Page 14 of His To Unravel (His & Hers Duet #1)

ELEVEN

nathaniel

The morning light casts long shadows over the streets as I drive my Aston Martin toward campus from Back Bay, my fingers curled around the leather steering wheel. Outside, commuters and students fill the roads, each one absorbed in their own insignificant routine. Mine, however, is anything but.

Passing Beacon Street, I slip out of the neighborhood’s stone facades and into the sleek city sprawl. My movements are smooth and unhurried. Anticipation hums beneath my skin, knowing that I’ll see her again and everything I’ve orchestrated has gone according to plan.

Every class, every glance, every interaction will serve as a reminder of my presence. My claim.

And that knowledge? It stirs a deep satisfaction within me.

As I steer onto the last stretch toward Halford, my thoughts snag on a brief exchange from yesterday. A moment as minor—and as irritating—as a pebble in a shoe.

Landon Foster.

Too familiar. Hovering too close. His easy grin and casual charm, an attempt at intimacy as weak as it was transparent.

Pathetic .

I hadn’t acknowledged him. I don’t plan to. Giving Landon my attention would be granting him a relevance he hasn’t earned. Letting Olivia remain uncertain regarding my thoughts on him is far more effective. It keeps him inconsequential, as he deserves, and leaves her guessing.

That uncertainty? It’s mine to control.

But even so, the simplicity of him walking beside her, his steps synced with hers, aggravated me more than I’d expected. It was a reminder, however minor, that my hold on her isn’t yet absolute.

But it will be.

And that loose end—Landon, with his misguided claims on Olivia’s time—is something I intend to handle with precision.

I shift lanes, a smirk crossing my lips as I recall the café with Carolyn and Sophie.

Winning over her friends had been equally strategic. Watching their faces light up as they warmed to me—it wasn’t about them, not in the slightest. It was about her.

Her social circle, her small, insular circle of safety, now includes me.

Then there’s the matter of her schedule.

I merge onto campus and park in my usual spot, a wave of satisfaction washing over me as I remember her expression yesterday—the disbelief, the thrill when I revealed I’d transferred into all her classes. Every. Single. One.

Stepping out of the car, I walk across the parking lot, the cool morning air sharpening my focus.

My presence in her classes is no casual convenience—it is a declaration. I don’t care who notices. I want her to notice. I want her to know I’m not going anywhere, and I don’t intend to give her the chance to slip away.

It is more than obsession now.

Each layer of her I uncover—the way she doodles in the margins of her notes, how she occasionally bites her lip when she’s absorbed in thought—only confirms what I already knew.

She is worth all of this.

As I leave the parking lot, my path curves naturally toward The Nook, Olivia’s well-kept secret in plain sight.

Her “escape” from campus life—a simple haven where she can unwind, where Halford’s expectations can’t quite reach her. I can appreciate the irony as I step deliberately into her sanctuary, where she retreats to reclaim her sense of self.

The scent of roasted coffee drifts from the café as I approach, mingling with the faintest trace of cinnamon—Olivia’s signature addition.

The corners of my mouth lift in satisfaction as I catch sight of her through the window.

She’s seated by the wall, facing the street, one leg tucked beneath her.

Her green eyes flit back and forth as she skims an article, utterly absorbed.

Loose waves of red hair spill over her shoulder, warm, coppery tones that stand out against the café’s muted decor.

The door chimes as I step inside, but she doesn’t notice. From the corner of my eye, I watch her fingers tap absently against the rim of her mug. She takes small, frequent sips, savoring her drink as if drawing comfort from it.

Every detail is another piece of her I commit to memory.

I order my coffee, then move toward her table with measured ease. I wait for her to notice me, relishing the moment her gaze flicks up, startled at first, then shifting into something more composed.

Feigning surprise, I let my voice carry just enough warmth.

“Olivia. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

She smiles cautiously, and her brow creases slightly. “Nate…I didn’t know this was your kind of place.”

I slip into the chair across from her, watching her carefully .

“I like places with character,” I reply, my tone even. “It’s charming, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s…different from campus. A place to unwind, you know?”

I let my gaze linger on her hands as she traces the edge of her cup absently. “I can see why you like it. This place suits you.”

