12 

៦. យំ 

Finally. Sweet, sweet freedom. 

Sociology canceled means three whole hours of not pretending to give a shit about social stratification while Gabriel breathes down my neck. 

I’m already mentally mapping out my afternoon-maybe hit the gym alone, grab coffee somewhere Gabriel’s never been, exist without surveillance for once. 

h 

I make it exactly twelve feet from the dining hall before reality crushes my dreams. 

“I need help reorganizing some books at my apartment.” Gabriel materializes beside me like a particularly annoying ghost. 

No preamble, no ‘hey, got a second?’-just straight to assuming I have nothing better to do than play librarian. 

I stop walking, blinking at him like he’s spoken in tongues. “Help you? With your books? Did you just have a stroke? Should I call medical?” 

His expression stays frustratingly neutral, but there’s something flickering in his eyes -amusement maybe, or the kind of irritation you get when your pet won’t stop eating houseplants. 

“I asked, not ordered. Relax, Your Highness. Free will still exists in our dynamic.” 

The title makes my teeth grind. He knows exactly what buttons to push, the bastard. 

“You do realize you work for me, technically,” I shoot back, crossing my arms like a petulant child who’s been asked to clean their room. “Your whole job description is keeping me alive and out of tabloids, not assigning me personal chores. Pretty sure manual labor isn’t in my royal contract.” 

That lands. Gabriel’s jaw does this micro-flex thing that means I’ve hit a nerve. Good. 

About time he felt off-balance for once. 

“I wasn’t trying to use you,” he says, and his voice has this controlled quality that makes me want to shake him until actual emotions fall out. 

“It was just… a normal favor. Something friends do. You know, that thing where people help each other without financial compensation or contractual obligations?” 

Friends. The word sits in my chest like swallowed glass. 

We’re not friends. 

T 

As don’t lie about their entire identity. Friends don’t report your every move to your 

ling father. Friends don’t make you feel like your whole life is a performance being 

Rate. 

graded. 

“Right. Friends.” I roll my eyes hard enough to see my own brain, desperately covering the heat crawling up my neck. 

Time for deflection via petty jealousy. 

“Or are you just panicking that I’ll spend my precious free time with Elijah instead? Can’t stand the thought of me having actual fun with someone who doesn’t have a stick surgically implanted up their-” 

“What are you even talking about?” Gabriel’s brow furrows, and the confusion on his face looks genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t thought twice about Elijah. Why would I care how you spend your time as long as you’re not endangering yourself or your identity?” 

Oh. 

Oh fuck. 

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94 4 

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3 #4 

ch 9 4 

+ # 

#4 

The humiliation hits like a freight train. My cheeks burn hot enough to fry eggs. When did I become this person? The kind who tries to spark jealousy like we’re in some trashy reality show? 

5 21 

H 5 

** 

L 

f 

This is Jake’s influence, clearly. Too many nights listening to his relationship drama has infected my brain. 

“Forget it,” I mutter, suddenly fascinated by a crack in the sidewalk. “Just… forget I said anything.” 

The awkward silence stretches between us like taffy. 

I can feel him studying me, probably adding ‘exhibits jealousy-seeking behavior’ to his mental report. The urge to flee is overwhelming, but that would mean being alone with my thoughts, replaying this conversation until I want to throw myself into traffic. 

“Fine,” I sigh, defeated by my own stupid brain. “I’ll help with your books. But only because my alternative is staring at my ceiling and contemplating my poor life choices.” 

“How generous of you,” Gabriel says dryly, but there’s something almost warm in his tone. 

The walk to his apartment is mercifully short. Gabriel’s place looks exactly like you’d expect from someone who probably organizes his socks by thread count. 

Everything has its place-minimalist furniture positioned with mathematical precision, books arranged by height and color, not a single personal photo or piece of clutter in sight. 

“Yeah, this place really screams ’emergency’ levels of chaos,” I mutter, surveying the pristine space. “What’s next, alphabetizing your spice rack? Wait, let me guess—already done. By region of origin.” 

He ignores my snark, gesturing to a surprisingly large stack of books on the dining table. 

Academic texts mixed with what looks like security manuals and—is that fiction? Gabriel Torres reads for pleasure? 

“You agreed. No backing out now.” He hands me an armful of hardcovers. “History section is the middle shelf. Try not to mess up the chronological ordering.” 

“Chronological-of course it is.” I roll my eyes but start shelving, because I’m already here and my pride can only take so many hits today. “Next you’ll tell me you have a spreadsheet tracking which ones you’ve read.” 

“Database, actually,” he says, completely serious. “Excel is for amateurs.” 

I nearly drop the books. “You’re joking.” 

“Why would I joke about proper information management?” He’s sorting through his own stack with practiced efficiency. “How else would I track reading progress, notes, and cross-references?” 

“By being a normal person with a functioning memory?” I slot another book into place, trying not to think about how his apartment smells like cedar and clean laundry. “This explains so much about your personality.” 

We work in surprisingly companionable silence for a few minutes. It’s… nice. 

Weird, but nice. 

Like maybe we could actually be the friends he mentioned if our entire relationship wasn’t built on deception and obligation. 

“You know,” I say, because apparently I can’t help myself, “most people use bookshelves for decoration. Like, they buy books that look good together and never actually read them. Very aesthetic, very Instagram.” 

“That’s the most depressing thing I’ve heard all week,” Gabriel replies, genuinely appalled. “What’s the point of owning books you don’t read?” 

“Says the man who probably has a filing system for his filing system.” But I’m fighting a smile, because his book nerd outrage is surprisingly endearing. “Let me guess-you have opinions about people who have dog-ear pages too?” 

“Don’t get me started,” he warns, but there’s humor in his eyes now. “That’s what bookmarks are for. Animals.” 

I laugh despite myself, and something in my chest loosens. 

This is dangerous territory-feeling comfortable around him, forgetting why I’m supposed to hate him. 

But standing here in his space, close enough that our elbows brush when we reach for the same shelf, breathing the same air that somehow feels charged with possibility… 

Yeah. This is definitely messing with my head more than I want to admit. 

End of 

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