Chapter 6 The Problem With Proximity

I should’ve canceled.

I should’ve pretended I was sick, or that I’d fallen into my own metaphorical fountain, or that the sun had exploded.

But no.

At exactly three in the afternoon, I found myself standing outside Jace’s dorm, holding a binder, a bag of pretzels, and the overwhelming weight of my terrible life choices.

His door was already cracked open.

Of course it was.

I knocked anyway. “Hey. It’s me.”

“Come in!” he called.

I pushed the door open—and froze.

Jace was half-shirtless.

Not shirtless.

Half-shirtless.

A distinction that should’ve made the situation better, but absolutely did not.

His hoodie was halfway off—arms tangled, hair messy, the zipper stuck on something as he wrestled with it like it owed him money.

He looked up, startled. “Oh—Ava. Hey. Uh—little help here?”

I blinked. “Are you… fighting your clothes?”

“They started it.”

I sighed, stepped inside, and untangled the zipper from the chain around his neck.

The second it came loose, he shrugged the hoodie off—which was somehow worse because now he was full-shirtless.

Oh no.

ABS.

Absolutely unnecessary abs.

“You good?” he asked, pulling on a clean shirt like he hadn’t just ruined my entire cardiovascular system.

“I’m fine,” I squeaked.

He grinned. “Sure.”

I moved past him to the desk—neat, organized, surprisingly not chaotic. His roommate’s bed was empty, his side of the room weirdly clean, and the faint smell of citrus and detergent drifted around like a personal attack.

“Okay,” I said, dropping my binder. “We have a ton of data to sort.”

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s be professional. Academic. Mature.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Those three words have never been used in the same sentence as your name.”

“Hey.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m evolving.”

“Into what? A mildly responsible adult?”

He gasped dramatically. “How dare you.”

I shook my head and sat down. “We’re starting with the comparative impressions section.”

He took the seat next to me, slid a little too close, and smiled. “Lead the way, partner.”

I tried not to flinch at the word partner.

We worked in silence for a few minutes—well, I worked, and Jace made little comments like:

“These handwriting samples are crimes.”

“Why do so many people think strangers smell like vanilla?”

“What does ‘looks like they’ve read Pride and Prejudice too many times’ even mean?”

I hid a smile. “It means someone saw themselves in me and panicked.”

“Oh.” He smirked. “So you have read it too many times.”

“Shut up.”

We fell into an easy rhythm—me reading results, him inputting them into the spreadsheet—until I reached a card that made me choke.

“Uh…” I cleared my throat. “This one says the girl ‘looks like she’d accidentally fall in love with her research partner.’”

Jace froze.

I froze.

Our eyes met.

He raised a brow, slow and teasing. “Would she?”

“No,” I said instantly.

“Instantly,” he echoed, amused. “Zero hesitation.”

“None.”

His grin widened. “So defensive.”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously accurate?”

I swatted his shoulder with a folder. “Shut up and sort the data.”

He laughed and went back to typing, but his knee brushed mine under the desk—and he didn’t move it.

Worse:

I didn’t move mine either.

Forty minutes later, we were knee-deep in responses, the spreadsheet was nearly done, and my emotional stability was hanging by a single existential thread.

Jace stretched, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin.

I did NOT look.

I absolutely did not look.

I—

Okay, I peeked.

But VERY academically.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“No.”

“Liar. Your stomach growled, like, twice.”

I slapped a hand over my stomach as if that would help. “That was the chair.”

“The chair is alive?”

“The chair was creaking.”

“It sounded like a feral raccoon.”

I glared. “I don’t sound like a raccoon.”

“Fine.” He stood. “But I’m getting food.”

He grabbed his keys and wallet. “I’ll go to the student market. What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

He shot me a look.

“Okay, maybe… pretzels. And iced tea. And possibly one of those little chocolate croissants if they have them.”

His lips twitched. “So nothing.”

“Shut up.”

He saluted. “I’ll be right back.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And for the first time all day, I exhaled.

Because being alone with him—not alone-alone, but alone enough—was dangerous.

He made my brain feel like it had too many tabs open.

He made my stomach twist in confusing ways.

He made my chest warm in ways that were NOT allowed.

I stared at the spreadsheet, attempting not to think about his stupid smile, or his stupid laugh, or his stupid ability to make everything feel lighter.

Then his phone buzzed on the desk.

It lit up.

A notification preview glowed on the screen:

“Had fun last night ;) we should do it again —Sydney”

I froze.

Sydney.

The red-haired girl from the quad.

My stomach dropped.

Ice.

Static.

Noise.

He’d spent last night… with her?

My hands curled into fists.

My throat tightened.

I shouldn’t care.

I absolutely should not care.

There was no reason to care.

But I did.

God, I did.

The door opened.

Jace entered with a plastic bag. “Got your croissant! And—whoa. You okay?”

I snapped my gaze away from his phone. “I’m fine.”

He set the bag down, studying me. “You look mad.”

“Nope.”

Lie.

Huge lie.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

“Jace,” I said through teeth. “Drop it.”

He held up both hands. “Okay, okay.”

We worked in silence.

Or—fake silence.

The kind where you pretend everything is normal but internally debate throwing yourself out the window.

After a few minutes, he stood again. “Be right back. Gonna rinse this tea spill.”

He disappeared into the bathroom.

The second the door closed, I stared at his phone again.

The notification still sat there.

Mocking me.

My pulse thudded in my ears.

Why did it bother me this much?

Why did my chest feel tight?

Why did—

The bathroom door opened.

I stood so fast my chair screeched.

Jace paused. “Ava?”

“I—I should go,” I blurted.

“Go? Why? We’re not done.”

“I just remembered I have… uh… homework. Lots of homework.”

“It’s Saturday.”

“Homework doesn’t care what day it is,” I said, stuffing my binder into my bag like I was defusing a bomb.

“Ava, what’s going on?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Nothing,” I insisted.

“Ava.”

I swallowed.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too much.

I couldn’t look at him.

If I did, I might say something I couldn’t take back.

“I’ll see you Monday,” I said quickly.

He reached for my wrist—gently, hesitantly. “Ava—”

“I have to go,” I whispered.

He let go.

I left without looking back.

When I made it outside, the air felt too cold, too sharp, too loud.

I hugged my binder to my chest.

I hated that stupid notification.

I hated that it mattered.

I hated that I cared.

Most of all…

I hated that I was falling for him.

Because falling hurt.

And I was already halfway down.