Monday brought classes. It also brought a complication.
I was having difficulty focusing.
It was bad enough that I was aware of it. What made it worse? My tutor, Nora, noticed it too, enough to warrant a dry comment about lack of concentration resulting in mediocre results. Then she’d studied me for a moment.
‘This isn’t like you.’
Yeah, I knew that.
I also knew the cause of my inability to focus was probably knee deep in code at that moment, oblivious to the effect he was having on me.
I’ve been living there three days and look at me. I’m a mess.
Surviving my brief stay with Theo might be more of a challenge than I’d anticipated.
Except I don’twantit to be brief.
I knew it couldn’t last. Having someone sleeping on his couch for more than a couple of weeks? Theo couldn’t put up with that. It wasn’t neat and tidy. It didn’t fit in with his orderly view of the world.
Everything can’t come down to creating order out of chaos.
I’d made one important decision, however. Playing with my hand would only happen when Theo wasn’t breathing the same air. Because the atmosphere the next day had been…
Tortured. Awkward. Painful.
Theo
I wasn’t supposed to be this distracted.
I sat at my desk, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard, the half-written line of code refusing to resolve into anything logical. The flat was quiet except for the soft rustling of charcoal on paper—Cameron sketching on the sofa, one leg tucked under him, music humming low from his phone.
I strained to hear the melody. “Is that Hozier?”
“Yeah. It’s a track called ‘Almost.’” He didn’t look up from his sketchpad.
I liked it. The calm music seemed to fit him.
It should have been a peaceful evening, but every so often, something tugged at the edge of my focus. Not the music, but a laugh. A breath. A shift of weight on the cushions. The awareness was constant, intrusive, and impossible to ignore.
I breathed in. Breathed out.
Focus, Theo. Work.
Cameron cleared his throat. “Do you ever stop working?”
I glanced up. “Sometimes.”
“When? Christmas?”
My lips twitched. “You’re mocking me again.”
“Only because it’s easy.” Cameron flipped the page, charcoal dusting his fingers. “You know, for a guy who spends all day dealing with machines, you make a mean Bolognese.”
I shrugged. “Machines are predictable. Cooking’s just chemistry with edible outcomes.”
Cameron chuckled. “That’s soyou.” He yawned. “Break?” he asked, stretching his arms overhead. His shirt lifted, exposing a strip of warm skin above the waistband of his joggers.
I looked away so sharply I nearly pulled something in my neck.