Page 26 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
“Bonding over consumption,” I say, letting my voice drop into the same tone I’d use when dissecting a battle strategy. “Interesting.”
Dave chuckles, not quite comfortable. “You really are from far away, huh?”
“Far enough,” I say, leaning back. I let my gaze sweep the hall, marking the exits, the places where shadows gather behind pillars, the people whose eyes slide away when I meet them.
Most look at me with the idle curiosity humans reserve for strangers. But a few — two at the far side of the room, one near the serving line — hold my gaze for a beat too long. Not hostile. Not friendly.Measuring.
I take another bite of the pizza, chew slowly, and store their faces away in memory.
Skylar’s still talking to her friends, filling in the silences I leave. She’s good at that — the smooth lie, the easy laugh. But she doesn’t see the watchers the way I do.
When we leave the table, I let her get a step ahead and murmur low enough that only she can hear, “Your story works. For now.”
She glances back. “For now?”
I nod toward one of the lingering gazes. “Some are curious. Others are something else.”
Her mouth tightens. “Like Bill and Steve something else?”
“Not the same,” I say. “But… not harmless.”
She exhales through her nose, muttering something about how she just wanted me to eat pizza without turning it into an intel operation.
But that’s the thing about this place: even in a room full of people, you never know who’s hunting.
The sun’s gone down by the time we get back to the dorm. The air outside tastes of cooling asphalt and fried food drifting from some distant corner of the campus. Skylar kicks her shoes off the moment we’re inside, tossing her bag onto the couch like she’s ending a day-long battle.
I linger by the door, arms crossed, watching the way she moves — loose now, at ease in her own territory. Humans don’t keep their guard up enough. That’s going to get her killed one day if she’s not careful.
She catches me looking. “What?”
I roll my shoulders, a faint smirk tugging at my mouth. “Your advice today…”
Her brows go up. “Which part? The ‘stop staring people down like you’re about to challenge them to a duel’ part? Or the ‘for the love of god, stop walking like you’re a general on parade’ part?”
“The first. And the second.” I step further inside, letting the door swing shut. “You’re not entirely wrong. Blending in has… strategic value. If I can pass for harmless, I can move unseen.”
She leans against the arm of the couch, arms crossed now too, mirroring me without realizing. “So you’re admitting I’m right?”
I tilt my head. “I’m admitting that weaponizing their expectations is an efficient tactic.”
Her mouth twitches, and then she actually snorts. Not the delicate, polite laugh she sometimes gives people — this is the unguarded, caught-off-guard kind of laugh that comes from somewhere deep.
I expect my pride to bristle, to snap back with something sharp. Instead… it doesn’t. I just watch her, feeling that laugh hum in the space between us like a ripple in still water.
“You’re impossible,” she says, shaking her head.
“Not impossible,” I correct her, “merely… adaptable.”
She pushes off the couch and wanders toward the kitchen nook, pulling open a cupboard that’s mostly empty save for a box of crackers and something in a jar that smells suspiciously sweet. “You hungry?”
“Always,” I say.
She tosses me the cracker box, and I catch it one-handed. The cardboard is light, flimsy, nothing like the weight of real rations. I sit on the edge of the couch and open it, trying one of the brittle squares. It’s salty, dry, and oddly addictive.
Skylar watches me like she’s half-expecting me to declare them unworthy too.
“They’re… acceptable,” I say finally.
