Page 32 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
“No,” I agree. “It’s deliberate. They’re probing the edges. Seeing how close they can get before I bare my teeth.”
She stops pacing, tilts her head. “And what happens when you do?”
The cold wind lifts her hair across her cheek, and I have to force my gaze back to the street beyond her. “That depends on whether they keep pushing.”
For a moment, the only sound is the distant hum of traffic and the faint bass line still leaking through the walls.
Her world and mine are starting to touch, and there’s no way to stop it.
“Come on,” she says finally, jerking her head toward the street. “Let’s get back to campus before they decide to circle around.”
I fall into step beside her, the night stretching long and cold ahead. Every shadow we pass feels heavier now, like it’s carrying the weight of two worlds neither of us is ready to see collide.
CHAPTER 12
SKYLAR
The door clicks shut behind us, and it feels like the whole room exhales at once. I don’t. My hands are still trembling like I’ve mainlined espresso, the adrenaline refusing to burn off.
I make a beeline for the laundry pile. Shirts that have been sitting crumpled in a basket for a week suddenly become my most urgent project. Fold, smooth, stack. My fingers can’t seem to keep still.
Rovax doesn’t move from the door. He leans against the wall with his arms crossed, still as carved obsidian. The fluorescent light hums overhead, picking up the faint shimmer that clings to him even under the glamour. His eyes track me, unblinking.
I dump another shirt into a neat pile, pivot to my desk. Pens in a jar, notebooks squared to the corner, the kind of mindless busywork that keeps my brain from sprinting in too many directions.
The silence is a weight, pressing on the back of my neck. He’s always quiet — watchful in that unnerving way — but this feels different. It’s not just observation; it’s deliberation.
His voice cuts through, low and steady. “Why?”
I freeze with a pen halfway to the jar. “Why what?”
He pushes off the wall, crossing the space between us in two slow, measured steps. “Why do you keep helping me?”
I set the pen down, turn to face him. The distance between us is small now, the air carrying the faint, clean scent of the soap he used earlier — something that smells like cedar and wind.
“Because I want to,” I say. The words are simple, unplanned. True.
His head tilts slightly, like I’ve just given him an answer in a language he only half understands. “That’s not a reason.”
“It’s enough of one for me.”
He studies me, mentally peeling the words apart, looking for some hidden edge. “You risk yourself without being asked. Without knowing if I can protect you in return.”
“That’s not why I—” I stop, swallow, try again. “I’m not keeping score.”
One corner of his mouth pulls tight, not quite a frown but not acceptance either. “In my world, favors are currency. Debts. They bind.”
I shrug, even though the back of my neck is prickling. “Then maybe I’m doing it because I want to.”
Something flickers in his eyes at that — not amusement exactly, but softer than the guarded steel I’m used to. He leans back a fraction, still watching me, but the sharpness in his gaze eases.
The shaking in my hands finally slows. I gather up the last of the laundry, more for something to do than because it needs doing.
He doesn’t thank me. I didn’t expect him to. But as I pass him on the way to the closet, I feel the faintest brush of his hand against my sleeve — deliberate enough to register, too light to be anything but a choice.
It hangs there between us, that little sentence I tossed out like it was nothing —Because I want to.
Only now, with the silence stretching and his gaze fixed on me, I can feel how heavy it actually is.
