counted half a jar of peanut butter, three questionable eggs, and whatever Jack kept in the back of the freezer that looked both unlabeled and military-grade.

So you had cereal.

A bowl of cereal for dinner at eight fifteen on a Thursday night.

Wonderful. Thriving. Very normal.

You stood at the kitchen counter and ate it because sitting at the table felt too formal for something that came out of a box and tasted faintly like surrender.

The apartment stayed quiet around you.

No Jack at the kitchen table. No page turning from the couch. No dry comment about nutrition from across the room. Just the hum of the refrigerator, the scrape of your spoon against the bowl, and the terrible knowledge that he was somewhere else, probably across from Claire, probably being quiet in that way people mistook for mystery before they knew him well enough to call it stubbornness.

You finished the cereal. You washed the bowl.

You went back to the couch.

For another twenty-three minutes, you tried to study. You underlined two sentences. One of them was already underlined.

At nine, you closed the Singh folder.

Not because you were waiting for him.

You were not waiting.

Waiting implied expectation. Waiting implied investment. Waiting implied some part of you wanted to hear his key in the lock and know whether the date had gone well.

You did not want to know that.

So you went to bed.

That was mature.

Healthy. Defensive. Fine.

Sleep did not come right away.

Of course it did not.

You lay in the dark with your blankets pulled up to your shoulder, listening to the apartment settle around you.

The old pipe knocked once. A car passed outside. The bathroom stayed quiet down the hall.

Jack was not home.

Not that you were listening.

Obviously.

You turned onto your side. Then onto your back. Then onto your other side.

At some point, you must have slept, because the next thing you knew, you were awake again, throat dry, room dark, clock glowing a little after eleven.

You pushed the blankets back and stood.

The hallway was dark when you opened your bedroom door, except for the small light over the stove, left on because one of you always forgot and neither of you had officially claimed responsibility.

You padded into the kitchen and reached for a glass from the cabinet.

The floor was cold beneath your feet.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

You turned on the faucet.

Water rushed into the glass, loud enough to cover the sound of the front door unlocking.

Almost.

The key scraped once.

Your hand froze under the faucet.

The lock turned. The door opened.

You shut off the water.

Jack stepped inside, quiet and careful, one hand on the door, jacket folded over his arm.

In his other hand, he held a small white to-go box.

He stopped when he saw you.

You stood in the kitchen with a half-full glass of water in your hand and absolutely no plan.

Jack’s eyes moved over you, quick and controlled, like he was checking that you were real.

Then he closed the door behind him.

Softly. Too softly.

Jack said, “You’re awake.”

You looked down at the glass. “Thirsty.”

His gaze flicked to the sink. Then back to you.

Jack said, “Right.”

You lowered the glass. “How was the date?”

Jack’s hand shifted around the small white box. “Fine.”

You nodded once. “Good.”

He looked at you. You looked at the sink.

Fine. Good. Normal words. Normal roommate words.

You had survived them beautifully, which meant you could go back to bed now and never think about Claire or Jack’s blue shirt ever again.

You set your glass in the sink. “Well. Goodnight.”

Jack’s voice stopped you before you could take a step. “I brought chocolate cake.”

You turned back slowly. “What?”

Jack looked down at the box like it had offended him by existing. “Chocolate cake.”

You blinked. “I heard that part.”

His jaw shifted once. “The restaurant had it.”

You looked from the box to his face. “And you brought it home?”

Jack’s fingers tightened around the edge of the box. “You said chocolate cake fixes most things.”

Your mouth parted.

You had said that. Weeks ago. Two in the morning. Renal notes spread everywhere, your coffee cold beside you, your patience dead on the floor.

You had said it dramatically.

Jack had apparently listened.

You swallowed. “I said that at two in the morning.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “I heard you.”

The kitchen went quiet.

Too quiet.

You looked at the box because looking at him was worse. “Do you want to split it?”

Jack blinked once. “You’re sharing?”

You moved toward the drawer before you could change your mind. “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I brought it for you,” Jack said.

You pulled open the drawer and grabbed two forks. “And I am being generous.”

His mouth almost moved. “That’s what we’re calling it?”

You handed him one fork across the counter. “Take the fork, Abbot.”

Jack reached for it.

His fingers brushed yours. Barely. Just a slip of skin against skin.

