Page 13 of Watching You

I can feel him before I see him, like static in the air, like gravity bending me toward him.

When I step into the hallway, he’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes already on me.

“Good class?” he asks, like we’re old friends.

I nod, keeping my voice neutral. “You weren’t in it.”

“Didn’t say I was.” He pushes off the wall and falls into step beside me.

I count my steps. Six to the stairwell. Twelve down.

He doesn’t speak again until we hit the bottom. “You always count?”

I stop walking.

He’s watching me, head tilted slightly, like he’s trying to read a language I didn’t know I was speaking out loud.

“I notice things,” he mentions. “Patterns. Pauses. The way you breathe when something’s off.”

My throat tightens. “Why are you watching me?”

He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that I feel it.

“Because you’re the only thing on this campus that doesn’t pretend.”

I blink. “What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t fake it. You don’t smile unless you mean it. You don’t talk unless you have to. You don’t play the game.”

I swallow hard. “And that makes me interesting?”

He leans in, voice low. “That makes you… different.”

I step back. He lets me, but his eyes stay on me like he’s already carved his name into something I haven’t figured out how to protect.

He doesn’t ask if he can walk me to my next class. He just continues beside me, like he’s done it before. Like he’s memorized my schedule.

I should say something.

Should ask why he’s here.

But I don’t.

Because part of me already knows.

The hallway is crowded, but he moves through it like the noise doesn’t touch him. Like he’s carved out a pocket of silence around us.

I glance at him, and the air shifts.

He’s tall. Broad. His hoodie clings to his shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal veins that trace his forearms like roadmaps. His jaw is sharp, stubbled. His mouth is soft, full, but dangerous.

He smells like cedar and clean soap and something darker. Something that makes my stomach twist.

I look away.

He doesn’t.

“You always walk this fast?” he asks, voice low.