Page 9 of Watching You
Five hours of him changing the music mid-song, adjusting my vent, handing me coffee in the wrong cup, taking a “shortcut” that wasn’t.
Five hours of me silently counting, breaths, stitches in my jeans, the seconds between his glances, and losing track every time he smirked like he knew exactly what I was doing.
I should feel relieved that the ride is over. Instead, my skin hums like I’ve been plugged into a socket.
Kane slows as we turn onto the main drive, the truck rolling past brick buildings and manicured lawns. Students are everywhere, laughing, hauling boxes, hugging parents goodbye. It’s absolute chaos. My fingerscurl into my palms, nails digging into my skin. I want to count something, anything, to anchor myself, but the noise and movement make the numbers slip away.
“You’re quiet,” he says, like it’s an observation and a challenge all at once.
“I’m fine,” I lie, eyes fixed on the clock tower ahead.
He doesn’t push, but I can feel him watching me. Always watching.
We pull into the freshman lot, and my stomach knots when I see Kinsley’s car already there, hood up, a tow truck parked beside it. She’s waving like she’s been here for hours.
Kane parks, kills the engine, and leans back in his seat. “Told you I’d get you here.”
I unbuckle, the click is too loud in the small space. “You also told me it was a shortcut.”
His grin is slow, deliberate. “It was. For me.”
I grab the door handle, needing to get out, to breathe, to put space between us. But before I can, his hand brushes mine, just a graze, enough to make my breath catch.
“Careful, sunflower,” he murmurs. “Campus is big and messy. Easy to get lost.”
The words shouldn’t feel like a promise. But they do.
I step out into the sunlight, blinking against the brightness, and tell myself I’m free.
Only… I can still feel his eyes on me.
“You made it!” Kins calls, practically bouncing on her toes.
I force a smile and wave back, but my pulse is still uneven from the ride. I can feel Kane behind me, his presence like a shadow that moves when I move.
Kinsley rushes over and pulls me into a hug that smells like her honey shampoo and home. “I was so worried he’d be a dick the whole way,” she whispers against my ear, but loud enough that Kane can hear.
“Too late,” he says easily, coming around the truck with my bag slung over his shoulder. My bag. The one I packed in perfect order.
“Here, I’ll take that—” I reach for it, but he just smirks and keeps walking toward the dorm entrance.
“It’s heavy,” he says, like that’s an excuse. “I’ve got it.”
I bite back the urge to snap that it’s not about the weight, it’s about the way he’s holding it wrong, the zipper side facing down, the straps twisted. My fingers twitch at my sides.
Kinsley grabs her own bag from the tow truck driver and starts chattering about our room assignment, but my eyes keep tracking Kane. He sets my bag down just inside the lobby… crooked. Not against the wall. Not lined up with the others. Crooked.
I can feel it pulling at me like a thread.
He catches my eye over his shoulder, and I swear there’s a challenge in his grin.
Kinsley’s still talking, but her words blur as I cross the lobby and nudge my bag into place. Straight. Flush with the wall. Even.
When I look up, Kane’s leaning against the check-in desk, watching me like he’s just confirmed something he already suspected.
Then he’s gone, leaving me with my perfectly aligned bag and the sinking realization that he’s already in my head.
The lobby smells faintly of lemon cleaner and paper, fresh, sterile, temporary. Students are everywhere, dragging suitcases, clutching clipboards, laughing too loudly. My eyes dart to the check-in table, where a line snakes toward a pair of overworked RAs.
