Bound By Deception|18+

06

Aria

The library smells like old paper and pine‑sol—comforting, in a way my dorm never is when Dove's off at rehearsal. Towers of books muffle sound; muted sunlight slants through gothic windows, striping the long oak table where Max and I have spread our "study materials."

Mine: an econ textbook, three color‑coded pens, and half a page of jittery notes.
Max's: a statistics workbook tragically propping up his phone so he can watch cat videos on mute.

"Did you know," he whispers, pushing his chair back on two legs, "a cat's purr vibrates at a frequency that can heal bones?"

I blink. "Is this your way of telling me you've broken something?"

"Nah." Grin. "Just thought you looked like you could use the health boost."

Paranoia's a second heartbeat today—eyes over my shoulder, phantom footsteps in every aisle. But Max's ridiculous facts put a dent in it. He's sunshine in human form, impossible to fear. I almost smile.

The heavy hush shifts. I feel them before I see them—gravity changing direction.

Oliver Kuzmich appears at the end of the row, all dark curls and silent authority. Beside him, Reed: taller, broader, black hair pulled into a sleek knot, expression carved from glacier ice. The table shrinks by half.

Max drops his chair forward with a thunk. "Library's big, fellas. Plenty of real estate."

Oliver's gaze skims over Max like he's lint, lands on me, then on the empty chairs across from us. He sits without asking. Reed follows, placing a single notebook down, saying nothing. His presence feels... dense, like he's built from stone no one's bothered to polish.

Max nudges my ankle under the table. You okay? The question is in the tilt of his head.

I am not okay. Oliver hasn't looked at me since the hallway, since his words peeled open a wound I didn't know still bled. He acts as though I'm invisible. Somehow, that burns worse.

Max breaks the silence. "Reed, buddy—you here to calculate the probability of passing Stats without opening the book? 'Cause I'm at 7% and feeling optimistic."

Reed doesn't move, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth almost qualifies as amusement. He slides Max's abandoned workbook toward him, flips it open to a blank page, and hands Max a pencil. Wordless order: do the work. Max's ears go pink; he obeys, muttering something about tyrants with pretty cheekbones.

Oliver drags my econ text closer, scanning the margin notes. "You highlighted opportunity cost," he murmurs.

"It seemed relevant," I say, voice low and brittle.

"To your major or your life choices?" he asks without looking up.

I clench my pen. "Some of us don't confuse the two."

That earns me a fleeting arch of his brow—dangerous sparkle, gone in a blink. He returns the book precisely where it was, as if even disorder must obey him.

Across the table Max has somehow inched his chair closer to Reed. Two inches. Four. Reed keeps writing—sharp, efficient strokes—but his shoulders tighten the nearer Max drifts. It isn't annoyance; it's awareness, the kind you feel in your skin before your brain names it. Max notices the subtle shift, smiles like he's found a new puzzle.

Tension layers over tension.

Oliver folds his hands, attention finally locking on me. Every instinct screams to look away; instead I meet the dark brown of his eyes—flat as a frozen lake, waiting for cracks.

"I was out of line," he says, so quiet I almost miss it.

My pulse stutters. An apology? No. The words feel clinical, diagnostic. He's labeling data, not feeling it.

"And?" I force out.

"And nothing," he replies, voice returning to ice. "Out‑of‑line statements don't require sentimentality to be true."

The apology that isn't. My throat burns. "Then we're done here."

I gather my notes with shaking hands. Max's chair screeches as he jumps up beside me. "We'll find another table. One with better vibes and fewer Bond villains."

Reed's pen stills; he watches Max with an unreadable glint—part irritation, part... intrigue. Oliver doesn't move, but I feel his stare track me all the way down the aisle, pinning me like a study specimen.

Outside the library's hush, Max exhales. "Cat‑purr science next time," he says gently. "No Kuzmich cameo."

I manage a nod, but my brain buzzes with Oliver's non‑apology and the question behind his eyes: What are you running from?

I tighten my grip on my notebook—the one place I can control the story—and keep walking, pretending his question doesn't echo harder than my heartbeat.

~*~

Short and sweet, Don't forget to comment, vote share and follow. Until next time my lovelies.