Page 3 of Deranged Imposter

Five students went; two couples came out, and one stayed single.

Through sheer luck, I was approached by a sweet girl who needed to sublease her dorm room for a family emergency. Living with Mikah felt too inappropriate when he refused to give me privacy. So, I timed his exam week and moved into the dorm building without telling him first.

The excuse was that he needed space and silence for peak concentration to study, and the dorm placement was only for a week.

Maybe I shouldn’t have said the latter.

It’s better to ask for forgiveness later, or he wouldn’t have allowed me to move.

Strange thing is, he still texts and calls me regularly. He didn’t bring it up, but it doesn’t matter. The day after I moved into this place was when I had to leave for the group project.

Three-quarters of my final exam grade is more important than hurting his feelings.

I survey the common room. His suitcase is neatly placed by the wall, a black button-up draped over the couch, shoes haphazardly kicked to the side, laptop on the dining table, a belt looped around a drawer’s handle.

None of those were there when I left for my trip. My roommate is a neat freak, and she’ll lose her marbles when she sees the mess.

I stop in front of my bedroom, glaring at the closed door while doing a quick breathing exercise.

Breathe in. Breathe out.The mantra cycles through rambling thoughts as my hand hovers over the doorknob. A scoff parts my lips, wondering why I’m nervous about going into my safe space.

Light pours into the small room, displaying the chaotic desk and a massive lump under my weighted blanket. Mikah’s foot, clad in my fluffy sock, sticks out from the side.

I sputter with exasperation.

With no consideration, I pull the blanket down to his chest. His throat bobs, dark eyes piercing mine as the swell of his muscles tightens the gray shirt.

“A law student trespassing? I thought you were better than that,” I grumble and straighten my back.

He looks so peaceful, so rested, lying there in the soft silence as he stares.

“What are you doing?” I ask, eyeing the bed absentmindedly.

Fatigue clings to my limbs. My spine wants a chiropractor, and the fall has my knees turning a light shade of red. The bed is tempting, even more so when I know it’s all warm and cozy from his body heat.

“Resting.” The intensity of his baritone flaunts his discontent.

The elephant will stay in the room. I’m not particularly fond of settling disagreements when a parade of thoughts is partying in my head.

“In my apartment,” I deadpan as I move to rummage in a drawer for spare clothes.

There’s a low shuffle through the room, likely from him turning on his side. “What’s yours is mine.”

“And what’s yours is yours,” I finish, rolling my eyes as I close the squeaky drawer.

“Did you not like our home?” His voice travels after a groan from the bed.

I worry about him bending the frame with his weight.

His mom was concerned about his growth spurt when he was fifteen. He grew so tall, and we wondered if his bones got fragile due to it.

When his sixteenth birthday rolled around, his muscles had filled in, and his baby fat had vanished. He was practically unrecognizable.

I clear my throat and face him, clothes folding over my forearm. “It’s better for you. More space means you can focus.”

I feel like a peasant being forced to trade identities with a rebellious princess living in a penthouse far beyond my means. The feeling of inadequacy comes when he treats me with expensive items and vacations.

“Studies have shown an uninterrupted flow of hours strengthens concentration over time,” I ramble, shrinking under his intense gaze.

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