Chapter 2

“Noted,” the guy says, and there’s something in his voice that makes my skin prickle. “Next time I’ll bring flowers. Maybe some chocolates. Really lean into the whole romantic stalker aesthetic.”

I raise an eyebrow, trying to regain some control over whatever the fuck this conversation is becoming. The name slips out before I can stop it.

“Leo,” I mutter, immediately annoyed at myself for offering it.

Real smooth, Your Highness. Just hand over personal information to your stalker.

“Leo,” he repeats, and the way he says it—soft, deliberate, like he’s tasting expensive wine—makes my stomach do something stupid.

Then he extends his hand, all formal like we’re at a business meeting instead of a confrontation about his creepy behavior. “Gabriel Torres.”

I take his hand because apparently my self-preservation skills are on permanent vacation. His grip is firm, warm, and lasts exactly two seconds longer than necessary.

“So Gabriel Torres,” I say, pulling my hand back and shoving it in my pocket before it does something embarrassing like reach for him again. “Now that we’ve established you’re terrible at surveillance and I’m apparently terrible at personal safety, what exactly is your deal? Because I’m getting mixed signals here between ‘potential friend’ and ‘might wear my skin as a suit.'”

Gabriel’s eyes stay calm, almost indifferent, like he’s already planning his exit strategy. It’s infuriating how unreadable he is.

“You know,” he says suddenly, voice dropping low enough that I have to lean in slightly, “that wasn’t the first time I saw you.”

My brow arches. “The party? Yeah, I figured that out when you went all Rear Window on my social life.”

His lips twitch faintly, almost a smile but not quite. “Hard to miss you at that party. You have a very… distinctive presence.” His gaze lingers, dark and unreadable. “Especially when you kiss like you don’t care who’s watching.”

My pulse stutters, composure cracking like cheap paint. For a second, I’m back in that backyard, James’s hands on me, feeling free and reckless and—

“And yet,” I recover quickly, cocking my head to mask how off-balance he’s thrown me, “you’re the one who’s been following me around campus like some discount detective. The party, the library, the coffee shop—what’s next, gonna show up at my dorm with a clipboard? Rate my study habits alongside my kissing technique?”

Gabriel’s smirk deepens, and he says nothing, just lets the tension settle between us like an unanswered dare. The silence stretches, heavy with something I don’t want to name.

So, on impulse—because impulse control is clearly not my strong suit today—I blurt out, “We could study together sometimes. In the library, I mean. Since you’re apparently going to be there anyway, might as well make it less weird.”

Gabriel stares at me in silence for so long I start to shift uncomfortably.

This is why I stick to parties and hookups.

Meaningful conversations aren’t exactly my comfort zone. I’m about to take it back, make some joke about kidding, when his lips curl into the faintest smile.

“That can be arranged,” he says softly, and something about the way he says it makes it sound like a promise. Or a threat.

With him, I genuinely can’t tell the difference.

From that moment on, we fall into a routine that should feel weirder than it does. Couple times a week, I show up at the library to find Gabriel already there, surrounded by textbooks like he’s building a fortress of knowledge.

“You stalking me, or do you just live here?” I whisper one Thursday, sliding into the seat across from him with my usual grace—which is to say, I nearly knock over his coffee.

Gabriel doesn’t even look up from his book. “I was here first. That makes you the stalker. Also, you’re late. Again.”

“I’m fashionably late. There’s a difference.” I pull out my Statistics textbook with obvious reluctance. “Besides, someone had to maintain the social hierarchy. Can’t have people thinking I actually care about academics.”

“Heaven forbid,” he murmurs, turning a page. “Your reputation as a dedicated slacker might suffer irreparable damage.”

We mostly study—or rather, Gabriel studies while I pretend to study and actually just watch him.

He has this way of concentrating that’s weirdly hypnotic, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. I want to crack that calm exterior, see what’s underneath all that control.

“So what’s your deal anyway?” I ask one evening, after successfully doing exactly zero homework. “Grad student? Undergrad? Professional library lurker?”

“Grad student. International Relations.” He finally looks up, and there’s amusement in his dark eyes. “You’d know that if you ever actually listened when I talk instead of just staring at me.”

“I don’t stare,” I protest, face heating. “I observe. There’s a difference. Very scholarly of me, actually.”

“Of course. How silly of me to confuse the two.” His attention returns to his book, but I catch the slight upturn of his lips.

One evening, after an unusually long silence where I actually attempt some reading, I can’t help myself.

“If you keep ignoring me, I’ll assume you secretly like the attention,” I whisper, leaning across the table. “Maybe you’re just playing hard to get. Is this your idea of flirting? Because I have to tell you, your technique needs work.”

Gabriel looks up for the first time in twenty minutes, eyes sharp and amused.

“If I didn’t like your attention,” he says quietly, that dangerous smirk playing at his lips again, “you’d know. Trust me, I’m not that subtle when I want someone to leave me alone.”

My pulse skips, and suddenly I’m not sure if we’re talking about studying anymore. The air between us shifts, charged with something that makes my skin feel too tight.

To calm myself down—and definitely not because I’m running from whatever that was—I decide not to drag out the awkward silence.

“Okay, executive decision. We’re taking a coffee break because there’s no way I’m surviving another chapter of this statistical nightmare without caffeine. Plus, the lighting in here is making me look pale, and that’s just unacceptable.”

I stand, expecting him to protest, but he just closes his book with a small sigh.

“Your addiction to overpriced coffee is genuinely concerning. Have you considered therapy?”

“Have you considered being less of a smartass?” I shoot back, already heading for the exit. “Come on, Gabe, live a little. One overpriced latte won’t kill you.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows lift in mild surprise, and he stops mid-step. “Gabe?”

I instantly panic, words tumbling out in a mess. “It just— Slipped out. I mean, it’s a totally logical nickname. You know, statistically speaking, Gabe is like… the standard shorthand for Gabriel. Very common. Practically inevitable, really. I could show you a study about nickname probability if you want, I’m sure there’s one somewhere—”

Gabriel stops my rambling with the faintest smile, effortlessly cutting through my spiral.

“I like it,” he says smoothly, and his voice does that thing where it sounds like he’s sharing a secret. “But only you get to use it then.”

My heart does a completely irrational somersault, and suddenly, I’m not sure caffeine is my biggest problem anymore.