Page 7 of Stalked
No. I'm not going there.
I've been meticulous about avoiding him. Switching lab partners wasn't an option mid-semester, but I've perfected the art of working beside him without actually acknowledging his existence. I arrive at class exactly when the bell rings and leave the moment we're dismissed. No coffee runs. No study sessions at the library. Nothing that puts me in his orbit longer than absolutely necessary.
As I pack up my laptop after debate club, I check the time. Perfect—late enough that the hallways should be empty. Most students cleared out an hour ago.
I swing my backpack over my shoulder and step into the corridor, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. My footsteps echo as I head toward the exit.
“Running away again, Morgan?”
I freeze at the sound of his voice. Vane leans against the wall at the intersection of hallways, arms crossed over his chest. He looks unfairly good in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, his hair falling across his forehead.
“What are you doing here?” I clutch my backpack strap tighter.
“Waiting for you.” He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between us. “You've been avoiding me.”
“I've been busy.”
“Bullshit.” His eyes lock onto mine. “You practically sprint out of chemistry every day.”
I take a step back. “What do you want, Vane?”
“I want to know why you're acting like I have the plague.”
“Are you serious?” I let out a humorless laugh. “You dragged me into a bedroom and kissed me without permission. Then got angry when I didn't fall at your feet.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. “You're overreacting.”
“And you're delusional if you think I owe you my time or attention.”
“We're lab partners.”
“We're not friends,” I snap. “So why exactly do I need to see you outside of class?”
Vane takes another step toward me, close enough that I catch the scent of his woodsy cologne, which has no business making my pulse quicken.
“You sure about that, Morgan? Because friends or not, I've seen the way you look at me in class.”
“With contempt?”
“With interest.” His voice drops. “When you think I'm not paying attention.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Your ego is truly astronomical.”
“It's not ego if it's true.” He leans closer, and I refuse to back away despite every instinct screaming at me to create distance. “You're curious. About me. About what would have happened if you hadn't stopped us that night.”
“I'm curious about lots of things. Nuclear physics. Deep-sea creatures. The cultural impact of reality television.” I tilt my chin up. “You don't make the list.”
His laugh is low and genuine, catching me off guard. “God, you're something else.”
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, neither of us speaks. The hallway feels too small, too warm. I notice the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. My gaze drops briefly to his lips before I catch myself.
“You're doing it right now,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?”
