I tried to ignore him. I really did.
But Jace Carter was like a shadow that refused to fade, persistently appearing in every corner of my life with calculated precision. Two weeks after our uncomfortable reunion, I found myself in the university library, struggling through an impossible economics assignment when his voice cut through the silence.
"Need some help?"
I looked up to find him standing beside my table, his expression unreadable yet somehow gentle. Unlike his usual polished appearance, today he wore a simple navy sweater that made his golden hair seem even brighter by contrast.
"I'm fine," I muttered, turning back to my textbook.
He pulled out the chair across from me anyway, setting down a stack of books. "You've been staring at the same page for twenty minutes."
"You've been watching me?"
A small smile played at his lips. "I notice things."
Something in his tone sent a shiver down my spine—not entirely unpleasant, but warning all the same. Before I could formulate a suitably cutting response, he reached across the table and turned my textbook around.
"The problem is in your approach," he said, his finger tracing along the page. "You're trying to solve it linearly when it requires circular reasoning."
His fingertips brushed against mine as he pointed to a formula, and the brief contact sent an electric current racing up my arm. The air between us suddenly felt charged, too thick to breathe properly.
I jerked my hand away. "Thanks for the tip."
He didn't leave. Instead, he spent the next hour patiently explaining concepts I'd missed in class, his voice low and steady. Despite my resistance, I found myself listening, even asking questions. He was a good teacher—clear, patient, and frustratingly knowledgeable.
It became a pattern. He'd appear beside me after class with a casual, "Heading to the cafeteria?" or slide into the seat next to mine in the library with an offer to quiz me before exams. Each interaction was marked by those brief, seemingly accidental touches—his hand brushing mine as he passed me a book, his shoulder pressing against mine as he leaned in to explain a concept.
Each touch left me more confused than the last.
I told myself I was imagining the heat that flared between us. That the way my heart raced when he was near was simply annoyance. That the dreams that plagued my nights—dreams of golden eyes and burning hands—meant nothing.
Then came the storm.
I'd stayed late at the campus newspaper office, losing track of time until thunder rattled the windows. By the time I packed up, rain was falling in sheets, turning the campus into a dark, watery maze.
I made it halfway to my dorm before the wind tore my umbrella inside out, leaving me exposed to the deluge. Lightning flashed, illuminating a figure lurking near the science building. My heart leaped into my throat as the shadowy form moved toward me.
"Lynn!"
Jace's voice cut through the storm's roar. Before I could respond, he was there, pulling me against his chest, his jacket opening to wrap around me. His body was impossibly warm against the cold rain, solid and secure.
"What are you doing out in this?" he demanded, his breath hot against my ear.
I should have pulled away. Should have maintained the careful distance I'd always kept. Instead, I found myself pressing closer, drawn to his heat like a moth to flame.
"Working late," I managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless.
He led me beneath the overhang of the nearest building, still holding me close. Water dripped from his golden hair onto his face, tracing paths down his strong jawline. In the dim light, his eyes seemed to glow with an inner fire.
"You're shaking," he observed, his hands moving to rub warmth into my arms.
"I'm fine," I insisted, even as another shiver wracked my body.
His hands stilled, and something shifted in his expression—a flash of that predatory intensity I'd glimpsed before, quickly masked by concern.
"Let me walk you home," he said, his voice deeper than usual.
The next day in the cafeteria, I found myself cornered by a group of girls from my economics class, their voices dripping with fake sweetness as they questioned my sudden "friendship" with the campus's most eligible transfer student.
"I heard he's from old money," one said, eyeing me critically. "What would someone like him want with someone like you?"
I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing retort when a cold voice cut through the chatter.
"Is there a problem here?"
Jace stood behind me, his expression darkened by something I couldn't name. The air around him seemed to vibrate with tension, and for a brief moment, the girls actually took a step back, as if physically pushed by his presence.
"No problem," one of them stammered, suddenly pale.
That night, as I walked back from a late class, Jace fell into step beside me. The campus was quiet, stars visible between the scattered clouds of the now-passed storm.
"Do you believe in destiny, Lynn?" he asked suddenly, his voice low and intimate in the darkness.
I laughed, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "No."
"What about predestined connections?" He moved closer, his breath warm against my ear. "The kind you feel from the very first moment?"
My heart stuttered in my chest as his fingers brushed against mine, that now-familiar electricity sparking between us. For the first time since I'd built my walls, I felt them tremble, threatening to crumble beneath the weight of his gaze.
