Crave the Quiet

Theo's pov

I cut across the central quad like I own every fucking inch of it. Because in the ways that actually matter, I do.

The late-August sun is brutal, turning the concrete into a griddle, but I move through the heat without breaking a sweat. Black hair stays exactly where I put it this morning—swept back, sharp, no strand daring to rebel. Wire-frame glasses catch the light and throw it back like knives. Gray eyes behind them see everything and give nothing. I'm tall enough that people step aside instinctively, lean enough that the navy hoodie and dark jeans look like they were cut for me alone. I carry only the leather portfolio and a matte-black water bottle. No backpack. No distractions. No bullshit.

Heads turn anyway. They always do.

First-years by the fountain freeze mid-laugh, phones half-raised like they've forgotten how thumbs work. Two girls on a blanket under the oak whisper like I'm some rare animal they just spotted. A guy in a backwards cap actually drops his sunglasses to stare, then pretends he was looking at the sky. I register every single one of them without turning my head.

I don't acknowledge. I never do.

Whispers chase me like exhaust.

“That’s Theo Kane.”

“Architecture sophomore. Chicago internship already in the bag.”

“His family basically built half the fucking skyline.”

“Bet he’s never smiled once in his miserable life.”

“Bet he fucks like he designs—cold, precise, leaves you ruined and begging for more.”

I keep walking. Pace even. Face blank. Hands loose in my pockets. The world could collapse and I’d still hit my 9 a.m. critique on time.

I pass the engineering building—glass and ugly concrete—and feel the ripple. Grease-stained hoodies pause mid-sentence about torque specs. One of them mutters something low and appreciative. I don’t glance over. Why would I?

By the time I reach the architecture annex—sleek glass and corten steel that looks more gallery than classroom—the hush has already rolled through the open studio. Drafting tables straighten. Rulers hover. Conversation dies like someone hit mute.

I push through the double doors.

Silence welcomes me like an old, obedient friend.

I cross to my station: corner table, north-facing windows, perfect light, zero traffic. Portfolio down with a soft click. Unzip. Laptop out. Screen wakes to the tower proposal—forty-two stories of glass and tension cables, a deliberate middle finger to gravity.

The room exhales.

Only then does the low buzz of voices restart—careful, quiet, like they’re afraid a loud word will crack the glass.

I ignore them.

I pull up references, adjust a shadow study, type one note in the margin: Reduce cantilever 1.2m. Re-run wind load sim. No flourish. Just fact.

A shadow falls across my board.

“Professor Linden wants you leading critique again tomorrow,” Marcus says—design-club vice president, one of the only two people allowed to speak to me without earning frostbite. “Says your feedback last time ‘elevated the discourse.’”

I don’t look up. “Good.”

“Half the second-years are already dry-heaving in the bathrooms.”

“Then their concepts are weak.”

Marcus snorts. “You’re a dick.”

“I’m accurate.”

He lingers a second, then drifts off. I prefer it that way. No small talk. No wasted oxygen. Focus.

I work forty uninterrupted minutes—lines sharpening, proportions locking—until the housing glitch email hits.

The chime is soft. Polite. Lethal.

I open it without expression.

Subject: Room Reassignment – Immediate Effect

Due to over-enrollment in East Hall sophomore suites, select students will share occupancy effective today. Non-negotiable. Move-in coordination at 1400 hours.

New assignment: Room 412, East Hall. Double suite.

Roommate: Jasper Reed.

My finger hovers over the screen.

Jasper Reed.

I know the name the way I know campus folklore—distant, irrelevant static.

Night-shift barista at the 24-hour bakery. Tattoo sleeves visible even under the uniform. Perpetual smirk. The kind of guy who smells like espresso and bad decisions. Loud laugh. Flour in his hair at 3 a.m. when sane people are asleep.

My jaw flexes—once, barely noticeable.

I close the email.

Refresh.

Same fucking message.

I exhale through my nose. Slow. Controlled.

Inconvenience.

I hate inconvenience more than I hate most things.

Clock reads 12:47.

Thirteen minutes until next lecture.

I pack with surgical precision: laptop, portfolio, water bottle, pen case. Everything slots like pieces of a model. I stand, shoulder the slim bag, walk out.

Hallway parts for me.

I don’t look at anyone.

I never do.

Outside the heat slams like a wall. I pull sunglasses from my pocket—matte black, expensive, anonymous—and slide them on. World dims to something bearable.

I head toward East Hall.

Path takes me past the bakery kiosk on the quad edge. Glass case full of cinnamon rolls, scones, drip coffee. Hand-lettered sign: Fresh at 2 a.m. – Jaz was here.

My stride doesn’t falter.

But for less than half a second my gaze flicks to the window.

Broad back. Chestnut curls tied in a messy knot. Flour dusting black apron shoulders. Arms flexing, kneading dough with brutal, rhythmic violence.

I look away.

Keep walking.

East Hall rises ahead—red brick, 70s ugly, windows like tired eyes.

I push through double doors.

Lobby reeks of body spray, pizza grease, desperation.

Stairs. Fourth floor. No elevator nonsense.

Room 412 door propped open with a battered skateboard.

I pause in the threshold.

Inside: controlled chaos on the left. Right side pristine. Mine.

Left: open duffel vomiting hoodies and jeans, sketchbooks toppled, half-eaten cinnamon roll bleeding icing onto a napkin, crumbs everywhere. Flour. Fine dusting across desk, floor, windowsill. Like sugar snow.

And the source.

Jasper “Jaz” Reed stands in his disaster zone, back to me, stripping off a flour-dusted black T-shirt. Broad shoulders roll. Ink crawls up both arms—thorns, gears, feral blueprint lines. Tan skin shines with faint sweat. Jeans ride low. Thin silver chain glints at the small of his back.

He turns.

Our eyes lock.

Air pressure drops. Temperature spikes.

His hazel eyes are sharp, amused, predatory—like a house cat watching a bird that thinks it’s safe.

My sunglasses stay on.

He tilts his head. Slow smirk curls one side of his mouth.

“You’re late, prince.”

I don’t flinch.

“I don’t do nicknames.”

“Too bad. Fits you.” He steps closer. Close enough I catch cinnamon, espresso, clean sweat, something darker—motor oil and cedar. “Theo Kane. Architecture prodigy. Ice in his veins. Never cracks. Everyone’s wet dream and worst nightmare in one pretty package.”

My voice stays level. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Nah. Just observant.” His gaze rakes down my frame—slow, deliberate, shameless. “You gonna stand in the doorway all day or claim your half?”

I step inside.

Door clicks shut behind me.

Room shrinks.

He doesn’t back up.

I set my portfolio on the pristine desk. Soft thud.

“Keep your side contained,” I say. Flat. Final. “I have deadlines.”

He laughs—low, rough, vibrating through the small space.

“Deadlines. Cute.” He leans one hip against his cluttered desk, arms crossed over bare chest. Flour still dusts his collarbones. “You ever look up from those pretty drawings long enough to fucking breathe?”

I meet that stare through dark lenses.

“I breathe when something’s worth the oxygen.”

A beat.

His smirk sharpens into something dangerous.

“Challenge accepted.”

I turn away.

Unpack in silence.

But I feel it.

Room too small.

Air too thick.

And for the first time in two years, my pulse refuses to stay perfectly even.