Five

Eli

I was starting to think the Calloway twins were a weather pattern. Cain was the warm front that made you want to take your coat off and stay a while, and Cole was the sudden drop in temperature that told you a storm was coming.

I was heading down the back stairwell of the library—the one nobody used because the lights flickered and the air felt like it hadn't been circulated since 1950. I just wanted to get to the dining hall before they stopped serving the only edible pasta they had.

I rounded the corner of the landing and stopped dead.

Cole was standing three steps above me, just being brooding. He wasn't doing anything—not on his phone, not reading, not even leaning against the wall. He was just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching me come down. The shadows in the stairwell made him look like part of the architecture, something dark and permanent.

"Seriously?" I asked, my voice echoing off the concrete. "Do you have a GPS tracker on me or something? This is getting super weird, Cole."

He didn't move or even blink, just looked down at me with that heavy, unreadable expression. The silence stretched between us, thick enough to choke on, and it wasn't like the silence with Cain, which felt like a conversation waiting to happen—this felt like a total challenge.

"What do you actually want?" I snapped, stepping up one stair so I didn't have to crane my neck so far. "You’ve been following me around for a week, you don't talk, you just stare. What is the actual goal here? You want me to apologize again for the chair? Because I'm not doing it."

Cole tilted his head slightly, and the movement was slow and deliberate. "I don't care about the chair, Eli."

"Then what?" I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest. "Money? Entertainment? You bored of the rich kids and decided to poke the scholarship student for fun, maybe?"

He took one step down—just one—but it felt like he’d closed a mile of distance. The air between us felt charged, like the static before a lightning strike.

"Just you," he said.

His voice was low, a rough velvet sound that seemed to vibrate in the small space. He didn't elaborate, didn't offer a charming explanation or a witty comeback. He just said those two words and then, without another glance, he walked past me. His shoulder didn't even brush mine, but the ghost of his presence stayed behind, wrapping around me like a cold draft.

I stood there on the stairs for a good two minutes, staring at the door he’d just disappeared through. Just you. What the hell was that supposed to mean? It was a line, it had to be a line. But the way he said it—it didn't sound like he was trying to impress me, it sounded like a total fact.

I couldn't stop thinking about it—not while I ate my soggy pasta, not while I tried to finish my essay, and definitely not when I was trying to fall asleep.

Over the next few days, it didn't stop.

Cole didn't try to have long, deep conversations like Cain, or ask about my mom or my childhood. He just... appeared. I’d be in the computer lab at 11:00 PM, and he’d be two rows back, quietly working on a tablet. I’d be walking to my morning lecture, and he’d be leaning against a tree near the entrance, his eyes following me until I went inside.

He was always just at the edge of my personal space, never crossing the line, never touching me, never forcing a conversation. But he was there, and because he was there, I was constantly aware of him—aware of the way I was standing, the way I was breathing, the way I was reacting to the world.

The breaking point happened in the Rare Books room.

It was a small, tucked-away section of the library that required a special key (which I only had because of my work-study job). It was nearly midnight, and I was supposed to be shelving some old manuscripts, but I’d gotten distracted by a first-edition collection of poetry.

I turned around to grab a cart, and there he was, sitting at one of the small, green-shaded lamps at the far table.

I didn't even ask how he got in—at this point, I figured a Calloway could go anywhere they wanted. I didn't say anything, and neither did he, so I just sat down at the opposite end of the long table and went back to my work.

We sat there in total silence for two hours.

The only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner and the occasional turn of a page. It was weird, and it should have been uncomfortable, but after the first twenty minutes, the tension actually started to shift. It wasn't that I was relaxed, but I stopped trying to look busy, and I stopped performing the "annoyed student" role. I just... was.

I forgot he was there, and then I’d remember, and the realization would hit me like a physical weight. Every time I looked up, he was looking at me, not at a book, but at me.

When the clock struck two, I finally stood up. My back was stiff and my eyes were burning. "I’m locking up," I said, my voice sounding raspy in the quiet rom.

Cole stood up, too. He moved with a grace that felt predatory, even in the dim light, and walked around the table, stopping a few feet away.

"You breathe differently," he said.

I frowned. "What?"

"When you stop performing," he continued, his eyes locked on mine. "When you stop trying to prove you belong here, you breathe differently. It's the only time you look like you’re actually alive, Eli."

I felt a sharp sting of something—was it embarrassment or anger? I wasn't sure. I opened my mouth to tell him he was full of it and that he didn't know anything about me, but the words just died in my throat. Because he was right. I was always on guard, always performing, and for some reason, he was the only one who had noticed.

"Go home, Cole," I muttered, looking away.

"Goodnight, Eli."

He left before I did. I stood in the middle of the Rare Books room, and the silence now felt empty and cold. My heart was thumping against my ribs, and I totally hated him for it—I hated that he could rattle me without even trying, and I hated that he saw things Cain didn't.

While I was walking back to my dorm, feeling like my head was spinning, things were much colder at the Calloway townhouse.

Cain was standing by the window in the living room, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, but he wasn't looking at the view—he was looking at his phone. A "friend" had sent him a grainy photo of Cole and me sitting in the Rare Books room, and the timestamp said we’d been there for two hours.

The glass in Cain's hand shook slightly. He didn't say a single word when the front door opened and Cole walked in, and he didn't turn around or ask where he’d been.

But the air in the room turned brittle, because Cain was coldly furious. He had spent days carefully constructing a bridge, earning trust, and being the "good" twin, but here was Cole, totally bypassing all of that with his shadows and silence, finding ways to get Eli alone in the middle of the night.

Cole didn't acknowledge him either, just walked toward the stairs, his expression as blank as ever.

"Two hours, Cole?" Cain’s voice was a low, dangerous silk.

Cole stopped on the first step, but he didn't turn around. "He stopped performing, Cain. You should try it sometime, though I doubt he’d like what’s underneath."

Cole kept walking. Cain stayed by the window, his grip tightening on the glass until his knuckles turned white. He didn't confront his brother yet, but the bet wasn't a game anymore—it was like a leak in a dam, and the water was starting to pour through.

Back in my dorm, I stared at the ceiling.

Cain made me feel seen, like I had a total ally.

But Cole... Cole made me feel like I was being dismantled.

I didn't know which one was worse, and I definitely didn't know that for the first time ever, the Calloway twins weren't looking at the prize—they were looking at each other.

And the person caught in the middle was me.