Chapter 8 CLOSE QUARTERS
Dante’s POV
I let him think the library was an accident.
That was the rule I set for myself the moment I decided how today would go. No pressure. No direct asks. Just gravity doing what it always does when I arrange the conditions right. I don’t text him first. I don’t knock on his door. I leave early, take the long route, and sit at a table that just happens to be near the section his major favors most.
Micah always walks like he’s bracing for impact, shoulders tight, eyes scanning, body tuned to threat. It makes him predictable in a way that feels intimate. When he spots me, there’s a fraction of a second where he considers turning around. I see it in the way his foot hesitates, the way his grip tightens on his backpack strap.
Then he exhales and comes over anyway.
“Hey,” he says, voice careful, polite, guarded. He always sounds like he’s choosing each word with tweezers.
“Didn’t know you were coming here,” I reply, casual, already shifting my chair back so there’s room beside me. I don’t look at him when I say it. I don’t need to. I can feel the pull working.
He sits.
The table is too small. The chairs are too close. Our knees nearly touch, and he pulls his leg back instinctively, like he’s been burned. I suppress a smile. The library hums around us pages turning, keyboards clicking, whispered conversations that die the moment a librarian passes but inside our little pocket of space, everything sharpens.
“You looked lost in film this morning,” I say after a beat. “What class is giving you trouble?”
He stiffens, just slightly. “Stats. I’m… behind.”
That admission costs him something. I watch it flicker across his face, the discomfort, the old instinct to hide weakness. I lean back, stretching my arm along the back of my chair, careful not to crowd him yet.
“I’ve taken it,” I say. “Twice. Coach insisted.”
He blinks. “You passed?”
“Barely the first time,” I admit. “Comfortably the second.”
That gets me a small, reluctant smile. It’s quick, gone almost immediately, but it’s there. I file it away.
We spread his notes out between us, paper brushing paper, his handwriting cramped and uneven like he writes too fast for his thoughts. I point things out slowly, deliberately, letting my finger hover just above the page before touching down. Every time our hands come close, his breathing changes. He tries to hide it. He’s terrible at that.
“Here,” I murmur, leaning in so my shoulder brushes his. “This part, you’re overthinking it.”
He nods, swallowing. “I do that.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He glances at me then, sharp and uncertain, like he’s trying to figure out if that was about the class or something else. I let the moment stretch just long enough to make him uncomfortable before looking back at the notes.
I guide him through the problem step by step, my voice low, steady. I don’t rush. I don’t rescue him outright. I let him struggle, just enough, because struggle teaches dependency faster than help ever could. When he finally gets it, his relief is palpable.
“Oh,” he breathes. “That makes sense.”
“It usually does,” I say. “Once someone shows you where to look.”
He laughs softly, embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck. The sound does something sharp and satisfying to me. I like this version of him, unguarded, slightly flustered, open in ways he doesn’t realize yet. I shift closer under the pretense of pointing something out again, my knee brushing his this time. He doesn’t pull away immediately.
Progress.
Hours pass like this, measured in scribbled notes and half whispered explanations. The library thins out as evening settles in, the light outside the windows fading from gold to blue. At some point, Micah stops checking the time. At some point, he stops flinching every time I move.
“Thanks,” he says eventually, leaning back in his chair. “I didn’t think I’d get any of this.”
“You just needed context,” I reply. “You always do.”
That makes him pause. “You say that like you know me.”
I meet his gaze then, really meet it. His eyes are warm brown, darker in low light, searching and wary all at once. I let my expression soften, just a little.
“I’m your captain,” I say. “It’s my job to know my players.”
It’s true. Just not in the way he thinks.
We pack up slowly, neither of us eager to break the bubble. When we stand, the space feels even tighter, his shoulder nearly brushing my chest. He smells like detergent and something faintly sweet, and I have to remind myself to breathe normally.
Outside, the night air is cool, quiet. Campus lights glow like a constellation we’re walking through alone. He hugs his jacket closer, and without thinking without asking, I drape my hoodie over his shoulders.
He startles. “Dante...”
“It’s cold,” I say simply. “You can give it back later.”
He hesitates, then nods, pulling it on. It looks better on him than it ever has on me. The sight settles something deep in my chest.
We walk back to the suite together, footsteps in sync. He talks about his old school, just a little, careful not to say too much. I listen, filing away every detail, every crack in the story. When we reach the door, he pauses, fingers lingering on the handle.
“Today helped,” he says quietly. “More than you know.”
I incline my head. “Anytime.”
Inside, the suite feels smaller than usual. He retreats to his room, my hoodie still around his shoulders. I watch the door close, then lean back against the counter, letting the silence settle.
Everything is unfolding exactly as it should.
He trusts me more now. Not completely. Not yet. But enough to let me close, enough to stop running every time our paths cross. Enough to sit beside me in a quiet room and let me guide his hands, his thoughts, his focus.
I picture him in his room, my hoodie hanging loose on his frame, my scent clinging to him whether he wants it to or not. I picture the way his pulse jumped when our knees touched, the way his voice softened when he stopped guarding every word.
I smile to myself, slow and satisfied.
He’s mine already, whether he knows it or not.