The late afternoon light had settled quietly across the dorm room, stretching long golden lines across the floor like fading brushstrokes. The hum of distant life beyond the window was muted—campus voices far away, footsteps like ghosts. Inside, it was still.
Julian was sitting on a chair with his desk, a half-empty coffee cup pushed to the side, forgotten. His notebook rested in his lap, and he scribbled into it with focused desperation, as if the words might vanish if he didn't catch them fast enough. He muttered softly under his breath, testing lines aloud.
The weight of the project still lingered in his chest, but for now, the anxiety had quieted beneath concentration.
He didn't know Thomas had been watching.
Thomas had kept his eyes on Julian for the better part of an hour, his book open in his hands but untouched. His gaze had drifted away from the printed page more often than not, pulled by something quiet and magnetic in the way Julian worked—how he chewed the inside of his cheek when thinking, or tilted his head in that oddly endearing, messy way.
Eventually, Thomas shut the book and set it on the desk beside him with care. He removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them beside the spine with quiet precision.
Then, he stood.
Julian didn't notice.
Thomas approached, footsteps almost silent. He stopped behind Julian, eyes flickering over the messy scrawl of handwriting, the words Julian had poured onto the page like inked nerves.
Then he saw it. A small error—barely noticeable. But it snagged Thomas's eye.
Without a word, he leaned in.
His hands came down on either side of the desk—long arms bracing the surface, surrounding Julian without touching him. Not aggressive. Not even deliberate. But close. Close enough that Julian felt it before he heard or saw anything—the sudden presence at his back, the dip in air pressure, the scent of soap and old paper.
Julian froze.
His pen stopped mid-sentence. His chest stilled.
He looked up slowly.
And Thomas was there—above him, beside him, around him. Their eyes met, and for a moment neither of them moved. Thomas's expression was unreadable, as always, but his gaze was steady, anchored deep in thought.
Julian's heart began to beat faster.
Not in panic.
Not in fear.
Just—faster. For no reason he could name.
The sound of it filled his ears, distracting. Irritating. As if his own body was reacting to something his mind hadn't caught up with yet.
Thomas looked away first.
Wordlessly, he reached down and took the pen from Julian's hand. Their fingers brushed. Julian's hand twitched, but he didn't pull back. He didn't breathe.
Then Thomas crouched lower, bending beside him. His head dipped close, almost parallel to Julian's, his body angling so he could see the page clearly without his glasses. His hair—soft, dark, and parted carelessly—fell forward with the motion, strands slipping past his cheek and almost touching Julian's.
Julian watched, transfixed.
Thomas's face was inches from his own now. Up close, Thomas didn't look cold. He looked quiet. Serious. Human. Julian could see the delicate shadows beneath his eyes, the careful line of his jaw, the impossible softness of his lashes.
He could hear his own heartbeat now.
Louder.
Why was it loud?
Thomas finished correcting the sentence with a swift flick of the pen. But he didn't move away right away.
As he straightened up, he turned slightly—eyes finding Julian again without meaning to.
They were too close.
Too still.
Julian didn't move. He didn't dare. There was something charged in the air now, subtle but undeniable, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
Thomas blinked once, slowly. His mouth parted slightly, like he might say something. But he didn't.
Julian's breath caught.
Then, softly—"Fix the rest of it," Thomas murmured, almost an exhale.
And with that, he straightened fully, stepping back, retrieving his distance as easily as a shadow withdrawing from light.
He returned to his bed without another glance and picked up his book again, flipping it open like nothing had happened.
But something had.
Julian stared at the corrected sentence on the page in front of him, pen still in hand, fingers slightly trembling.
His heart was still beating fast.
And he still didn't know why.