Your hand stilled.

So did his.

The fork hung between you for half a second too long before he took it.

Jack said, “Thanks.”

You pulled your hand back. “You’re welcome.”

Jack moved to the other side of the counter while you opened the box.

The cake was dark and rich, a single slice tucked neatly into the white cardboard container. Thick chocolate frosting curled along the top.

Of course.

Of course he had brought you the good kind.

You took the first bite because you needed something to do.

It was good. Annoyingly good. Devastatingly good.

Jack watched your face. “Good?”

You closed your eyes for half a second. “Do not.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I asked a question.”

You opened your eyes and pointed your fork at him. “You asked it like you already knew the answer.”

“I did,” Jack said.

You took another bite instead of responding.

He ate too, quiet on the other side of the counter, jacket still folded over one arm, blue shirt open at the throat now, sleeves rolled in a way that felt personally unnecessary.

The silence stretched. Not awkward at first. Worse.

Comfortable in a way that felt intimate.

You hated that.

You hated that the cake was good. You hated that he had remembered. You hated that he had gone on a date with Claire and come home with chocolate cake for you.

So you made yourself ruin it.

You tapped your fork against the edge of the box. “So, is there going to be a second date?”

Jack’s eyes lifted.

There it was. The question between you. Not casual. Not even close.

You tried to make your face behave anyway.

“For the roommate agreement,” you added.

Jack looked at you for a long second.

You forced your voice lighter. “I need to know if I should start hiding my toiletries.”

His jaw shifted.

He remembered.

No random women using your shampoo, your towels, your face wash, your razor, your hairbrush.

A rule written before any of this had become real enough to hurt.

Jack looked down at the cake.

“No,” he said.

Your fingers tightened around your fork. “No?”

Jack shook his head once. “No second date.”

“Oh,” you said.

Barely a whisper.

Jack heard it.

His gaze returned to yours. “She’s not my type.”

The words landed softly.

Too softly.

You wanted to ask. You wanted to ask so badly it almost hurt.

Instead, you looked at the cake. “Too bad.”

Jack’s voice was quiet. “Is it?”

Your fork stilled.

You looked up.

He was already looking at you.

The kitchen changed again.

No phone. No book. No excuse.

Just Jack on the other side of the counter, watching you like every answer he had been trying not to give was standing between you.

You took another bite because you were brave and stupid and needed somewhere to put your hands.

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.

Your chewing slowed.

His hand tightened around his fork. Then he set it down.

Your pulse jumped.

You looked at him. “What?”

Jack looked at your mouth again. Then at your eyes.

He reached across the counter.

Slowly. Carefully.

Like he was giving you every chance to move away.

You did not.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth.

Soft. Barely there.

The touch lasted less than a second.

It felt longer.

Jack drew his hand back, but not far enough.

His voice came low. “You had frosting.”

You went very still.

“Oh,” you said.

Barely a whisper.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again.

This time, you saw it. This time, he knew you saw it.

Neither of you moved.

The counter was between you.

It did not feel like enough.

Your fingers curled against the edge of it.

Jack noticed.

His jaw shifted once.

Then he leaned in.

Only a little. Only enough for the air to change.

Your breath caught.

His eyes lifted to yours, and for one terrible, beautiful second, you thought he was going to do it.

You thought he was going to kiss you.

Then Jack stopped.

Barely.

His hand closed around the edge of the counter.

He looked away first.

“You should take the rest,” he said, voice low.

The words hit like cold water.

You blinked.

Then pride rushed in, fast and sharp, saving you from whatever your face might have done.

You reached for the box. “Right.”

You closed it too carefully.

Jack did not move.

You picked up the cake and your water glass. “Thanks for dessert.”

His eyes flicked back to yours. “You’re welcome.”

You nodded once. “Goodnight, Abbot.”

There.

Abbot. Safe. Normal. Awful.

Jack’s mouth tightened, but he nodded. “Night.”

You turned toward the hall before he could see anything else.

Before you could ask him why he stopped. Before you could ask him why he brought you cake from a date with someone else. Before you could ask why he looked at you like that if he was still going to let the counter stay between you.

You made it to your bedroom and closed the door.

In the kitchen, Jack stayed where you left him.

One fork sat on the counter.

One was still in his hand.

The date had not helped.

The cake had made it worse.

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.