Page 22 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
The moment Rovax says, “Get in the car,” I know better than to argue.
I pop the lock, slide into the driver’s seat, and keep my eyes on the dash. Outside, his shadow looms against the glass as he stays planted in front of me, a wall of immovable muscle and stubbornness.
Steve shifts on his feet, suddenly looking less like a midnight stalker and more like a kid who’s been called to the principal’s office. He fumbles in his jacket pocket, muttering something about “credentials” — and then promptly drops half a cup of coffee down the front of his shirt.
It splashes across his tie, drips down the lapel, and plops to the asphalt in a sad little arc. I bite my lip so hard to keep from laughing that I taste copper.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Steve!” Bill snaps from across the lot, the first real sign of life he’s shown. He strides closer, hissing through clenched teeth. “What did I tell you about?—”
“I’ve got it,” Steve says, patting at the coffee with his free hand while still fishing for whatever’s in his jacket. “Just… hang on.”
Bill snatches the badge out of his hand before he can present it. “You’re a disaster.”
The absurdity of the moment hits me all at once — two supposed “men in black,” one dripping coffee like a busted Keurig, the other glaring at his partner like they’re in some weird buddy-cop sitcom. If this were any other night, I’d chalk it up to harmless campus weirdness and drive away.
But Rovax doesn’t laugh.
He moves. Not fast, but deliberate — a single step forward that changes everything. One moment, he’s just a tall, broad stranger in dark clothes. The next, there’s somethingelsein his posture, a drop in the air pressure that makes my skin prickle. Even through the glamour, I see it: a faint glow behind his eyes, red like embers stoked in the dark.
Bill notices too. His gaze sharpens, then flicks to me and back to Rovax. Steve freezes, coffee dripping from his cuff.
“Alright,” Bill says finally, voice lower now, cautious. “We’ll… be in touch.”
He grabs Steve by the elbow, steering him away so quickly the coffee trail barely has time to cool. Steve looks over his shoulder once, like he wants to say something, but Bill shoves him toward the lamplight and they vanish between two parked SUVs.
The quiet that follows feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on the roof of the car. Rovax waits until they’re gone before sliding into the passenger seat.
I don’t say anything. My hands are tight on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the yellow glow from the nearest streetlight. My pulse is so loud in my ears it almost drowns out the sound of him closing the door.
I put the car in gear and pull out. The grocery bags rustle in the back seat, the only other sound besides the steady hum of the engine.
For the first couple of blocks, I keep expecting him to break the silence. A sarcastic jab about my “hunters,” maybe. Some arrogant observation about how easily he’d flatten both of them if he had to. But he doesn’t. He just stares out the passenger window, jaw tight, one hand resting loosely on his knee.
It’s almost worse than if he’d said something.
“Are they… government?” I ask finally, because the not knowing is making me itch.
“They’re notyourgovernment,” he says without looking at me.
I grip the wheel tighter. “That’s not comforting.”
He glances over then, and in the passing glow of another streetlamp, I swear I catch that ember-red flicker again.
“They’re nothing to worry about,” he says. The words are meant to be reassuring, but they land somewhere between a promise and a threat.
The rest of the drive back to campus is quiet, except for the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears and the low, even rhythm of his breathing — like the parking lot never happened, like my world isn’t shifting under my feet.
By the time I pull into the lot behind my dorm, I’ve decided two things:
One, the suited creeps aren’t done with us.
And two, I’m not sure which one of them I should be more afraid of — Bill and Steve… or Rovax.
By the time we get the groceries up the stairs, my arms feel like they’re about to detach from my shoulders. I try to play it off, huffing a laugh as I shove the door open with my hip.
“Well,” I say, dumping the bags on the little counter by the sink, “that was the most awkward grocery run in the history of awkward grocery runs. At least they didn’t try to sell us extended car warranties.”
Rovax doesn’t even smirk. He just closes the door behind him and stands there for a second, head tilted like he’s listening for something only he can hear. The fluorescent light hums overhead, a constant buzz I barely notice anymore, but his eyes flick upward at it like the sound’s a needle in his ear.
