Page 53 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
I glance at him. “This feels like combat to you?”
His gaze lingers on mine a beat longer than necessary. “No. But it is unfamiliar. And unfamiliar things require… attention.”
I turn back to the stove before my face can give away too much. “Guess we’re both adjusting, then.”
The smell of sautéing vegetables fills the room, warm and savory against the sharp bite of winter air sneaking in from the windows. The contrast makes me almost giddy — this weirdlittle bubble of warmth and light in the middle of a frozen, silent campus.
When we finally sit down to eat — perched at my tiny desk because there’s nowhere else — the storm is still raging outside. The pasta’s not fancy, but it’s hot, and the way Rovax studies each bite before eating it like he’s cataloging the experience makes me weirdly self-conscious.
“It is… adequate,” he says after swallowing, which, coming from him, is practically high praise.
I laugh, and the sound feels different tonight — lighter, maybe, despite everything. The quiet between us isn’t the brittle, wary kind anymore. It’s… something else. Something I’m not sure I’m ready to name.
Outside, the snow keeps falling, wrapping the whole world in white.
The pancake lands half-on, half-off the skillet with a sad little flop, steam curling up from the mess like it’s embarrassed for him. I can’t help it — the laugh bursts out before I can swallow it down, sharp and bright in the cramped kitchen.
Rovax turns his head slowly, like a predator deciding whether or not to pounce. His eyes lock on mine, a molten mix of annoyance and something else — something that makes the air feel thicker.
“You find my struggle amusing?” His voice is low, deliberate, that faint edge in it making my pulse skip.
“Just… maybe stick to stirring,” I say, biting my lip to keep from grinning outright. “Flipping might be above your pay grade.”
His brows lift slightly, but there’s no real offense in his expression — just an almost dangerous stillness. And then, without warning, he’s moving. Two long strides and he’s right there, braced against the counter on either side of me, the heat of his body cutting through the winter draft curling under the door.
The look in his eyes is searing now, the kind that pins you in place without ever touching you — except he does touch me, one gloved hand sliding to my hip as if to anchor me exactly where he wants me.
“You mock a warrior,” he murmurs, “and yet you stand within his reach.”
I don’t get the chance to come up with something smart to say. His mouth is on mine in the next heartbeat, hot and unyielding, the kiss less a question than a statement — a line drawn in territory he’s just claimed. My back hits the counter, the edge digging into me, but it only makes me kiss him harder.
The rest of the world — the howling storm, the smell of scorched pancake — drops away. All I can register is the press of him against me, the sharp taste of heat and spice on his lips, the faint rasp of his breath when I fist my hand in the front of his shirt.
He deepens the kiss, tilting his head to get closer, and I’m gone — lost in it, in him. His other hand slides up my spine, a warm, steady line that makes my knees want to give out.
When we finally pull apart, my chest is heaving, and I can’t tell if it’s from the kiss or the fact that the room feels ten degrees warmer.
The storm still rages outside, snow hammering the glass, but the cold might as well be on another planet.
I swallow, my voice lower than I mean it to be. “So… that’s your revenge for the pancake thing?”
His mouth curves just slightly — not quite a smile, but close. “Part of it.”
My skin tingles in a way that has nothing to do with the chill seeping in through the windows. I should probably step back, put some space between us before I do something reckless. But my hands are still on his chest, and he’s not moving either.
The smell of butter and heat lingers in the air, mingling with the faint, smoky scent that’s just him. And for the first time in days, the tension between us isn’t sharp or dangerous. It’s something else entirely — something I’m not sure either of us is willing to name yet.
But God help me, I don’t want it to stop.
The storm sounds like it’s trying to tear the world apart, wind howling against the glass, snow hurling itself sideways in dense, blinding sheets. Inside, though, it’s just us — the two of us wrapped in the old plaid blanket I keep thrown over the back of the couch, our legs tangled together in a way that feels too comfortable for how new all of this is.
The couch springs groan when I shift, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. The heat from the radiator is uneven at best, but Rovax is a furnace — sitting this close to him, I can feel the warmth radiating through the fabric of his clothes, a steady presence that seeps into my skin.
He’s… still. Not just still in the way he gets when he’s thinking, but that rare, deep stillness like he’s finally allowed his shoulders to come down from their perpetual battle-ready tension. His head is tipped back slightly, eyes half-lidded, gaze tracking the swirl of snow outside as if the chaos is miles away instead of a few feet beyond the window.
“This is the most at peace I’ve felt since arriving here,” he says, voice so low I almost don’t catch it over the storm.
I blink, caught off guard. He’s not one for casual admissions — or any admissions, really — and there’s a weight to the way he says it that makes me wonder just how many years it’s been since he’s let himself feel anything close to peace.
