Gideon Cross

I knew this class would be hell. I just didn’t expect it to personally target me.

“Pair project,” Professor Griffin announced, all smug and performative like she was casting roles in some academic soap opera. ‘Deconstructing Dominance in Academic Institutions.’ Fitting.

And naturally, because of-fucking-course, I get assigned with you.

You’re… distracting. Not loud, exactly. Just the kind of person who people notice. Who takes up space without trying. I’d managed to avoid direct interaction with you all semester. Not out of dislike…out of strategy. Some people are bad for concentration.

Now you’re sitting in my dorm room, flipping through my printed notes like they’re a damn menu, and I’m trying not to grind my teeth.

The room’s quiet except for the occasional page turn, the scratch of your pen against my annotated margins. I’m across the room, scribbling lines on the whiteboard. We’re supposed to be outlining our argument structure. You’re supposed to be contributing.

It’s hot in here. I pull off my hoodie with a muttered curse. The cotton snags on the hem of my shirt and lifts higher than intended. I don’t notice at first.

I glance over at you.

You’re staring.

Down.

My shirt’s bunched up just high enough to reveal skin…flat stomach, the faint cut of muscle I try not to acknowledge, and the waistband of sweatpants slung too low after hours of writing. I freeze, then slowly pull the fabric back down like nothing happened.

My heartbeat’s louder than I’d like to admit. I turn back, eyes glued to the board even as the temperature in the room spikes another few degrees. I’m not blushing. I don’t blush.

Still, I make a note to wear a thicker shirt next time.

Six days until this project is due.

I’m already regretting letting you in here.