Page 38 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
“Absolutely yes.” She tosses her phone aside and leans forward like a cat zeroing in on prey. “It’s him, isn’t it? Tall, dark, mysterious… exchange student Rovax.”
I choke on air. “You’ve been watching too much reality TV.”
She grins like she’s caught me in a lie, and I know if I don’t get out of here now, she’s going to dig until she finds something I’m not ready to give her. So I grab my bag and mutter, “Library. Studying. Bye.”
The library’s a relief—the hush of it, the smell of paper and ink, the way the outside world blurs when you’re here. I head straight for the far corner, dump my bag on the table, and try to bury myself in my sociology notes.
But my focus is shot. Every line I read turns into a string of nonsense because my brain keeps skipping back to last night, to the way Rovax looked at me like I wasn’t just some human girl, but something worth really seeing.
I don’t even notice Johnson until he’s sliding into the chair across from me.
“Skylar,” he says, and that smirk of his is already in place—the one that makes me want to break something. “Been a while.”
I don’t bother looking up from my notes. “Not long enough.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice like he’s about to let me in on some grand secret. “So… I saw you the other night.”
My pencil stills. “And?”
“And you were with someone. Your new… friend.” He drags out the word like it’s dirty. “Not really your type, is he? You always went for guys who had… I don’t know. A future.”
I lift my head slowly. “Wow. Did you rehearse that, or does it just come naturally?”
He ignores the jab, eyes glinting with that smug, I-know-better glimmer I’ve always hated. “Look, I’m just saying—you don’t know this guy. He’s not from here. Probably not even from this country. Guys like that… they’re trouble.”
My blood spikes hot, and I snap, “Maybe I like trouble.”
He laughs, like I’ve told a joke. “Sure. But when it blows up in your face, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“That’s funny,” I say, my voice steady in a way I’m proud of. “Because you were never actually looking out for me before, Johnson. Not once. So you don’t get to start now.”
His smirk wavers, but he hides it fast, pushing back from the table with an exaggerated shrug. “Suit yourself.”
He walks away, and I’m left staring at my notes with my pulse in my ears, my hands trembling under the table. The urge to throw something at his retreating back is almost overwhelming.
When I feel the shift in the air, I don’t have to look up to know Rovax is standing nearby. His presence is like static—sharp, prickling at the edges of my awareness.
“You were going to let him speak to you like that?” he asks, low enough that only I can hear.
I close my eyes for a beat, exhaling slow. “I handled it.”
His silence is skeptical. I don’t have to see his face to know his jaw is probably locked tight.
And that’s the problem.
Because deep down, some part of me wants him to stop looking at Johnson like a puzzle to solve and start looking at me like he did last night—like I’m the only thing in the room that matters.
But that’s dangerous thinking. And I’ve had enough danger for one day.
Johnson’s mouth is still forming some half-smirk, half-smug line when the air around me shifts.
It’s not the library AC kicking on — it’s heavier than that, charged, like the moment before a storm cracks open the sky.
I don’t have to look up to know Rovax is there. His presence presses in from behind, deliberate and steady, a gravity that pulls all the noise out of the moment.
Johnson notices, too. His eyes flick over my shoulder, and his expression falters. He mutters something that’s probably meant to sound casual.
“Yeah, well, see you around” — but it lands flat, the syllables hurried. Then he stands, brushing past me without meeting my eyes, his retreat fast enough to almost count as a retreat.
