Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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I never truly understood the saying "deafening silence" until I was in a damn study room with a sulking Wesley Reed.
It's completely quiet.
The only sounds are the faint hum of the overhead lights and the scratch of a highlighter against paper.
We're in one of the smaller study rooms—barely enough space for the table and chairs crammed inside—but it's private, exactly what Wes wants. I booked it specifically for him.
I should feel relieved. After all, it's easier to concentrate without the background noise of the library. Plus, he's actually listening to me for once, following exactly what I say like a perfect student.
It'd be great and all—except he's not one.
Wes sits across from me, his chair angled slightly as he leans over his textbook. His highlighter moves steadily, his focus entirely on the page in front of him. He pauses every now and then to type up his thoughts on a certain point on his laptop.
He's wearing a black boxy tee, loose denim jeans, and he's freshly showered—which means he smells like one big, delicious weakness.
It takes me a while to realize I'm biting the end of my pen while basically eye-fucking him across the table.
What is wrong with me?
I blink and shake myself out of my daze, clearing my throat and straightening my posture.
"So, your first assignment is coming up quick," I bring up casually—momentarily afraid I'm speaking too loudly, but it's just that the room is so fucking quiet.
Wes nods while keeping his eyes on his book. "I know."
"It's a thousand-word essay. Nothing major—but Grady loves to score harshly just to fuck with the students." I chuckle lightly, trying to ease the tension with a joke.
But I get absolutely nothing from Wes. Just another slight nod.
"Next session, we'll focus on creating a rough structure for the essay, yeah?" I try to keep my tone calm and collected, even though I'm slowly creeping toward a Britney-level meltdown.
He mumbles, "Can't be any different from the ones I've done before."
Then why the fuck are you here?!
I want to scream at him, but instead, I force a smile on my face and grip my highlighter tighter.
"It's a little different. Grady's really particular about certain things," I counter, surprising myself with how professional I sound. "Font size, style, referencing. He doesn't exactly state it either, which is just amazing."
"Got it," he hums, scribbling something down.
I sit back in my chair, tapping my pen against my notebook. This isn't right. I don't need him to flirt with me or get under my skin—but this... this eerie calm? It's so much fucking worse.