She ducks her head, blushing. “You seem to know a lot about what suits me,” she says with a soft chuckle, her tone light yet cautious. It’s as if she’s trying to determine the truth behind my words, but I offer her nothing beyond an unreadable smile.

“I pay attention.” I lift my cup, meeting her gaze over the rim as I take a sip.

The way she looks at me then—eyes uncertain but intrigued.

Good.

As our conversation drifts to the mundane—classes, the café’s ambiance—I absorb every detail, relishing how she lets her guard down just enough before pulling back, almost reflexively.

She’ll eventually realize that I’ll show up wherever she is. Even in the spaces she thinks are hers alone.

Finally, after a beat of silence, I lean forward, lowering my voice. “So, Olivia, what is it about this place that keeps you coming back?”

She tilts her head, thinking, her eyes wandering to the window as if searching for an answer beyond her own thoughts.

“I guess…it’s just simple. Feels a little like home.

” Her voice is soft, almost wistful, a sentiment buried in those words that makes her vulnerable in a way I haven’t quite seen before.

“Home.” I echo, letting the word hang between us. A reminder that soon, perhaps sooner than she expects, she won’t need places like this to feel secure.

As we walk side by side across campus, Olivia draws the eyes of nearly everyone we pass. She remains unaffected by the attention, entirely engrossed in some unspoken thought.

But I feel every gaze on us, on her —on what is mine .

Her hand brushes the strap of her bag over her shoulder—a small, familiar gesture I’ve noticed she makes when she’s thinking. Details like that, invisible to anyone else, have become threads in the intricate portrait I’m weaving. A version of her that only I can see. Only I can understand.

Once we enter the classroom and take our seats, her notebook opens to a fresh page, pens laid out in deliberate order, each color meaningful in her system.

She doesn’t just take notes; she crafts them, dissecting each concept with sharp precision.

The way her mind works, so meticulous and intent, is magnetic.

I know what it means to crave control. To crave clarity. And she moves through her rituals with the same steadfast purpose I recognize in myself.

The professor starts the lecture, but the subject fades into the background. My attention is elsewhere.

Instead, I watch Olivia.

The shifts in her expression, the way thoughts flicker across her face. When she disagrees with a point, a small furrow forms between her brows. When something intrigues her, her eyes narrow, a quiet intensity sharpening her focus.

And then there are those fleeting glances she casts in my direction.

She looks—just for a second—then quickly glances away, like she’s been caught. Like a startled rabbit sensing the hunter.

I don’t pretend not to notice. I keep my gaze on her, steady and unyielding. Watching her squirm is its own reward.

She’s drawn to me, whether she admits it or not. And I intend to make sure she feels it. Every time.

There are other tells, too .

The soft, rapid tap of her fingers against her notebook when frustration sets in, a habit she probably doesn’t even realize she has.

Or the way her hand lifts to her necklace, her fingertips tracing the pendant absently.

Small gestures, but they give her away. Moments of vulnerability, glimpses of the emotions she keeps carefully concealed beneath her composed facade.

And with each one, something instinctive stirs inside me.

An unexpected, but undeniable protectiveness.

A need to be the only one who sees these pieces of her. The only one who knows what they mean.

This may have begun as a mere fascination, an intrigue sparked by her independence and unassuming beauty. But it’s evolved.

The lecture drones on, but I’m miles from it, already envisioning what needs to happen next. I’ll plan something… memorable.

This connection between us needs to become undeniable, something she can’t ignore.

It will be an experience she won’t forget. One that will linger in her mind, filling her thoughts until there’s no space left for anyone else.

By the time the professor dismisses us, my mind is alight with possibilities, each detail lining up to create the perfect evening. One designed not just to sweep her off her feet, but to ensure she remained firmly in my orbit.

Le Baroque rests on a quieter side of Beacon Hill, nestled between antique bookstores and dimly lit galleries.

It’s a restaurant many overlook—a small, intimate space draped in dark woods, the scent of cedar permeating faintly in the air.

I chose it deliberately. Not for convenience, but because I wanted her here. Away from the crowds. Somewhere private, secluded. A space that would feel like a secret, something tucked just out of sight, meant only for us.